When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, withered, earth
Or, wavering like the baukie bird, bat
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, glancing stroke
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest; hoar-frost
Ae night at e'en a merry core one, gang
O' randie, gangrel bodies rowdy, vagrant
In Poosie Nansie's held the splore, carousal
To drink their orra duddies. spare rags
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted an' they sang;
Wi' jumping an' thumping
The very girdle rang. cake-pan
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, next
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
An' knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm; mistress
Wi' usquebae an blankets warm
whisky She blinket on her sodger; leered
An' aye he gies the tozie drab flushed with drink
The tither skelpin' kiss, smacking
While she held up her greedy gab, mouth
Just like an aumous dish; alms
Ilk smack still did crack still
Just like a cadger's whip; hawker's
Then, swaggering an' staggering,
He roar'd this ditty up—
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come:
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum,
Lal de daudle, &c.
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abrám;
And I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb:
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I'd clatter on my stamps at the sound of a drum.
And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, trull
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home?
When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum.
He ended; and the kebars sheuk rafters shook
Aboon the chorus roar; Above
While frighted rattons backward leuk, rats, look
An' seek the benmost bore. inmost hole
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, nook
He skirled out Encore! shrieked
But up arose the martial chuck, darling
And laid the loud uproar.
I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de dal, &c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. soldier
But the godly old chaplain left him in a lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He risked the soul, and I ventur'd the body,—
then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair,
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair;
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy,
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv'd—I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup or a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!
Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk corner
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; tinker wench
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, took
Between themselves they were sae busy,
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy,
He stoitered up an' made a face; staggered
Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy,
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. Then
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, drunk
Sir Knave is a fool in a session; court
He's there but a 'prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk, book
And I held awa to the school; went off
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool? have
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie's the half o' my craft; wench
But what could ye other expect,
Of ane that's avowedly daft? crazy
I ance was tied up like a stirk, bullock
For civilly swearing and quaffing;
I ance was abused i' the kirk, rebuked
For touzling a lass i' my daffin. rumpling, fun
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi' a jeer;
There's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court,
A tumbler ca'd the Premier.
Observ'd ye yon reverend lad
Maks faces to tickle the mob?
He rails at our mountebank squad—
It's rivalship just i' the job!
And now my conclusion I'll tell,
For faith! I'm confoundedly dry;
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', fellow
Gude Lord! he's far dafter than I.
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, next, rough beldam
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling. steal, cash
For mony a pursie she had hookit,
An' had in mony a well been dookit; ducked
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the waefu' Woodie! woe betide, gallows
Wi' sighs and sobs, she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman:—
Air
Tune: O An' Ye Were Dead, Guidman
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn; Lowland
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman!
There's no a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, kilt
And gude claymore down by his side, two-handed sword
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
They banish'd him beyond the sea;
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
But och! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one!
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.
And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,
Wha used to trysts an' fairs to driddle, markets, toddle
Her strappin' limb an' gawsie middle buxom
(He reach'd nae higher)
Had holed his heartie like a riddle,
And blawn't on fire. blown it
Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e, hip
He crooned his gamut, one, two, three,
Then, in an Ario's key,
The wee Apollo
Set aff, wi' allegretto glee,
His gig solo.
Air
Tune: Whistle Owre the Lave O't
Let me tyke up to dight that tear, reach, wipe
And go wi' me an' be my dear,
And then your every care an' fear
May whistle owre the lave o't. rest
I am a fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was Whistle Owre the Lave o't.
At kirns and weddings we'se be there, harvest-homes, we shall
And oh! sae nicely's we will fare;
We'll house about, till Daddie Care
Sing Whistle Owre the Lave o't.
Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, pick
An' sun oursels about the dyke, wall
An' at our leisure, when ye like,
We'll—whistle owre the lave o't.
But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,
An' while I kittle hair on thairms, tickle, catgut
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, such
May whistle owre the lave o't.
Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, tinker
As well as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
An' draws a roosty rapier—rusty
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth,
To spit him like a pliver, plover
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended, hams
An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
An' sae the quarrel ended.
