THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. I. WINTER. A DIRGE. [This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded compositions: it was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, a juvenile production.' To walk by a river while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. "In such a senson," he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, 1 composed Winter, a Dirge."] THE wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw; While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, The leafless trees my fancy please, Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firin, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (0, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 1 Dr. Young. II. THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. [This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immediately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell, are still pointed out.] As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, "Tell him, if e'er again he keep Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! 2 A neibor herd-callan. Put ca' them out to park or hill, "Tell him he was a master kin' An' ay was gude to me an' mine; An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him. "O, bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. "An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the sheers; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. "My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care; An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! An' warn him what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at hame An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. "An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel! "And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither. "Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead. III. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. [Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel: but says that it resembles too closely "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original: the shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."] LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; It's no the loss o' warl's gear, The mourning weed; He's lost a friend and neebor dear, Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; I wat she was a sheep o' sense, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead. Or, if he wonders up the howe, An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips,1 Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips; 1 VARIATION. 'She was nae get o' runted rams, Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, In hamely westlin jingle. Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, I tent less and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker I I. It's hardly in a body's power How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, Auld age ne'er mind a feg, III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en Yet then content could make us blest; O' truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, Has ay some cause to smile : IV. What tho', like commoners of air, Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, On braes when we please, then, V. It's no in titles nor in rank; 1 Ramsay. If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, V I. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless and fearless Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Be lessons right severe, VIII. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! This life has joys for you and I; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, Ye hae your Meg your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame! IX. O, all ye pow'rs who rule above! Is not more fondly dear! Her dear idea brings relief O hear my fervent pray'r! X. 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, And oft a more endearing band, It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, X I. O, how that name inspires my style The words come skelpin, rank and file, Amaist before I ken! The ready measure rins as fine, And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, But least then, the beast then His sweaty, wizen'd hide. |