{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3148", "width": "2085", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "Rook \u00c2\u00b0i no\\ncopoaam OEPosm", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0009.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0010.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "THE\\nCOMPLETE POETICAL WORKS\\nROBERT BURNS\\nWITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, NOTES\\nAND GLOSSARY\\nThe simple Bard, unbroke by rules of Art,\\nHe pours the wild effusions of the heart; I\\nAnd if inspir d, t is Nature s pow rs inspire, i\\nHers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire.\\nOft title-page of Kilmarnock Edition, lySb.\\nNEW YORK\\nTHOMAS Y. CROWELL CO.\\nPUBLISHERS\\n1 ^0]", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0011.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "SEP 141900\\nS\u00c2\u00a3r.\u00c2\u00ab\u00c2\u00bb* r COPY.\\nOKOti^ DIVISION.\\nSEP 21 1900\\n80053\\nCopyright, 1900,\\nBy THOMAS Y. CROWELL CO.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0012.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS\\nt l*ic\\nPage\\nBiographical Sketch xi\\nPublished at Kilmarnock, 1786:\\nThe Twa Dogs i\\nScotch Drink 4\\nThe Author s Earnest Cry and\\nPrayer 7\\nThe Holy Fair 10\\nAddress to the Deil 13\\nThe Death and Dying Words of\\nPoor MaiHe 15\\nPoor Mailie s Elegy 16\\nEpistle to James Smith 17\\nA Dream 20\\nThe Vision 22\\nHalloween 28\\nThe Auld Farmer s New Year\\nMorning Salutation to his Auld\\nMare, Maggie 31\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night 33\\nTo a Mouse 37\\nEpistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 38\\nThe Lament 40\\nDespondency 42\\nMan was made to Mourn 43\\nWinter 44\\nA Prayer in the Prospect of Death 45\\nTo a Mountain Daisy 45\\nTo Ruin 46\\nEpistle to a Young Friend 47\\nOn a Scotch Bard 48\\nA Dedication to Gavin Hamilton,\\nEsq 49\\nTo a Louse 51\\nEpistle to J. Lapraik 52\\nSecond Epistle to J. Lapraik 54\\nTo William Simpson of Ochiltree, 56\\nEpistle to John Rankine 59\\nSong: Tune, Corn Rigs 60\\nConfposed in August 61\\nFrom thee Eliza 62\\nPage\\nThe Farewell 62\\nEpitaph on a Henpecked Squire 63\\nEpigram on Said Occasion 63\\nAnother 63\\nEpitaph: On a Celebrated Ruling\\nElder 63\\nOn a Noisy Polemic 63\\nOn Wee Johnie 63\\nFor the Author s Father, 64\\nFor Robert Aiken,\\nEsq 64\\nFor Gavin Hamilton,\\nEsq 64\\nA Bard s 64\\nAdded in 1787:\\nDeath and Doctor Hornbook 65\\nThe Brigs of Ayr 68\\nThe Ordination 73\\nThe Calf 75\\nAddress to the Unco Guid 75\\nTarn Samson s Elegy 76\\nA Winter Night 78\\nStanzas in Prospect of Death 80\\nPrayer O thou Dread Power 80\\nParaphrase of the First Psalm .81\\nPrayer under the Pressure of\\nViolent Anguish 81\\nNinetieth Psalm Versified 82\\nTo Miss Logan 82\\nAddress to a Haggis 83\\nAddress to Edinburgh 83\\nSong John Barleycorn 85\\nA Fragment: When Guil-\\nford Good 86\\nMy Nanie, O 87\\nGreen grow the Rashes, O, 88\\nComposed in Spring 88\\nThe Gloomy Night is\\ngathering fast 89\\nNo Churchman am I 89", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0013.