Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
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
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,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.1
But deep this truth impress'd my mind
Thro' all His works abroad,
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,3
I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
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 bien5 an' snug :
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.
2 Davie was David Sillar, the author of a book of Scottish verses. Gilbert Burns writes respecting his brother:-It was, I think, in summer, 1784, when, in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this Epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming author was started on this occa
It's hardly in a body's pow r,
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;1
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash2 your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier :3
Mair spier na, nor fear na,
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,5
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could mak us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',"
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
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'?
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,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth? a tune;
Synes rhyme till't, we'll time till❜t,
And sing't when we hae done.
Ramsay.-R. B.
7 Whistle over.
It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest
It' no in making muckle mair:
t's no in books; it's no in lear,1
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:
Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang ;
The heart aye's the part aye,
That maks us right or wrang.
ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent2 us in their way,
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 !
Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
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.
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, and crosses,
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,3
And flatt'ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ;
And joys the very best.
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
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 :
It heats me, it beets me,2
And 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!
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,
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
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
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean.
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin,3 rank and file,
"Meg" was Margaret Orr, the nursery-maid of Mrs. Stewart of Stair.A. C.
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet' Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het;
And then he'll hilch,2 and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:
But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen'd1 hide.
OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR.
Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself,
And Sweet AFFECTION prove the spring of woe!
O THOU pale Orb, that silent shines,
While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream.
I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked, distant hill:
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever har returning peace!
No idly-feign'd poetic pains,
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame :
1 Spavined. 5 It is scarcely necessary to mention, that "The Lament" was composed on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial history, which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of his feelings had a little subsided.-G. B.
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