The Complete Works of Robert Burns - LightNovelsOnl.com
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XVI.
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93]
Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark.
XVII.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native s.h.i.+re?
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
POSTSCRIPT.
Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spar'd, A copy o' this I bequeath, On the same sicker score I mentioned before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 93: Gavin Hamilton.]
CXI.
PEG NICHOLSON.
[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o' Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick an' thin; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she's flouting down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was; As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.
CXII.
ON
CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,
A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS
IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY G.o.d.
"Should the poor be flattered?"
SHAKSPEARE.
But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heav'nly light!
[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkingla.s.s, "was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." _Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkingla.s.s_, p. 17.]
O death! thou tyrant fell and b.l.o.o.d.y!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides!
He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd!
Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns, That proudly c.o.c.k your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature's st.u.r.diest bairns, My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din, Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin!
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your th.o.r.n.y tree, The first o' flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry gra.s.sy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that c.r.a.p the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!-- He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels: Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld sh.o.r.e, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 'Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, The gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead!
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear: Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide, o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost!
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