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\nAODEI) IN 1793:\\nWritten in Friars Carse Hermi-\\ntage 91\\nOde sacred to the Memory of\\nMrs. Oswald 91\\nElegy on Captain Matthew Hen-\\nderson 92\\nLament of Mary Queen of Scots 94\\nTo Robert Graham of Fintry, Esq. 95\\nLament for James, Earl of Glen-\\ncairn 97\\nLines to Sir John Whitefoord,\\nBart 98\\nTarn O Shanter 99\\nOn seeing a Wounded Hare 102\\nAddress to the Shade of Thomson, 103\\nOn the Late Captain Grose s Pere-\\ngrinations thro Scotland 103\\nTo Miss Cruickshank 104\\nSong: Anna 105\\nOn the Death of John M Leod,\\nEsq 105\\nThe Humble Petition of Bruar\\nWater 105\\nOn scaring Some Water-fowl in\\nLoch Turit 107\\nVerses written with a Pencil at\\nTaymouth 107\\nLines on the Fall of Fyers 108\\nOn the Birth of a Posthumous\\nChild 108\\nThe Whistle 109\\nThe Jolly Beggars: a Cantata iii\\nSatires and Verses\\nThe Twa Herds: or, the Holy\\nTulyie 117\\nHoly Willie s Prayer 119\\nThe Kirk s Alarm 120\\nA Poet s Welcome to his Love-\\nbegotten Daughter 123\\nThe Inventory 124\\nA Mauchline Wedding 125\\nAdam Armour s Prayer 126\\nThe Court of Equity 126\\nNature s Law 128\\nLines on meeting with Lord Daer, 129\\nAddress to the Toothache 129\\nLament for the Absence of Will-\\niam Creech 130\\nVerses in Friars Carse Hermitage, 131\\nPage\\nElegy on tlie Departed Year 1788, 132\\nCasile Gordon 132\\nOn the Duchess of Gordon s Reel\\nDancing 133\\nOn Captain Grose 133\\nNew Year s Day, 1791 134\\nFrom Esopus to Maria 135\\nNotes and Epistles\\nTo John Rankine 136\\nTo John Goldie 137\\nTo J. Lapraik Third Epistle 138\\nTo the Rev. John M Math 139\\nTo Davie Second Epistle 140\\nTo John Kennedy 141\\nTo Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 142\\nTo Mr. M Adam of Craigen-\\nGillan 142\\nReply to an Invitation 143\\nTo Dr. Mackenzie 143\\nTo John Kennedy a Farewell 143\\nTo Willie Chalmers Sweetheart 144\\nTo an Old Sweetheart 144\\nExtempore to Gavin Hamilton 145\\nReply to a Trimming Epistle from\\na Tailor 146\\nTo Major Logan 147\\nTo the Guidwife of Wauchope\\nHouse 148\\nTo Wm. Tytler, Esq., of Wood-\\nhouselee 149\\nTo Mr. Renton of Lamerton 150\\nTo Miss Isabella Macleod 150\\nTo Symon Gray 151\\nTo Miss Ferrier 151\\nSylvander to Clarinda 152\\nTo Clarinda with a Pair of Wine-\\nGlasses 152\\nTo Hugh Parker 153\\nTo Alex. Cunningham 153\\nTo Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, 154\\nImpromptu to Captain Riddell 156\\nReply to a Note from Captain\\nRiddell 156\\nTo JamesTennant of Glenconner, 156\\nTo John M Murdo 157\\nSonnet to Robert Graham, Esq.,\\nof Fintry 158\\nTo Dr. Blacklock 158\\nTo a Gentleman who l^ad sent a\\nNewspaper 159", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0014.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\nTo Peter Stuart i6o\\nTo John Maxwell, Esq., of Ter-\\nrauglitie i6o\\nTo William Stewart i6i\\nInscription to Miss Graham of\\nFintry i6i\\nRemorseful Apology i6i\\nTo Collector Mitchell i6i\\nTo Colonel De Peyster 162\\nTo Miss Jessie Lewars 163\\nInscription to Chloris 163\\nTheatrical Pieces\\nPrologue spoken by Mr. Woods, 164\\nPrologue spoken at the Theatre\\nof Dumfries 165\\nScots Prologue for Mrs. Suther-\\nland 166\\nThe Rights of Woman 167\\nAddress spoken by Miss Fonte-\\nnelle 168\\nPolitical Pieces\\nAddress of Beelzebub 169\\nBirthday Ode for 31st December,\\n1787 170\\nOde to the Departed Regency Bill, 171\\nA New Psalm for the Chapel of\\nKilmarnock 172\\nInscribed to the Right Hon. C. J.