The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 7

VIII.

TO A HAGGIS.

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic-labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or frica.s.see wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As f.e.c.kless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro' b.l.o.o.d.y flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis!

IX.

A PRAYER,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

["There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, "that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy.

In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."]

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art Surpa.s.ses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then, man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine!

X.

A PRAYER

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

[I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly pa.s.sions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of pa.s.sion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that G.o.d would be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.]

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear?

In whose dread presence, ere an hour Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, With pa.s.sions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive.

XI.

STANZAS

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

[These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls "Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He elsewhere says they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first put nature on the alarm.]

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

How I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry G.o.d, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"

Fain promise never more to disobey; But, should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way: Again in folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?