Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 38

Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her-- A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discern, Your hymeneal charter; Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An' large upon her quarter, Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', Ye royal la.s.ses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty!

But sneer na British boys awa!

For kings are unco scant aye, An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want aye On ony day.

[Footnote 2: King Henry V.--R.B.]

[Footnote 3: Sir John Falstaff, vid. Shakespeare.--R. B.]

[Footnote 4: Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor's amour.--R. B. This was Prince William Henry, third son of George III, afterward King William IV.]

Gad bless you a'! consider now, Ye're unco muckle daut.i.t; But ere the course o' life be through, It may be bitter saut.i.t: An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it.

But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae claut.i.t Fu' clean that day.

A Dedication

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

Expect na, sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' n.o.ble bluid, Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace-- Perhaps related to the race: Then, when I'm tir'd--and sae are ye, Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, Set up a face how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do--maun do, sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I need na bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say--an' that's nae flatt'rin-- It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him!

He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only--he's no just begun yet.

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me; I winna lie, come what will o' me), On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, He's just--nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain, he winna tak it; What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, Till aft his guidness is abus'd; And rascals whiles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang; As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a'that; Nae G.o.dly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature: Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of d.a.m.nation; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!

Vain is his hope, whase stay an' trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No--stretch a point to catch a plack: Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through the winnock frae a wh.o.r.e, But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like ony whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane; Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter--stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And d.a.m.n a' parties but your own; I'll warrant they ye're nae deceiver, A steady, st.u.r.dy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!

Ye sons of Heresy and Error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror, When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.

And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him; While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, sir, for this digression: I maist forgat my Dedication; But when divinity comes 'cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, you see 'twas nae daft vapour; But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill), I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronize them wi' your favor, And your pet.i.tioner shall ever-- I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say; For prayin, I hae little skill o't, I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, sir--

"May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk!

May ne'er his genrous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart!

May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonie la.s.ses round their table, And sev'n braw fellows, stout an' able, To serve their king an' country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel!

May health and peace, with mutual rays, s.h.i.+ne on the ev'ning o' his days; Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion; But, whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended, in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor?

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!

While recollection's pow'r is giv'n-- If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, thro' the tender-gus.h.i.+ng tear, Should recognise my master dear; If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand--my Friend and Brother!

Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline

Friday first's the day appointed By the Right Wors.h.i.+pful anointed,

To hold our grand procession; To get a blad o' Johnie's morals, And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels

I' the way of our profession.

The Master and the Brotherhood Would a' be glad to see you; For me I would be mair than proud

To share the mercies wi' you.

If Death, then, wi' skaith, then, Some mortal heart is hechtin, Inform him, and storm him, That Sat.u.r.day you'll fecht him.

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.

The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James' Lodge, Tarbolton.

Tune--"Guidnight, and joy be wi' you a'."

Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu; Dear brothers of the mystic tie!

Ye favoured, enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy; Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba'; With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far awa.

Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft, honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but Craftsmen ever saw Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes, when far awa.

May Freedom, Harmony, and Love, Unite you in the grand Design, Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious Architect Divine, That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till Order bright completely s.h.i.+ne, Shall be my pray'r when far awa.

And you, farewell! whose merits claim Justly that highest badge to wear: Heav'n bless your honour'd n.o.ble name, To Masonry and Scotia dear!

A last request permit me here,-- When yearly ye a.s.semble a', One round, I ask it with a tear, To him, the Bard that's far awa.