and he ends with the hope that if patronage could be abolished and the
lairds forced to give
While at the stook the shearers cow'r shock, reapers
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, driving
Or, in gulravage rinnin', scour; horseplay running
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My Musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douce black-bonnet, sedate
Is grown right eerie now she's done it, scared
Lest they should blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathém her. curse
I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple country bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me. Loose
But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience, elastic
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense. Worse than
There's Gau'n, misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest good as
Wha sae abus'd him:
An' may a bard no crack his jest
What way they've used him? On the fashion
See him the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellums, railers
An' not a Muse erect her head
To cowe the blellums? daunt, blusterers
O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts, give
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud
Their jugglin', hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But, twenty times, I rather would be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be,
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass;
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, false
He'll still disdain,
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what? To gie their malice skouth scope
On some puir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, against
To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion, maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,
Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain
To join wi' those
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes:
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite of undermining jobs.
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth an' merit,
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
O Ayr, my dear, my native ground!
Within thy presbyterial bound,
A candid lib'ral band is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown'd,
An' manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle you are nam'd,
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,
(Which gies you honour)—
Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
An' winning manner.
Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane
Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd ye. was yours
The period within which these satires were written was short—1785 and
1786; but some three years later, on the prosecution of a liberal
minister, Doctor McGill of Ayr, for the publication of A Practical
Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, which was charged with teaching
Unitarianism, Burns took up the theme again. The Kirk's Alarm is a
rattling “ballad,” full of energy and scurrilous wit, but, like many
of its kind, it has lost much of its interest through the great amount
of personal detail. A few stanzas will show that, even after his
absence from local politics during his Edinburgh sojourn, he had lost
none of his gusto in belaboring the Ayrshire Calvinists.
The poetical value of the satires is another matter. It may be
questioned whether satire is ever essentially poetry, as poetry has
been understood for the last hundred years. The dominant mood of
satire is too antagonistic to imagination. But if we restrict our
attention to the characteristic qualities of verse satire—vividness
in depicting its object, blazing indignation or bitter scorn in its
attitude, and wit in its expression, we shall be forced to grant that
Burns achieved here notable success. Of the rarer power of satire to
rise above the local, temporal, and personal to the exhibiting of
universal elements in human life, there are comparatively few
instances in Burns. The Address to the Unco Guid is perhaps the
finest example; and here, as usually in his work, the approach to the
general leads him to drop the scourge for the sermon.
In his tendency to preach, Burns was as much the inheritor of a
national tradition as in any of his other characteristics. A strain of
moralizing is well marked in the Scottish poets even before the
Reformation, and, since the time of Burns, the preaching Scot has been
notably exemplified not only in a professed prophet like Carlyle, but
in so artistic a temperament as Stevenson. Nor did consciousness of
his failures in practise embarrass Burns in the indulgence of the
luxury of precept. Side by side with frank confessions of weakness we
find earnest if not stern exhortations to do, not as he did, but as he
taught. And as Scots have an appetite for hearing as well as for
making sermons, his didactic pieces are among those most quoted and
relished by his countrymen. The morally elevated but poetically
inferior closing stanzas of The Cotter's Saturday Night are an
instance in point; others are the morals appended to To a Mouse and
To a Daisy, and to a number of his rhyming epistles.
These epistles are among the most significant of his writings for the
reader in search of personal revelations. The Epistle to James Smith
contains the much-quoted stanza on the poet's motives:
Nothing is more characteristic of the poet than this attitude toward
prudence—this mixture of Intellectual respect with emotional
contempt. He admits freely that restraint and calculation pay, but
impulse makes life so much more interesting!
The mood of this poem is Burns's middle mood, lying between the black
melancholy of his poems of despair and remorse and the exhilaration of
his more exalted bacchanalian and love songs—the mood, we may infer,
of his normal working life. We may again observe the correspondence
between the change of dialect and change of tone in stanzas nine and
ten, the increase of artificiality coming with his literary English
and culminating in the unspeakable “tenebrific scene.” His humor
returns with his Scots in the last verse.
