Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 37

Farewell the plain sae rashy, O!

To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland la.s.sie, O.

Epistle To A Young Friend

May __, 1786.

I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, Och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still, th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poort.i.th hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel', Ye scarcely tell to ony: Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, a.s.siduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

The fear o' h.e.l.l's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause-- Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n-- A conscience but a canker-- A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a n.o.ble anchor!

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!

May prudence, fort.i.tude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, "G.o.d send you speed,"

Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser!

Address Of Beelzebub

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M'Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing--Liberty.

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaithed by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes--as butchers like a knife.

Faith you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight: I doubt na! they wad bid nae better, Than let them ance out owre the water, Then up among thae lakes and seas, They'll mak what rules and laws they please: Some daring Hanc.o.c.ke, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin; Some Was.h.i.+ngton again may head them, Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, Till G.o.d knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed, Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,-- An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance-- To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation?

They, an' be d-d! what right hae they To meat, or sleep, or light o' day?

Far less--to riches, pow'r, or freedom, But what your lords.h.i.+p likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!

Your hand's owre light to them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a' tender mercies, An' tirl the hallions to the birses; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit: But smash them! crash them a' to spails, An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an' hunger mak them sober!

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!

An' if the wives an' dirty brats Come thiggin at your doors an' yetts, Flaffin wi' duds, an' grey wi' beas', Frightin away your ducks an' geese; Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An' gar the tatter'd gypsies pack Wi' a' their b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on their back!

Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you, An' in my house at hame to greet you; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle, At my right han' a.s.signed your seat, 'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate: Or if you on your station tarrow, Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat, I'm sure ye're well deservin't; An' till ye come--your humble servant,

Beelzebub.

June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.

A Dream

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.

On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address:

Guid-Mornin' to our Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes.

My bards.h.i.+p here, at your Levee On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord an' lady; "G.o.d save the King" 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye: The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day.

For me! before a monarch's face Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your Grace, Your Kings.h.i.+p to bespatter; There's mony waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sovereign King, My skill may weel be doubted; But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed: Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft and clouted, And now the third part o' the string, An' less, will gang aboot it Than did ae day.^1

Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation: But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha in barn or byre Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken s.h.i.+ns to plaister, Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank G.o.d, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearin' faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day.

[Footnote 1: The American colonies had recently been lost.]

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges; But, G.o.d-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonie barges An'boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, And gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, wi' due respect, May fealty an' subjection This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While n.o.bles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment, A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent For ever to release ye Frae care that day.

For you, young Potentate o'Wales, I tell your highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known, To mak a n.o.ble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill the throne, For a'their clish-ma-claver: There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver: And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,^3 He was an unco shaver For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog, That bears the keys of Peter, Then swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or trowth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day!