But tho' his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, snigger
When thus the caird address'd her:—
Air
Tune: Clout the Cauldron
My bonnie lass, I work in brass,
A tinkler is my station;
I've travell'd round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I march'd
To go an' clout the cauldron. patch
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
Wi' a' his noise an' caperin';
An' tak a share wi' those that bear
The budget and the apron; tool-bag
And, by that stoup, my faith an' houp! hope
And by that dear Kilbaigie, a kind of whisky
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, dearth
May I ne'er weet my craigie. wet, throat
The caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, so sorely
An' partly she was drunk.
That show'd a man o' spunk, spirit
Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft urchin
That play'd a dame a shavie; trick
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.hencoop
Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,
Tho' limpin' wi' the spavie, spavin
He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft, hobbled, leapt
And shor'd them Dainty Davie yielded them as lovers
O' boot that night. gratis
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed; enlisted
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever miss'd it.
He had nae wish, but—to be glad,
Nor want but—when he thirsted;
He hated nought but—to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested
His sang that night.
Air
Tune: For A' That, An' A' That
I am a bard of no regard
Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, staring crowd
Frae town to town I draw that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
And twice as muckle's a' that; much
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',
I've wife eneugh for a' that.
I never drank the Muses' stank, pond
Castalia's burn, an' a' that;
But there it streams, an' richly reams! foams
My Helicon I ca' that.
Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave, an' a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that. thwart
In raptures sweet this hour we meet
Wi' mutual love, an' a' that;
But for how lang the flee may stang, fly, sting
Let inclination law that. regulate
Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, crazy
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, an' Here's the sex!
I like the jads for a' that. jades
For a' that, and a' that,
And twice as muckle's a' that,
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till't, for a' that. to it
So sung the bard—and Nansie's wa's walls
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo'd from each mouth;
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds. emptied, pokes, rags
They scarcely left to co'er their fads, cover, tails
To quench their lowin' drouth. flaming
Then owre again the jovial thrang over, crowd
The poet did request
To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang, untie, choose
A ballad o' the best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an' found them
Impatient for the chorus.
Air
Tune: Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses
See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring;
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing:
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where!
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay. mistresses
Does the train-attended carriage
Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train!
Here's our ragged brats and callets! wenches
One and all cry out Amen!
The materials for rebuilding Burns's world are not confined to his
explicitly descriptive poems. Much can be gathered from the songs and
satires, and there are important contributions in his too scanty
essays in narrative. Of these last by far the most valuable is Tam o'
Shanter. The poem originated accidentally in the request of a certain
Captain Grose for local legends to enrich a descriptive work which he
was compiling. In Burns's correspondence will be found a prose
account of the tradition on which the poem is founded, and he is
supposed to have derived hints for the relations of Tam and his spouse
from a couple he knew at Kirkoswald.
It was a happy inspiration that led him to turn the story into verse,
for it revealed a capacity which otherwise we could hardly have
guessed him to possess. The vigor and rapidity of the action, the
vivid sketching of the background, the pregnant characterization, the
drollery of the humor give this piece a high place among stories in
verse, and lead us to conjecture that, had he followed this vein
instead of devoting his later years to the service of Johnson and
Thomson, he might have won a place beside the author of the
Canterbury Tales. He lacked, to be sure, Chaucer's breadth of
experience and richness of culture: being far less a man of the world
he would never have attained the air of breeding that distinguishes
the English poet: but with most of the essential qualities that charm
us in Chaucer's stories he was well equipped. He had the observant
eye, the power of selection, command of the telling phrase and happy
epithet, the sense of the comic and the pathetic. Beyond Chaucer he
had passion and the power of rendering it, so that he might have
reached greater tragic depth, as he surpassed him in lyric intensity.
The value of the reflective element is more mixed. The most quoted
passage, that beginning
can only be regretted. With its literacy similes, its English, its
artificial diction, it is a patch of cheap silk upon honest homespun.
