1787

To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

Again the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driven,

And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,

Are so much nearer Heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts

The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,

In Edwin’s simple tale.

Our sex with guile, and faithless love,

Is charg’d, perhaps too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove

An Edwin still to you.

Mr. William Smellie—A Sketch

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;

The old cock’d hat, the grey surtout the same;

His bristling beard just rising in its might,

’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:

His uncomb’d grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch’d

A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d;

Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude,

His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie [1]

As I cam by Crochallan,

I cannilie keekit ben;

Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie

Was sittin at yon boord-en’;

Sittin at yon boord-en,

And amang gude companie;

Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,

You’re welcome hame to me!

[1: William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club.]

Song—Bonie Dundee

My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie!

My blessin’s upon thy e’e-brie!

Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,

Thou’s aye the dearer, and dearer to me!

But I’ll big a bow’r on yon bonie banks,

Whare Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear;

An’ I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

Extempore In The Court Of Session

Tune—“Killiercrankie.”

Lord Advocate

He clenched his pamphlet in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted,

Till, in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint it:

He gapèd for’t, he grapè for’t,

He fand it was awa, man;

But what his common sense came short,

He eked out wi’ law, man.

Mr. Erskine

Collected, Harry stood awee,

Then open’d out his arm, man;

His Lordship sat wi’ ruefu’ e’e,

And ey’d the gathering storm, man:

Like wind-driven hail it did assail’

Or torrents owre a lin, man:

The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes,

Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man.

Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet [1]

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,

“No storied urn nor animated bust;”

This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,

To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.

Additional Stanzas

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;

Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired,

Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,

And, thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives

A brother Bard—he can no more bestow:

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,

A nobler monument than Art can shew.

[1: The stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in February—March, 1789.]

Inscribed Under Fergusson’s Portrait

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,

And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,

By far my elder brother in the Muses,

With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!

Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,

Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

Epistle To Mrs. Scott

Gudewife of Wauchope—House, Roxburghshire.

Gudewife,

I Mind it weel in early date,

When I was bardless, young, and blate,

An’ first could thresh the barn,

Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh;

An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,

Yet unco proud to learn:

When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckon’d was,

An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn

Could rank my rig and lass,

Still shearing, and clearing

The tither stooked raw,

Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,

Wearing the day awa.

E’en then, a wish, (I mind its pow’r),

A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast,

That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake

Some usefu’ plan or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide

Amang the bearded bear,

I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,

An’ spar’d the symbol dear:

No nation, no station,

My envy e’er could raise;

A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sang,

In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,

Wild floated in my brain;

’Till on that har’st I said before,

May partner in the merry core,

She rous’d the forming strain;

I see her yet, the sonsie quean,

That lighted up my jingle,

Her witching smile, her pawky een

That gart my heart-strings tingle;

I firèd, inspired,

At every kindling keek,

But bashing, and dashing,

I fearèd aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says:

Wi’ merry dance in winter days,

An’ we to share in common;

The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,

The saul o’ life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,

Be mindfu’ o’ your mither;

She, honest woman, may think shame

That ye’re connected with her:

Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men

That slight the lovely dears;

To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,

Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line:

The marled plaid ye kindly spare,

By me should gratefully be ware;

’Twad please me to the nine.

I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,

Douce hingin owre my curple,

Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.

Farewell then, lang hale then,

An’ plenty be your fa;

May losses and crosses

Ne’er at your hallan ca’!

R. Burns

March, 1787

Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture [1]

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?

And whose that eye of fire?

And whose that generous princely mien,

E’en rooted foes admire?

Stranger! to justly show that brow,

And mark that eye of fire,

Would take His hand, whose vernal tints

His other works admire.

Bright as a cloudless summer sun,

With stately port he moves;

His guardian Seraph eyes with awe

The noble Ward he loves.

Among the illustrious Scottish sons

That chief thou may’st discern,

Mark Scotia’s fond-returning eye,—

It dwells upon Glencairn.

[1: The Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.]