The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 35

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT,

OF GLENCONNER.

[The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.]

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, How's a' the folk about Glenconner?

How do you this blae eastlin wind, That's like to blaw a body blind?

For me, my faculties are frozen, My dearest member nearly dozen'd, I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, An' Reid, to common sense appealing.

Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, An' in the depth of science mir'd, To common sense they now appeal, What wives and wabsters see and feel.

But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly Peruse them, an' return them quickly, For now I'm grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder b.u.t.t the house, My s.h.i.+ns, my lane, I there sit roastin', Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston; Till by an' by, if I haud on, I'll grunt a real gospel groan: Already I begin to try it, To cast my e'en up like a pyet, When by the gun she tumbles o'er, Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore: Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a s.h.i.+ning light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men: When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him, His worthy fam'ly far and near, G.o.d bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, la.s.s or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither!

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy; An' her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet; Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fas.h.i.+ous; To grant a heart is fairly civil, But to grant the maidenhead's the devil An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', May guardian angels tak a spell, An' steer you seven miles south o' h.e.l.l: But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get monie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, For my sake this I beg it o' you.

a.s.sist poor Simson a' ye can, Ye'll fin' him just an honest man; Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your's, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

LVI.

ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD.

[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this "Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love," was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.]

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a pray'r, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should s.h.i.+eld thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair on the summer-morn: Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand!

And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land!

LVII.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED

TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr.

Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.]

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Boreas' h.o.a.ry path, Never Eurus' poisonous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blus.h.i.+ng still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem: 'Till some evening, sober, calm, Dropping dews and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

LVIII.

WILLIE CHALMERS.

[Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world: he copied it from a small ma.n.u.script volume of Poems given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation in these words: "W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrs.h.i.+re, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.]

I.

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parna.s.sus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush The doitie beastie stammers; Then up he gets and off he sets For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

II.

I doubt na, la.s.s, that weel kenn'd name May cost a pair o' blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes.

Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet His honest heart enamours, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

III.