PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT.
So travell❜d monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood :
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT,
DUMFRIES.
WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon❜on,
How this new play, an' that new sang, is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil:
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece,
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enow in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.
Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after monie a bloody, deathless doin',
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms,
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and right succeeds,
Yc yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae Poets, o' the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle1 time an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should onie spier,
"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here ?”
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We hae the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But, like good mithers, shore before ye strike-
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.
FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die-for that they're born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint 3 a head,
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead!
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ;
The tane is game, a bludie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's something dour o' treadin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.5
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit
An'
cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck.
Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een,1
For some o' you hae tint a frien;
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
Observe the vera nowte an' sheep,
How dowf3 and daviely they creep:
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As muckle better as you can.
VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON,
THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS,
PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH.
MARCH 19TH, 1787.
CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ?
LAMENT, WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.4
O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.
3 Languid. Originally published in the Dumfries Journal, July 5th, 1815, but doubtfully ascribed to Burns.
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore ;
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.
FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O let me steal one liquid kiss!
For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love!
1 Said to have been written at the inn of Brownhill, in the parish of Close
burn, "a favourite resting-place of Burns."
ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.1
THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave.
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;2
Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well,3
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.*
Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east,
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form,
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd:
Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclin❜d that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.-
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride!
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear,
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping Arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh.
1 Sir James Blair died July 1, 1787: he was a partner in Forbes'
2 The King's Park, at Holyrood House.-R. B.
3 St. Anthony's Well.-R. B. St. Anthony's Chapel.-R. B.
|