The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 26

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight!

But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well.

G.o.d bless your honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, canty carlin greet, An' no get warmly on your feet, An' gar them hear it!

An' tell them with a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an' pause, An' wi' rhetorie clause on clause To mak harangues: Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran'; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;[46]

An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The Laird o' Graham;[47]

An' ane, a chap that's d.a.m.n'd auldfarren, Dundas his name.

Erskine, a s.p.u.n.kie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie: An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle: Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her whiskey.

An' L--d, if once they pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' first she meets!

For G.o.d sake, sirs, then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty c.o.c.ks!

E'en cowe the cadie!

An' send him to his dicing box, An' sportin' lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's[48]

Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert.

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither's heart support ye, Then, though a minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face.

G.o.d bless your honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie's: Your humble Poet signs an' prays While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich cl.u.s.t'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelp--a shot--they're aff, a' throther To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his check a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.

Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas!

Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!

Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on c.r.a.ps o' heather Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!-- Tak aff your dram!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 46: Sir Adam Ferguson.]

[Footnote 47: The Duke of Montrose.]

[Footnote 48: A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a gla.s.s of guid auld Scotch drink.]

x.x.xIX.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID,

OR THE

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

"My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them ay thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin."

SOLOMON.--Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of pa.s.sion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite s.n.a.t.c.hes of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.]

I.

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibor's fauts and folly!

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supply'd wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter.

II.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pa.s.s douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

III.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer, But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ?

Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding.