Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (33 page)
Read Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Online
Authors: Robert Burns
141.
“An honest man’s the noblest work of God” — POPE.
When this worthy old
sportman
went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. —
R. B.,
1787.
HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay
thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson
again grown weel,
To preach an’ read?
“Na’ waur than a’! cries ilka chiel,
5
“Tam Samson’s dead!”
Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,
An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane,
An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean,
In mourning weed;
10
To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane —
Tam Samson’s dead!
The Brethren, o’ the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu’ bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
15
Like ony bead;
Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel;
Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
20
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
Wi’ gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the “cock?”
Tam Samson’s dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
25
He was the king o’ a’ the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar,
In time o’ need;
But now he lags on Death’s “hog-score” —
30
Tam Samson’s dead!
Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
35
Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson’s dead!
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’;
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw
40
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa;
Tam Samson’s dead!
That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d,
Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d,
45
While pointers round impatient burn’d,
Frae couples free’d;
But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d!
Tam Samson’s dead!
In vain auld age his body batters,
50
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
“Tam Samson’s dead!”
55
Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi’ deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet,
60
“Tam Samson’s dead!”
When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger,
Wi’ weel-aimed heed;
65
“L — d, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger —
Tam Samson’s dead!
Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
70
Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”
There, low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast
75
Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an’ breed:
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest!
Tam Samson’s dead!
When August winds the heather wave,
80
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,
O’ pouther an’ lead,
Till Echo answer frae her cave,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”
85
Heav’n rest his saul whare’er he be!
Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man want we:
90
Tam Samson’s dead!
THE EPITAPH
Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in Heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.
95
PER CONTRA
Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly
Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;
Tell ev’ry social honest billie
To cease his grievin’;
For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie.
100
Tam Samson’s leevin’!
142.
HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!
Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unback’d filly,
5
Proud o’ her speed.
When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
10
Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter
We’re forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
15
O’ this wild warl’.
Until you on a crummock driddle,
A grey hair’d carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
20
And screw your temper-pins aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy croon
O’ cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day,
25
Nae “lente largo” in the play,
But “allegretto forte” gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey —
Encore! Bravo!
30
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang
By square an’ rule,
But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang,
35
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
40
May fireside discords jar a base
To a’ their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,
An’ that there is, I’ve little swither
45
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I’se ne’er bid better.
We’ve faults and failings — granted clearly,
We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,
50
Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa’;
But still, but still, I like them dearly —
God bless them a’!
Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
55
When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi’ girnin’spite.
60
By by yon moon! — and that’s high swearin —
An’ every star within my hearin!
An’ by her een wha was a dear ane!
I’ll ne’er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
65
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
70
By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted;
Then
vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
75
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure;
80
But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,
Be’t light, be’t dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.
ROBERT BURNS.
Mossgiel,
30
th October,
1786.
143.
RUSTICITY’S ungainly form
May cloud the highest mind;
But when the heart is nobly warm,
The
good
excuse will find.
Propriety’s cold, cautious rules
5
Warm fervour may o’erlook:
But spare poor sensibility
Th’ ungentle, harsh rebuke.
144.
“Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?” — SHAKESPEARE.
WHEN biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
5
Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl;
10
Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl:
List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
15
O’ winter war,
And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird, — wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
20
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy e’e?
Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d,
25
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats!
30
Now Phoebe in her midnight reign,
Dark-muff’d, view’d the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plantive strain,
35
Slow, solemn, stole: —
“Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
40
More hard unkindness unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting.
Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows!
“See stern Oppression’s iron grip,
Or mad Ambition’s gory hand,
45
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land!
Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side,
50
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple, rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show —
55
A creature of another kind,
Some coarser substance, unrefin’d —
Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!
“Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour’s lofty brow,
60
The pow’rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love’s noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone?
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
65
To love-pretending snares:
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway,
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs!
Perhaps this hour, in Misery’s squalid nest,
70
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
“Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
75
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill-satisfy’d keen nature’s clamorous call,
Stretch’d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep;
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill, o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
80
Think on the dungeon’s grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view,
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
85
By cruel Fortune’s undeserved blow?
Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
90
And hail’d the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress’d my mind —
Thro’ all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
95
The most resembles God.