\\nFox 173\\nOn Glenriddell s Fox breaking\\nhis Chain 174\\nOn the Commemoration of Rod-\\nney s Victory 175\\nOde for General Washington s\\nBirthday 175\\nThe F\u00c2\u00a7te Champetre 177\\nThe Five Carlins 178\\nElection Ballad for Westerha 179\\nTurn-coat Whigs awa, Man 180\\nElection Ballad addressed to Rob-\\nert Graham, Esq., of Fintry 180\\nBallads on Mr. Heron s Election,\\n1795:\\nBallad First 183\\nBallad Second the Election 184\\nBallad Third John Bushby s\\nLamentation 185\\nBallad Fourth the Trogger 186\\nThe Dean of the Faculty 187\\nAfiscellanies\\nThe Tarbolton Lasses\\nThe Ronalds of the Bennals\\nI ll go and be a Sodger\\nApostrophe to Fergusson\\nThe Belles of Mauchline\\nAh, Woe is me, my Mother Dear\\nInscribed on a Work of Hannah\\nMore s\\nLines written on a Bank Note\\nThe Farewell\\nElegy on the Death of Robert\\nRuisseaux\\nVerses intended to be written be-\\nlow a Noble Earl s Picture\\nElegy on the Death of Sir James\\nHunter Blair\\nOn the Death of Lord President\\nDundas\\nElegy on Willie Nicol s Mare\\nLines on Fergusson\\nEiegy on the late Miss Burnet of\\nMonboddo\\nPegasus at Wanlockhead\\nOn Some Commemorations of\\nThomson\\nOn General Dumourier s Deser-\\ntion\\nOn John M Murdo\\nOn hearing a Thrush sing in a\\nMorning Walk in January\\nImpromptu on Mrs. Riddell s\\nBirthday\\nSonnet on the Death of Robert\\nRiddellof Glenriddell\\nA Sonnet upon Sonnets\\nGrizzel Grimme\\nPage\\n188\\n189\\n190\\n190\\n190\\n191\\n191\\n191\\n192\\n192\\n192\\n193\\n194\\n19s\\n19s\\n196\\n196\\n197\\n197\\n198\\n198\\n199\\n199\\n199\\nFragments\\nTragic Fragment 201\\nRemorse 201\\nRusticity s Ungainly Form 202\\nOn William Creech 202\\nOn William Smellie 202\\nSketch for an Elegy 202\\nPassion s Cry 203\\nIn vain would Prudence 204\\nThe Cares o Love 204\\nEpigrams\\nExtempore in the Court of Session,\\n204", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0015.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPace\\nAt Roslin Inn 204\\nTo an Artist 205\\nThe Book-worms 205\\nOn Elphinstone s Translation of\\nMartial 205\\nOn Johnson s Opinion of Hamp-\\nden 205\\nUnder the Portrait of Miss Burns 205\\nOn Miss Ainslie in Church 205\\nAt Inveraray 205\\nAt Carron Ironworks 206\\nOn seeing the Royal Palace at\\nStirling in Ruins 206\\nAdditional Lines at Stirling 206\\nReply to the Threat of a Censori-\\nous Critic 206\\nA Highland Welcome 206\\nAt Whigham s Inn, Sanquhar. 207\\nVersicles on Sign-posts 207\\nOn Miss Jean Scott 207\\nOn Captain Francis Grose 207\\nOn being appointed to an Excise\\nDivision 207\\nOn Miss Davies 208\\nOn a Beautiful Country Seat 208\\nThe Tyrant Wife 208\\nAt Brownhill Inn 208\\nThe Toadeater 208\\nIn Lamington Kirk 208\\nThe Keekin Glass 209\\nAt the Globe Tavern, Dumfries 209\\nYe True Loyal Natives 209\\nOn Commissary Goldie s Brains 209\\nIn a I^ady s Pocket-book 210\\nAgainst the Earl of Galloway 210\\nOn the Same 210\\nOn the Same 210\\nOn the Same, on the Author being\\nthreatened with Vengeance 210\\nOn the Laird of Laggan 210\\nOn Maria Riddell 210\\nOn Miss Fontenelle 210\\nKirk and State Excisemen 211\\nOn Thanksgiving for a National\\nVictory 211\\nPinned to Mrs. Walter Riddell s\\nCarriage 211\\nTo Dr. Maxwell 211\\nTo the Beautiful Miss Eliza\\nJ n 211\\nOn Chloris 211\\nPage\\nTo the Hon. Wm. R. Maule of\\nPanmure 212\\nOn seeing Mrs. Kemble in Yarico, 