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle, hang, fire
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin jingle. west-country
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug, In, chimney-corner
I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug; comfortable
I tent less, and want less value
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker
To see their cursèd pride.
It's hardly in a body's pow'r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whyles in want fellows, sometimes
While coofs on countless thousands rant dolts, roister
And ken na how to wair't: spend it
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, trouble
Tho' we hae little gear, wealth
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier: lusty
‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’ More ask not
Auld age ne'er mind a feg; fig
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, bones
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could mak us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba', ball
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma'; not small
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.
What tho' like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal'? Without
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please, then, hill-sides
We'll sit and sowth a tune hum
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, Then
And sing't when we hae done.
It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle, mair: much, more
It's no in books, it's no in lear, learning
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:
Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye
That makes us right or wrang.
Think ye, that sic as you and I, such
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, note
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how oft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming, and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet. And am
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;
They mak us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.
Tho' losses, and crosses,
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! note
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, cards
And flatt'ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
And joys the very best.
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me, kindles
And sets me a' on flame!
O all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still,
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.
O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin', rank and file, spanking
Amaist before I ken! Almost
The ready measure ring as fine
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin' owre my pen. staring over
My spavied Pegasus will limp,
spavined
Till ance he's fairly het; once, hot
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jump, hobble, limp, jump
An' rin an unco fit: surprising spurt
But lest then the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now wipe
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.
and as such it should be judged. The critics who have reacted most
violently against the attempted canonization of Burns have been
inclined to sneer at this admirable homily, and to insinuate
insincerity. But human nature affords every-day examples of just such
perfectly sincere inconsistency as we find between the sixth stanza
and Burns's own conduct; while not inconsistency but a very genuine
rhetoric inspires the characteristic quatrain which closes the
seventh.
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento; sort of
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, queer
And muckle they may grieve ye: much
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attainéd:
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strainéd.
I'll no say men are villains a';
The real harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked;
But och! mankind are unco weak, extremely
An' little to be trusted;
If Self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife.
Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer.
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him; poverty
A man may tak a neibor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff han', your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man pry
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, flame
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove, attempt, roving
Tho' naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order; hold
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause—
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
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.
When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, frolicking
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 noble anchor.
Adieu, dear amiable youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting.
In ploughman phrase, God send you speed
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede heed the advice
Than ever did th' adviser!
The general level of the rhyming letters of Burns is astonishingly
high. They bear, as such compositions should, the impression of free
spontaneity, and indeed often read like sheer improvisations. Yet they
are sprinkled with admirable stanzas of natural description, shrewd
criticism, delightful humor, and are pervaded by a delicate
tactfulness possible only to a man with a genius for friendship. They
are usually written in the favorite six-line stanza, the meter that
flowed most easily from his pen, and in language are the richest
vernacular. His ambition to be “literary” seldom brings in its jarring
notes here, and indeed at times he seems to avenge himself on this
besetting sin by a very individual jocoseness toward the mythological
figures that intrude into his more serious efforts. His Muse is the
special victim. Instead of the conventional draped figure she becomes
a “tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,” “saft at best an' something lazy;”
she is a “thowless jad;” or she is dethroned altogether:
The epigrams, epitaphs, elegies, and other occasional verses thrown
off by Burns and diligently collected by his editors need little
discussion. They not infrequently exhibit the less generous sides of
his character, and but seldom demand rereading on account of their
neatness or felicity or energy. One may be given as an example:
The “world of Scotch drink, Scotch manners, and Scotch religion” was
not, Matthew Arnold insisted, a beautiful world, and it was, he held,
a disadvantage to Burns that he had not a beautiful world to deal
with. This famous dictum is a standing challenge to any critic who
regards Burns as a creator of beauty. It is true that when Burns took
this world at its apparent worst, when Scotch drink meant bestial
drunkenness, when Scotch manners meant shameless indecency, when
Scotch religion meant blasphemous defiance, he created The Jolly
Beggars, which the same critic found a “splendid and puissant
production.” We must conclude, then, that sufficient genius can
sublimate even a hideously sordid world into a superb work of art,
which is presumably beautiful.
