Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (11 page)
Read Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Online
Authors: Robert Burns
54.
Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge
WHEN chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
5
Seem’d weary, worn with care;
His face furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
“Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?”
Began the rev’rend sage;
10
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
15
The miseries of man.
“The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride; —
20
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev’ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
“O man! while in thy early years,
25
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours —
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
30
Which tenfold force gives Nature’s law.
That man was made to mourn.
“Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
35
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then Age and Want — oh! ill-match’d pair —
Shew man was made to mourn.
40
“A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land,
45
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
“Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
50
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, —
Man’s inhumanity to man
55
Makes countless thousands mourn!
“See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
60
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
“If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,
65
By Nature’s law design’d,
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
70
Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?
“Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
75
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
80
“O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow
85
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!”
55.
The Twa Herds; or, The Holy Tulyie
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale
“Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,” — POPE.
O A’ ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?
Or wha will tent the waifs an’ crocks,
5
About the dykes?
The twa best herds in a’ the wast,
The e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast
These five an’ twenty simmers past —
Oh, dool to tell!
10
Hae had a bitter black out-cast
Atween themsel’.
O, Moddie,
man, an’ wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle;
Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
15
An’ think it fine!
The L—’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle,
Sin’ I hae min’.
O, sirs! whae’er wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
20
Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid;
But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.
What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank? —
25
Sae hale and hearty every shank!
Nae poison’d soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;
Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, drank, —
O, sic a feast!
30
The thummart, willcat, brock, an’ tod,
Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood,
He smell’d their ilka hole an’ road,
Baith out an in;
An’ weel he lik’d to shed their bluid,
35
An’ sell their skin.
What herd like Russell tell’d his tale;
His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,
He kenn’d the L—’s sheep, ilka tail,
Owre a’ the height;
40
An’ saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub
45
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o’er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.
Sic twa-O! do I live to see’t? —
Sic famous twa should disagree’t,
50
And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,”
Ilk ither gi’en,
While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin spite,
Say neither’s liein!
A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
55
There’s Duncan
deep, an’ Peebles
shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them, het an’ cauld,
Till they agree.
60
Consider, sirs, how we’re beset;
There’s scarce a new herd that we get,
But comes frae ‘mang that cursed set,
I winna name;
I hope frae heav’n to see them yet
65
In fiery flame.
Dalrymple
has been lang our fae,
M’Gill
has wrought us meikle wae,
An’ that curs’d rascal ca’d M’Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,
70
That aft hae made us black an’ blae,
Wi’ vengefu’ paws.
Auld Wodrow
lang has hatch’d mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,
75
Ane to succeed him,
A chield wha’
soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly rebel,
80
Forby turn-coats amang oursel’,
There’s Smith
for ane;
I doubt he’s but a grey nick quill,
An’ that ye’ll fin’.
O! a’ ye flocks o’er a, the hills,
85
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,
An’ get the brutes the power themsel’s
To choose their herds.
90
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An’ Learning in a woody dance,
An’ that fell cur ca’d Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banished o’er the sea to France:
95
Let him bark there.
Then Shaw’s an’ D’rymple’s eloquence,
M’Gill’s close nervous excellence
M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,
An’ guid M’Math,
100
Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,
May a’ pack aff.
56.
Epistle to Davie, A Brother Poet
January
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,
An’ hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An’ spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme,
5
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift,
That live sae bien an’ snug:
10
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.
It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r
15
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar’d;
How best o’ chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair’t;
20
But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head,
Tho’ we hae little gear;
We’re fit to win our daily bread,
As lang’s we’re hale and fier:
“Mair spier na, nor fear na,”
25
Auld age ne’er mind a feg;
The last o’t, the warst o’t
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin,
30
Is doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s free frae a’
35
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba’,
Has aye some cause to smile;
An’ mind still, you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
40
Nae mair then we’ll care then,
Nae farther can we fa’.
What tho’, like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal’,
45
Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
50
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,
We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till’t we’ll time till’t,
55
An’ sing’t when we hae done.
It’s no in titles nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
To purchase peace and rest:
It’s no in makin’ muckle, mair;
60
It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
An’ centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
65
But never can be blest;
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye’s the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.
70
Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge an’ drive thro’ wet and dry,
Wi’ never ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
75
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God’s creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
80
Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’ an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce,
85
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some —
An’s thankfu’ for them yet.
90
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel’;
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill:
Tho’ losses an’ crosses
95
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae other where.
But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
100
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
An’ joys that riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very best.
There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart,
105
The lover an’ the frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
110
It heats me, it beets me,
An’ sets me a’ on flame!
O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know’st my words sincere!
115
The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
120
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r;
Still take her, and make her
125
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world’s thorny ways
130
Had number’d out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In ev’ry care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band —
135
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean!
140
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank an’ file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus an’ the famous Nine
145
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he’s fairly het;
And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, an’ jimp,
And rin an unco fit:
150
But least then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I’ll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen’d hide.
