The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 42

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through; As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle: But under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd.

In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth 'a citizen,' a term o' scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them

What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What b.l.o.o.d.y wars, if Spirites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright: Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: They footed owre the wat'ry gla.s.s so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-enn.o.bling bards heroic ditties sung.-- O had M'Lauchlan,[67] thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been n.o.bler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd!

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard, Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.

The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; His h.o.a.ry head with water-lilies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound.

Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn; Then Winter's time-bleach'd looks did h.o.a.ry show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 60: A noted tavern at the auld Brig end.]

[Footnote 61: The two steeples.]

[Footnote 62: The gos-hawk or falcon.]

[Footnote 63: A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.]

[Footnote 64: The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.]

[Footnote 65: The source of the river Ayr.]

[Footnote 66: A small landing-place above the large key.]

[Footnote 67: A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.]

LXXII.

ON

THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.,

OF ARNISTON,

LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION.

[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes.

I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by the following surly note:--"The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the n.o.blest men in G.o.d's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!

Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!

Justice, the high vicegerent of her G.o.d, Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men: See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

LXXIII.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND

OF THE AUTHOR'S.

[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M'Murdo Ma.n.u.scripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung: So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was wrung.

Were it in the poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief!

Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.