The truth of the picture is indubitable. The poet could, of course,
have chosen another phase of the same life. The cotter could have come
home rheumatic and found the children squalling and the wife cross.
The daughter might have been seduced, and the sons absent in the
ale-house. But what he does describe is just as typical, and it is
beautiful, though the manners and religion are Scottish.
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans
[5] dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, over, pastures
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, road
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the Cove,
[6] to stray an' rove
Amang the rocks and streams
To sport that night;
Amang the bonnie winding banks
Where Doon rins wimplin' clear, winding
Where Bruce
[7] ance ruled the martial ranks
once
An' shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry friendly country-folks
Together did convene
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, nuts, pull, stalks
An' haud their Halloween keep
Fu' blythe that night:
The lasses feat, an cleanly neat, trim
Mair braw than when they're fine; more handsome
Their faces blythe fu' sweetly kythe show
Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin': loyal, kind
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs love-knots
Weel knotted on their garten, garter
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs very shy, chatter
Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Make
Whyles fast at night. Sometimes
Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail,
Their stocks
[8] maun a' be sought ance:
must, once
They steek their een, an' grape an' wale shut, eyes, grope, choose
For muckle anes an' straught anes. big ones, straight
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, foolish, lost the way
An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, cabbage
An' pou'd, for want o' better shift, pulled, choice
A runt was like a sow-tail, stalk
Sae bow'd, that night. bent
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, earth
They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; pell-mell
The very wee things toddlin' rin—run
Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; over, shoulder
An' gif the custock's sweet or sour, if, pith
Wi' joctelegs they taste them; pocket-knives
Syne coziely, aboon the door, Then, above
Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them cautious
To lie that night.
The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' stole
To pou their stalks o' corn;
[9]
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, dodges
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard an' fast;
Loud skirled a' the lasses; squealed
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, almost
When kiutlin' i' the fause-house
[10] cuddling
Wi' him that night.
The auld guidwife's well-hoordit nits
[11] well-hoarded nuts
Are round an' round divided,
An' mony lads' an' lasses' fates
Are there that night decided:
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
comfortably
An' burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride,
An' jump out-owre the chimlie out of the chimney
Fu' high that night.
Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e; watchful
Wha 'twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an' this is me,
She says in to hersel: whispers
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, blazed
As they wad never mair part;
Till fuff! he started up the lum, chimney
An' Jean had e'en a sair heart
To see't that night.
Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, cabbage stump
Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, precise Molly
An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, huff
To be compar'd to Willie:
Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, leapt, start
An' her ain fit it brunt it; foot
While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, by Jove
'Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.
Nell had the fause-house in her min', mind
She pits hersel an' Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
Till white in ase they're sobbin: ashes
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view:
She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't:
Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou', by stealth, tasted, mouth
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, corner
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint their backs, Marian
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, leaves, gabbing, chat
An' slips out by hersel:
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, nearest way
An' to the kiln she goes then,
An' darklins grapit for the bauks, in the dark, groped, beams
And in the blue-clue
[12] throws then,
Right fear'd that night. frightened
An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat, wounded, sweated
I wat she made nae jaukin'; know, trifling
Till something held within the pat, kiln-pot
Guid Lord! but she was quaukin'!
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel,
Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', beam-end
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She did na wait on talkin
To spier that night. ask
Wee Jenny to her grannie says,
‘Will ye go wi' me, grannie?
I'll eat the apple
[13] at the glass,
I gat frae uncle Johnie:’
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, puffed, smoke
In wrath she was sae vap'rin,
She noticed na an aizle brunt cinder burnt
Her braw new worset apron worsted
Out-thro' that night.