But the other pieces of interspersed comment are all admirable. The
ironic apostrophes—to Tam for neglecting his wife's warnings; to
shrewish wives, consoling them for their husband's deafness to advice;
to John Barleycorn, on the transient courage he inspires; to Tam
again, when tragedy seems imminent—are all in perfect tone, and do
much to add the element of drollery that mixes so delightfully with
the weirdness of the scene. And like the other elements in the poem
they are commendably short, for Burns nearly always fulfills
Bagehot's requirement that poetry should be “memorable and emphatic,
intense, and soon over.”
When chapman billies leave the street, pedlar fellows
And drouthy neibors neibors meet, thirsty
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate; road
While we sit bousing at the nappy, ale
An' getting fou and unco happy, full, mighty
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, bogs, gaps
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, found
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter—one
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonnie lasses).
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, told, good-for-nothing
A bletherin', blusterin', drunken blellum; chattering, babbler
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober; One
That ilka melder wi' the miller every meal-grinding
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; money
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, nag
The smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk wizards, dark
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet makes, weep
To think how many counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right, uncommonly
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, fireside, blazing
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; foaming ale
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, Cobbler
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; loved
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious;
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;
The storm without might rair and rustle, roar
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, loads
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread—
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river—
A moment white, then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time nor tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour, he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in; such
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, spanked, puddle
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; song
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, staring
Lest bogles catch him unawares, goblins
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. ghosts, owls
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; smothered
And past the birks and meikle stane, birches, big
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, gorse, pile of stones
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; found
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel,
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; blaze
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; chink
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn?
Wi tippenny, we fear nae evil; ale
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil! whisky
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, ale
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle! farthing
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! strange
Warlocks and witches in a dance!
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, brand
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east, window-seat
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast—
A touzie tyke, black, grim, and large! shaggy dog
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. squeal
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. ring
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight magic trick
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table holy
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns; -irons
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief new-cutted frae the rape—
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft—
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, linked
Till ilka, carlin swat and reekit, beldam, steamed
And coost her duddies to the wark, cast, rags, work
And linkit at it in her sark! tripped deftly, chemise
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, those, girls
A' plump and strapping in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, greasy flannel
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
[21]Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, These trousers
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, buttocks
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! maidens
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Withered (?), wean
Louping and flinging on a crummock, Leaping, cudgel
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie: full well
There was ae winsome wench and walie choice
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after kent on Carrick shore!
(For mony a beast to dead she shot, death
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, barley
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, short-shift, coarse linen
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie. proud
Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie bought
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches) pounds
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my muse her wing maun cour; stoop
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r—
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, leapt, kicked
(A souple jade she was, and strang);
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, fidgeted with fondness
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: jerked
Till first ae caper, syne anither, then
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, lost
And roars out ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’ Short-shift
And in an instant all was dark!
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke fret
When plundering herds assail their byke, herd-boys, nest
As open pussie's mortal foes the hare's
When pop! she starts before their nose,
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs; the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. weird screech
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
[22]In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake! devil
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; endeavor
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale, whole
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carlin caught her by the rump, clutched
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
Description in Burns is not confined to man and society: he has much
to say of nature, animate and inanimate.
Though within a few miles of the ocean, the scenery among which the
poet grew up was inland scenery. He lived more than once by the sea
for short periods, yet it appears but little in his verse, and then
usually as the great severing element.
is the characteristic line. Scottish poetry had no tradition of the
sea. To England the sea had been the great boundary and defense
against the continental powers, and her naval achievements had long
produced a patriotic sentiment with regard to it which is reflected in
her literature. But Scotland's frontier had been the line of the
Cheviots and the Tweed, and save for a brief space under James IV she
had never been a sea-power. Thus the cruelty and danger of the sea are
almost the only phases prominent in her poetry, and Burns here once
more follows tradition.
Again, the scenery of Ayrshire was Lowland scenery, with pastoral
hills and valleys. On his Highland tours Burns saw and admired
mountains, but they too appear little in his verse. Though not an
unimportant figure in the development of natural description in
literature, he had not reached the modern deliberateness in the
seeking out of nature's beauties for worship or imitation, so that the
phases of natural beauty which we find in his poetry are merely those
which had unconsciously become fixed in a memory naturally retentive
of visual images.
