The Canongate Burns (37 page)

[Sir, Think not with a mercenary view

Some servile Sycophant approaches you.

To you my Muse would sing these simple lays

To you my heart its grateful homage pays,

5
I feel the weight of all your kindness past,

But thank you not as wishing it to last:

Scorn'd be the wretch whose earth-born grov'lling soul

Would in his
ledger-hopes
his Friends enroll.

Tho' I, a lowly, nameless, rustic Bard,

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Who ne'er must hope your goodness to reward,

Yet man to man, Sir, let us fairly meet,

And like Masonic Level, equal greet.

How poor the balance! Ev'n what Monarch's plan,

Between two noble creatures such as Man.

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That to your Friendship I am strongly tied

I still shall own it, Sir, with grateful pride,

When haply roaring seas between us tumble wide.

Or if among so many cent'ries waste,

Thro the long vista of dark ages past,

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Some much-lov'd honor'd name a radiance cast,

Perhaps some Patriot of distinguish'd worth,

I'll match him if My Lord will please step forth.

Or Gentleman and Citizen combine,

And I shall shew his peer in Ballantine:

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Tho' honest men were
parcell'd
out for sale,

He might be shown a sample for the hale.]
whole

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,

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Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush,

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,

Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,

To hardy Independence bravely bred,

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By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field,

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?

Or labour hard the panegyric close,

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With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?

No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.

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Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,

Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace;

When Ballantine befriends his humble name,

And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame,

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,

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The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,
wrapping

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
thatch & rope, crop

Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith
-heaps, from damage

O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;

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The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,

Unnumber'd buds' an' flowers' delicious spoils,

Seal'd up with frugal care in massive, waxen piles,

Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak,

The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
smothered, smoke

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The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side,

The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;

The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,

Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:

(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,

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And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)

Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
no more

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
no more

Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree;
-long/half-sized tree

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The hoary morns precede the sunny days;

Mild, calm, serene, widespreads the noontide blaze,

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,

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Ae night, within the ancient brugh of
Ayr
,
one, borough

By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,

He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,
route

And down by
Simpson's
1
wheel'd the left about:

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate,

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To witness what I after shall narrate;

Or whether, rapt in meditation high,

He wander'd forth, he knew not where nor why.)

The drowsy
Dungeon-Clock
2
had number'd two,

And
Wallace Tower
²
had sworn the fact was true:

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The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar,
swollen

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;

The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree:

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,

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Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.

When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
rustle

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,

Swift as the
Gos
3
drives on the wheeling hare;

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Ane on th'
Auld Brig
his airy shape uprears,
one, old

The ither flutters o'er the
rising piers
:
other

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd
wizard

The Sprites that owre the
Brigs of Ayr
preside.
over

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
no

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And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;
know, language

Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,
fairies, will-o-wisps, water spirits

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them).
very devils, well know

Auld Brig
appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
old

The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face:
very

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He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,
wrestled long

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.
stubborn, surprisingly robust

New Brig
was buskit in a braw new coat,
dressed, fine

That he, at
Lon'on
, frae ane
Adams
got;
from one

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,
in his

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Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head.
rings, flourishes

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;

It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e,
neighbour, eye

And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
even

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Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,

He, down the water, gies him this guid-een —
gives, good evening

AULD BRIG

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,
person of little importance

Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank!
once, stretched over from

But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me,
once/if, old

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Tho' faith, that date, I doubt, ye'll never see;

There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,
bet a half-farthing

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.
whims, head

NEW BRIG

Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense,
old, decorum

Just much about it wi' your scanty sense;

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Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,

Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
two

Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime,
stone

Compare wi' bonie
Brigs
o' modern time?
handsome

There's men of taste would tak the
Ducat stream
,
4
take

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Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim,
very shirt

E'er they would grate their feelings wi' the view

O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.
such

AULD BRIG

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
fool

This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide;
many

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And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,
old age, sore, worn out

I'll be a
Brig
when ye're a shapeless cairn!
pile of stones

As yet ye little ken about the matter,
know

But twa-three winters will inform ye better.
two-

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains
all-day

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Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;

When from the hills where springs the brawling
Coil
,

Or stately
Lugar's
mossy fountains boil,

Or where the
Greenock
winds his moorland course,

Or haunted
Garpal
5
draws his feeble source,

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Arous'd by blustering winds an' spotting thowes,
thaws

In monie a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;
many, snow-brewrolls

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
spate/flood

Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;

And from
Glenbuck
6
down to the
Ratton-Key
,
7

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Auld
Ayr
is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea;
old

Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!
devil

And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.
muddy splashes

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,

That Architecture's noble art is lost!'

NEW BRIG

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Fine
architecture
, trowth, I needs must say't o't!
in truth

The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!
lost, way/skill

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,
ghost-

Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices;

O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,

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Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves:

Windows and doors, in nameless sculptures drest,

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,

The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

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Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,

And still the
second dread Command
8
be free:

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea!

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste

Of any mason reptile, bird or beast,

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Fit only for a doited Monkish race,
stupid/muddled

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,

Or Cuifs of later times, wha held the notion,
fools, who

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion:

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,
good borough

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And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!

AULD BRIG

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,
contemporaries

Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!

Ye worthy
Proveses
, an' mony a
Bailie
,
Provosts, many

Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;
who

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Ye dainty
Deacons
, an' ye douce
Conveeners
,

To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
street-

Ye godly
Councils
, wha hae blest this town;
who have

Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown

Wha meekly gie your
hurdies
to the
smiters
;
give, buttocks

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And (what would now be strange),
ye godly Writers
;

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
prudent, above, water

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation

To see each melancholy alteration;

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And, agonising, curse the time and place

When ye begat the base, degen'rate race!

Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory,
no longer

In plain, braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story;
broad

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce,
no longer, prudent

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Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house:
over

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
half-witted/silly

The herryment and ruin of the country;
destruction

Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers,

Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd 
new
Brigs
and
Harbours
!  
who, well-saved wealth