212\\nOn Dr. Babington s Looks 212\\nOn Andrew Turner 212\\nThe Solemn League and Cove-\\nnant 212\\nTo John Syme of Ryedale 212\\nOn a Goblet 212\\nApology to John Syme 213\\nOn Mr. James Gracie 213\\nAt Friars Carse Hermitage 213\\nFor an Altar of Independence 213\\nVersicles to Jessie Lewars 213\\nOn Marriage 214\\nGraces\\nA Poet s Grace 214\\nAt the Globe Tavern 214\\nEpitaphs\\nOn James Grieve, Laird of Bog-\\nhead, Tarbolton 215\\nOn Wm. Muir in Tarbolton Mill 215\\nOn John Rankine 215\\nOn Tarn the Chapman 215\\nOn Holy Willie 215\\nOn John Dove 216\\nOn a Wag in Mauchline 216\\nOn Robert Fergusson 216\\nAdditional Stanzas on Fergusson, 216\\nFor William Nicol 217\\nFor Mr. William Michie 217\\nFor William Cruickshank, A.M. 217\\nOn Robert Muir 217\\nOn a Lap-dog 217\\nMonody on a Lady famed for\\nher Caprice 217\\nFor Mr. Walter Riddell 218\\nOn a Noted Coxcomb 218\\nOn Capt. I^ascelles 218\\nOn a Galloway Laird 219\\nOn Wm. Graham of Mossknowe, 219\\nOn John Bushby of Tinwald\\nDowns 219\\nOn a Suicide 219\\nOn a Swearing Coxcomb 219\\nOn an Innkeeper nicknamed The\\nMarquis 219\\nOn Grizzel Grimme 219\\nFor Gabriel Richardson 220\\nOn the Author 220", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0016.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\nSongs from Johnson s Musical\\nMuseum and Thomson s Scot-\\ntish Airs\\nYoung Peggy 221\\nBonie Dundee 221\\nTo the Weaver s gin ye Go 222\\nWhistle an I 11 come to ye, my Lad 222\\nI m o er Young to marry yet 223\\nThe Birks of Aberfeldie 223\\nM Pherson s Farewell 224\\nMy Highland Lassie, O 224\\nTho Cruel Fate 225\\nStay my Charmer 225\\nStrathallan s Lament 225\\nMy Hoggie 226\\nJumpin John 226\\nUp in the Morning Early 226\\nThe Young Highland Rover 227\\nThe Dusty Miller 227\\nI dream d I Lay 227\\nDuncan Davison 228\\nTheniel Menzies Bonie Mary 228\\nLady Onlie, Honest Lucky 228\\nThe Banks of the Devon 229\\nDuncan Gray (first set) 229\\nThe Ploughman 230\\nLandlady, Count the Lawin 230\\nRaving Winds aroimd her Blowing 230\\nHow Lang and Dreary is the Night 231\\nMusing on the Roaring Ocean 231\\nBlythe was she 231\\nTo daunton me 232\\nO er the Water to Charlie 232\\nA Rose-bud, by my Early Walk 233\\nAnd I 11 kiss thee yet 233\\nRattlin, Roarin Willie 234\\nWhere, braving Angry Winter s\\nStorms 234\\nTibbie, I hae seen the Day 234\\nClarinda, Mistress of my Soul 235\\nThe Winter it is Past 235\\n1 love my Love in Secret 236\\nSweet Tibbie Dunbar 236\\nHighland Harry 237\\nThe Tailor fell thro the Bed 237\\nAy Waukin O 238\\nBeware o Bonie Ann 238\\nLaddie, lie near me 238\\nThe Gard ner wi his Paidle 239\\nOn a Bank of Flowers 239\\nTho Day Returns 239\\nPage\\nMy Love, she s but a Lassie yet 240\\nJamie, come try me 240\\nThe Silver Tassie 241\\nThe Lazy Mist 241\\nThe Captain s Lady 241\\nOf a the Airts 242\\nCarl, an the King Come 242\\nWhistle o er the Lave o t 242\\nO, were I on Parnassus Hill 243\\nThe Captive Ribband 243\\nThere s a Youth in this City 243\\nMy Heart s in the Highlands 244\\nJohn Anderson my Jo 244\\nAwa, Whigs, awa 245\\nCa the Yowes to the Knowes (first\\nset) 245\\nO, Merry hae I Been 246\\nA Mother s Lament 246\\nThe White Cockade 246\\nThe Braes o Ballochmyle 247\\nThe Rantin Dog, the Daddie o t 247\\nThou Ling ring Star 247\\nEppie Adair 248\\nThe Battle of Sherramuir 248\\nYoung Jockie