e'n let her gang!
beneath what light she has remaining,
let's sing our sang.
my pen i here fling to the door,
and kneel, ye pow'rs! and warm implore,
“tho' i should wander terra o'er,
in all her climes,
grant me but this, i ask no more,
aye rowth o' rhymes.
“gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
till icicles hing frae their beards;
gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
and maids of honour;
an' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
until they sconner.
“a title, dempster merits it;
a garter gie to willie pitt;
gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
in cent. per cent.;
but give me real, sterling wit,
and i'm content.
“while ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
i'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
be't water-brose or muslin-kail,
wi' cheerfu' face,
as lang's the muses dinna fail
to say the grace.”
an anxious e'e i never throws
behint my lug, or by my nose;
i jouk beneath misfortune's blows
as weel's i may;
sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
i rhyme away.
o ye douce folk that live by rule,
grave, tideless-blooded, calm an'cool,
par'd wi' you—o fool! fool! fool!
how much unlike!
your hearts are just a standing pool,
your lives, a dyke!
nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
in your unletter'd, nameless faces!
in arioso trills and graces
ye never stray;
but gravissimo, solemn basses
ye hum away.
ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
nae ferly tho' ye do despise
the hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
the rattling squad:
i see ye upward cast your eyes—
ye ken the road!
whilst i—but i shall haud me there,
wi' you i'll scarce gang ony where—
then, jamie, i shall say nae mair,
but quat my sang,
content wi' you to mak a pair.
whare'er i gang.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the vision the vision
duan first
the sun had clos'd the winter day,
the curless quat their roarin play,
and hunger'd maukin taen her way,
to kail-yards green,
while faithless snaws ilk step betray
whare she has been.
the thresher's weary flingin-tree,
the lee-lang day had tired me;
and when the day had clos'd his e'e,
far i' the west,
ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
i gaed to rest.
there, lanely by the ingle-cheek,
i sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
that fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
the auld clay biggin;
an' heard the restless rattons squeak
about the riggin.
all in this mottie, misty clime,
i backward mus'd on wasted time,
how i had spent my youthfu' prime,
an' done nae thing,
but stringing blethers up in rhyme,
for fools to sing.
had i to guid advice but harkit,
i might, by this, hae led a market,
or strutted in a bank and clarkit
my cash-account;
while here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit.
is a' th' amount.
i started, mutt'ring, “blockhead! coof!”
and heav'd on high my waukit loof,
to swear by a' yon starry roof,
or some rash aith,
that i henceforth wad be rhyme-proof
till my last breath—
when click! the string the snick did draw;
an' jee! the door gaed to the wa';
an' by my ingle-lowe i saw,
now bleezin bright,
a tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,
e full in sight.
ye need na doubt, i held my whisht;
the infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht
i glowr'd as eerie's i'd been dusht
in some wild glen;
when sweet, like honest worth, she blusht,
an' stepped ben.
green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
were twisted, gracefu', round her brows;
i took her for some scottish muse,
by that same token;
ande to stop those reckless vows,
would soon been broken.
a “hair-brain'd, sentimental trace”
was strongly marked in her face;
a wildly-witty, rustic grace
shone full upon her;
her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,
beam'd keen with honour.
down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,
till half a leg was scrimply seen;
an' such a leg! my bonie jean
could only peer it;
sae straught, sae taper, tight an' clean—
nane else came near it.
her mantle large, of greenish hue,
my gazing wonder chiefly drew:
deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw
a lustre grand;
and seem'd, to my astonish'd view,
a well-known land.
here, rivers in the sea were lost;
there, mountains to the skies were toss't:
here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,
with surging foam;
there, distant shone art's lofty boast,
the lordly dome.
here, doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;
there, well-fed irwine stately thuds:
auld hermit ayr staw thro' his woods,
on to the shore;
and many a lesser torrent scuds,
with seeming roar.
low, in a sandy valley spread,
an ancient borough rear'd her head;
still, as in scottish story read,
she boasts a race
to ev'ry nobler virtue bred,
and polish'd grace.
by stately tow'r, or palace fair,
or ruins pendent in the air,
bold stems of heroes, here and there,
i could discern;
some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,
with feature stern.
my heart did glowing transport feel,
to see a race heroic wheel,
and brandish round the deep-dyed steel,
in sturdy blows;
while, back-recoiling, seem'd to reel
their suthron foes.
his country's saviour, mark him well!
bold richardton's heroic swell;
the chief, on sark who glorious fell,
in highmand;
and he whom ruthless fates expel
his native land.
there, where a sceptr'd pictish shade
stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,
i mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd
in colours strong:
bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd,
they strode along.
thro' many a wild, romantic grove,
near many a hermit-fancied cove
(fit haunts for friendship or for love,
in musing mood),
an aged judge, i saw him rove,
dispensing good.
with deep-struck, reverential awe,
the learned sire and son i saw:
to nature's god, and nature's law,
they gave their lore;
this, all its source and end to draw,
that, to adore.
brydon's brave ward i well could spy,
beneath old scotia's smiling eye:
who call'd on fame, low standing by,
to hand him on,
where many a patriot-name on high,
and hero shone.
duan second
with musing-deep, astonish'd stare,
i view'd the heavenly-seeming fair;
a whispering throb did witness bear
of kindred sweet,
when with an elder sister's air
she did me greet.
“all hail! my own inspired bard!
in me thy native muse regard;
nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
thus poorly low;
ie to give thee such reward,
as we bestow!
“know, the great genius of this land
has many a light aerial band,
who, all beneath his highmand,
harmoniously,
as arts or arms they understand,
their labours ply.
“they scotia's race among them share:
some fire the soldier on to dare;
some rouse the patriot up to bare
corruption's heart:
some teach the bard—a darling care—
the tuneful art.
“'mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
they, ardent, kindling spirits pour;
or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,
they, sightless, stand,
to mend the honest patriot-lore,
and grace the hand.
“and when the bard, or hoary sage,