The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 3

"The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, He pours the wild effusions of the heart: And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire-- Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."]

The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, _a fountain shut up, and a book sealed._ Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer pa.s.sions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friends.h.i.+p awakened his vanity so for as to make him think anything of his worth showing: and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings--the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears--in his own breast; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind--these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward.

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as--an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and, because he can make a s.h.i.+ft to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth!

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that "_Humility_ has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame!" If any critic catches at the word _genius_ the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publis.h.i.+ng in the manner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions.

These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation.

To his Subscriber, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing grat.i.tude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friends.h.i.+p for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom--to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circ.u.mstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others--let him be condemned, without mercy, in contempt and oblivion.

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 season,"

he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, I 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, And pa.s.s the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"[1]

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, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, a.s.sist me to resign!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 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, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc[2] he cam doytin by.

Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted han's, Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!

He gaped wide but naething spak-- At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' case!

My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my master dear.

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!

But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will; So may his flock increase, and grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo'!

"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 blast.i.t, 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, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather."

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead.

FOOTNOTES: