The Complete Works of Robert Burns - LightNovelsOnl.com
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VIII.
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 ay be your border: Its slightest touches, instant pause-- Debar a' side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.
IX.
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!
X.
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!
XI.
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 you better reck the rede Than ever did th' adviser!
XLVIII.
TO A LOUSE,
ON SEEING ONE IN A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH
[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it course and vulgar--those cla.s.sic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.]
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say by ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin', blast.i.t wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dross your droddum!
I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie!
How daur ye do't?
O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin'!
O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us An' foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!
XLIX.
EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE,
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.
[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrs.h.i.+re, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree "Brutes!--d.a.m.ned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior, "and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to h.e.l.l-door, where mony of your lords.h.i.+p's friends gang, I chappit, and 'Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lords.h.i.+p's land. 'Awa wi' you,' cried Satan, ye canna come here: h.e.l.l's fou o' his lords.h.i.+p's d.a.m.ned brutes already.'"]
O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' c.o.c.ks for fun an' drinkin'!
There's monie G.o.dly folks are thinkin', Your dreams[54] an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'
Straught to auld Nick's.
Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black!
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I.
I've sent you here some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,[55] ye'll sen't wi cannie care, And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring, An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill.
'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun', A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken.
The poor wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't; But, deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair.
Some auld us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail, I vow an' swear!
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this niest year.
