The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 50

EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER.

[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the poet's Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems: he has been dead many years: the Epistle was recovered, luckily, from his papers, and printed for the first time in 1834.]

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, Nor limpet in poetic shackles: A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it--for in vain I leuk.-- The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal: Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and s.p.u.n.k like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.[75]

Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk she throws, While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!

Was it for this, wi' canny care, Thou bure the bard through many a shire?

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled?-- O had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his G.o.dship's face; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.-- Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i' my head, How can I write what ye can read?-- Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

ROBERT BURNS.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 75: His mare.]

XCVI.

LINES

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER

A n.o.bLE EARL'S PICTURE.

[Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ellisland: beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years; he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed.]

Whose is that n.o.ble dauntless brow?

And whose that eye of fire?

And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire?

Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take _His_ hand, whose vernal tints His other works inspire.

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The n.o.ble ward he loves-- Among th' ill.u.s.trious Scottish sons That chief thou may'st discern; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye-- It dwells upon Glencairn.

XCVII.

ELEGY

ON THE YEAR 1788

A SKETCH.

[This Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies: it is full of character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty times.]

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die--for that they're born, But oh! prodigious to reflec'!

A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!

O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' s.p.a.ce What dire events ha'e taken place!

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!

In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a-head, An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife's wee birdie c.o.c.ks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil: The t.i.ther's something dour o' treadin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden-- Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, An' cry till ye be hea.r.s.e an' roupet, For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little f.e.c.k!

Ye bonnie la.s.ses, dight your e'en, For some o' you ha'e tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en, What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel' a full free agent.

Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man!

As muckle better as ye can.

_January 1_, 1789.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE TOOTHACHE."]

XCVIII.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

["I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent toothache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.]

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a tw.a.n.g, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee--thou h.e.l.l o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!

I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bears't the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' h.e.l.l, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!