Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (15 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
66.
Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux
NOW Robin
lies in his last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
5
E’er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him,
Except the moment that they crush’d him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ‘em
Tho’ e’er sae short.
10
Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ‘em,
And thought it sport.
Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin’s mark
15
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,
Ye roos’d him then!
67.
Epistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock
Author of the Gospel Recovered. — August, 1785
O GOWDIE, terror o’ the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
5
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:
Fye: bring
Black Jock,
her state physician,
To see her water;
10
Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion
She’ll ne’er get better.
Enthusiasm’s past redemption,
Gane in a gallopin’ consumption:
Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,
15
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She’ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;
20
But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An’ fights for breath;
Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,
Near unto death.
It’s you an’
Taylor
are the chief
25
To blame for a’ this black mischief;
But, could the L — d’s ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An’ twa red peats wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
30
For me, my skill’s but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’;
But quietlins-wise, between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho’ they sud your sair misca’,
35
Ne’er fash your head.
E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
And still ‘mang hands a hearty bicker
O’ something stout;
40
It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naething like the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy,
45
‘Tween morn and morn,
As them wha like to taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
50
Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, —
Ought less is little —
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
68.
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show’d,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in
Religion.
HYPOCRISY-A-LA-MODE
UPON
a simmer Sunday morn
When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An’ snuff the caller air.
The rising sun owre Galston muirs
5
Wi’ glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav’rocks they were chantin
Fu’ sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,
10
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black,
But ane wi’ lyart lining;
15
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu’ gay that day.
The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an’ claes;
20
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
An’ sour as only slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop,
25
As soon as e’er she saw me,
Fu’ kind that day.
Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face
30
But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
An’ taks me by the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
Of a’ the ten comman’s
35
A screed some day.”
“My name is Fun — your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An’ this is Superstitution here,
An’ that’s Hypocrisy.
40
I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day.”
45
Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,
An’ meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
50
An’ soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi’ mony a weary body
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
55
Gaed hoddin by their cotters;
There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springing owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an’ scarlets glitter;
60
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
Fu’ crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
65
A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools,
70
An’ some are busy bleth’rin
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
An’ screen our countra gentry;
There “Racer Jess,
an’ twa-three whores,
75
Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,
Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
80
For fun this day.
Here, some are thinkin on their sins,
An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
Anither sighs an’ prays:
85
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses
To chairs that day.
90
O happy is that man, an’ blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back,
95
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An’s loof upon her bosom,
Unkend that day.
Now a’ the congregation o’er
100
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie
speels the holy door,
Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:
Should
Hornie,
as in ancient days,
‘Mang sons o’ God present him,
105
The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,
To ‘s ain het hame had sent him
Wi’ fright that day.
Hear how he clears the point o’ faith
Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin!
110
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,
O how they fire the heart devout,
115
Like cantharidian plaisters
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,
There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;
For a’ the real judges rise,
120
They canna sit for anger,
Smith
opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an’ barrels
125
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral powers an’ reason?
His English style, an’ gesture fine
Are a’ clean out o’ season.
130
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The
moral man
he does define,
But ne’er a word o’
faith
in
That’s right that day.
135
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison’d nostrum;
For Peebles,
frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got, the word o’ God,
140
An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has taen the road,
An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller
neist the guard relieves,
145
An’ Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,
An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums them;
150
Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him
At times that day.
Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,
Wi’ yill-caup commentators;
155
Here ‘s cryin out for bakes and gills,
An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
160
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college;
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
165
It pangs us fou o’ knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin deep,
To kittle up our notion,
170
By night or day.
The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an’ body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An’ steer about the toddy:
175
On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,
They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
An’ forming assignations
To meet some day.
180
But now the L—’s ain trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills are rairin,
And echoes back return the shouts;
Black Russell is na sparin:
His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords,
185
Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera “sauls does harrow”
Wi’ fright that day!
A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
190
Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,
An’ think they hear it roarin;
195
When presently it does appear,
‘Twas but some neibor snorin
Asleep that day.
‘Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past;
200
An’ how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a’ dismist;
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,
Amang the furms an’ benches;
An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,
205
Was dealt about in lunches
An’ dawds that day.
In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,
An’ sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;
210
The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
Frae side to side they bother;
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An’ gies them’t like a tether,
215
Fu’ lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
220
O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel’
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
225
Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
230
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
They’re a’ in famous tune
For crack that day.