‘Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! young hussy's
I daur you try sic sportin', dare
As seek the foul Thief ony place, Devil
For him to spae your fortune! tell
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
An' lived an' died deleerit, delirious
On sic a night.
‘Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,—One harvest, Sherriffmuir
I mind't as weel's yestreen, remember, last night
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure young girl
I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been cauld an' wat,
An' stuff was unco green; grain, extremely
An' aye a rantin' kirn we gat, rollicking harvest-home
An' just on Halloween
It fell that night.
‘Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, chief harvester
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, son, child
That liv'd in Achmacalla;
He gat hemp-seed,
[14] I mind it weel,
An' he made unco light o't: very
But mony a day was by himsel, beside himself
He was sae sairly frighted sorely
That vera night.’
Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, fighting
An' he swoor by his conscience
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; sow
For it was a' but nonsense: merely
The auld guidman raught down the pock, reached, bag
An' out a handfu' gied him; gave
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Then
Sometime when nae ane see'd him, saw
An' try't that night.
He marches thro' amang the stacks,
Tho' he was something sturtin'; staggering
The graip he for a harrow taks, dung-fork
An' haurls at his curpin: trails, back
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says,
‘Hemp-seed! I saw thee,
An' her that is to be my lass
Come after me an' draw thee
As fast this night.’
He whistled up Lord Lennox' march,
To keep his courage cheery;
Altho' his hair began to arch,
He was sae fley'd an' eerie: scared, awe-struck
Till presently he hears a squeak,
An' then a grane an' gruntle; groan
He by his shouther gae a keek, shoulder gave, peep
An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle summersault
Out-owre that night.
He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu' desperation!
An' young an' auld come rinnin' out,
An' hear the sad narration:
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, halting
Or crouchie Merran Humphie, hunchbacked Marian
Till stop! she trotted thro' them a';
An' wha was it but grumphie the sow
Asteer that night! Astir
Meg fain wad to the barn gane have gone
To winn three wechts o' naething;
[15]
But for to meet the Deil her lane, alone
She pat but little faith in: put
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
herd-boy, few
And twa red-cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets, sets out
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That very night.
She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, cautious twist
An' owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', call
Syne bauldly in she enters; Then
A ratton rattl'd up the wa', rat
An' she cried ‘Lord preserve her!’
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', dunghill pool
An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour
Fu' fast that night
They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; urged
They hecht him some fine braw ane; promised
It chanced the stack he faddom'd thrice
[16] measured with outstretched arms
Was timmer-propt for thrawin': against leaning over
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak gnarled
For some black gruesome carlin; beldam
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, uttered a curse
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' shreds, peeling
Aff's nieves that night. Off his fists
A wanton widow Leezie was,
As cantie as a kittlin; lively
But och! that night, amang the shaws, woods
She gat a fearfu' settlin'!
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, gorse, stone heap
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin'; careering
Where three laird's lands met at a burn,
[17]
To dip her left sark-sleeve in, shirt-
Was bent that night.
Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, Waterfall
As thro' the glen it wimpled; wound
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; ledge
Whyles in a wiel it dimpled; eddy
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, peeped
Below the spreading hazel,
Unseen that night.
Amang the brackens on the brae, ferns, hillside
Between her an' the moon,
The Deil, or else an outler quey, unhoused heifer
Gat up an' gae a croon: gave a low
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; almost leapt, sheath
Near lav'rock height she jumpit, lark high
But miss'd a fit, an' in the pool foot
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi' a plunge that night.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies
[18] three are ranged;
And every time great care is ta'en,
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys
Sin' Mar's year did desire, 1715 Rebellion
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, empty
He heav'd them on the fire
In wrath that night.
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary; wot
And unco tales, an' funny jokes,—strange
Their sports were cheap and cheery;
Till butter'd sow'ns,
[19] wi' fragrant lunt,
smoke
Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; tongues wagging
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, Then, liquor
They parted aff careerin'
Fu' blythe that night.
[The foot-notes to this poem are those supplied by Burns himself in
the Kilmarnock edition.]