was the Blythest Lad 249\\nA Waukrife Minnie 250\\nTho Women s Minds 250\\nWillie brew d a Peck o Maut 251\\nKilliecrankie 251\\nThe Blue-eyed Lassie 252\\nThe Banks of Nith 252\\nTam Glen 252\\nCraigieburn Wood 253\\nFrae the Friends and Land I Love 253\\nJohn, come kiss me now 254\\nCock up your Beaver 254\\nMy Tocher s the Jewel 254\\nGuidwife, Count the Lawin 255\\nThere 11 never be Peace till Jamie\\ncomes Hame 2^5\\nWhat can a Young Lassie 256\\nThe Bonie Lad that s far awa 256\\n1 do confess thou art sae Fair 257\\nSensibility how Charming 257\\nYon Wild Mossy Mountains 257\\nI hae been at Crookieden 258\\nIt is na, Jean, thy Bonie Face 258\\nMy Eppie MacNab 259\\nWha is that at my Bower Door 259\\nBonie Wee Thing 259\\nThe Tither Morn 260", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0017.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\nAe Fond Kiss 260\\nLovely Davies 261\\nThe Weary Pund o Tow 261\\nI hae a Wife o my ain 262\\nWhen she cam ben, she bobbed 262\\nO, for Ane-and-twenty, Tarn 262\\nO, Kenmure s on and awa, Willie 263\\nO, leeze me on my Spinnin-wheel 263\\nMy Collier Laddie 264\\nNithsdale s Welcome Hame 264\\nIn Simmer when the Hay was Mawn 265\\nFair Eliza 265\\nYe Jacobites by Name 266\\nThe Posie 266\\nTiie Banks o Doon 267\\nWillie Wastle 267\\nLady Mary Ann 268\\nSuch a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation 269\\nKellyburn Braes 269\\nThe Slave s Lament 271\\nThe Song of Death 271\\n.Sweet Afton 271\\nBonie Bell 272\\nThe Gallant Weaver 272\\nHey, ca thro 273\\nO, can ye labour lea 273\\nThe Deuk s dang o er my Daddie 274\\nShe s Fair and Fause 274\\nThe Deil s awa wi th Exciseman 274\\nThe Lovely Lass of Inverness 275\\nA Red, Red Rose 275\\nAs I stood by Yon Roofless Tower 275\\nO, an ye were dead, Guidman 276\\nAuld Lang Syne 277\\nLouis, what reck I by thee 277\\nHad I the Wyte 277\\nComin thro the Rye 278\\nYoung Jamie 278\\nOut over the Forth 279\\nWantonness for evermair 279\\nCharlie he s my Darling 279\\nThe Lass o Ecclefechan 280\\nThe Cooper o Cuddy 280\\nl or the Sake o Somebody 2S0\\nTheCardino t 281\\nThere s Three True Guid Fellows 281\\nSae Flaxen were her Ringlets 281\\nThe Lass that made the Bed. 282\\nSae far awa 283\\nThe Reel o Stumpie 283\\nI II ay ca in by Yon Town 283\\nPage\\nO, wat ye wha s in Yon Town 284\\nWherefore Sighing art thou, Phil-\\n!is? 285\\nO May, thy Morn 285\\nAs I came o er the Cairney Mount 285\\nHighland Laddie 285\\nWilt thou be my Dearie 286\\nLovely Polly Stewart 286\\nThe Highland Balou 287\\nBannocks o Bear Meal 287\\nWae is my Heart 287\\nHere s bis Health in Water 288\\nThe Winter of Life 288\\nThe Tailor 288\\nThere grows a Bonie Brier-bush 288\\nHere s to thy Health 289\\nIt was a for our Rightfu King 289\\nThe Highland Widow s Lament 290\\nThou Gloomy December 291\\nMy Peggy s Face, my Peggy s Form 291\\nO, steer her up, an haud her\\nGaun 291\\nWee Willie Gray 292\\nWe re a Noddin 292\\nO, ay my Wife she dang Me 293\\nScroggam 293\\nO, Guid Ale Comes 293\\nRobin Shure in Hairst 294\\nDoes Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat 294\\nO, once I lov d a Bonie Lass 295\\nMy Lord a-hunting 295\\nSweetest May 296\\nMeg o the Mill 296\\nJockie s ta en the Parting Kiss 296\\nO, lay thy Loof in mine. Lass 297\\nCauld is the E ening Blast 297\\nThere was a Bonie Lass 297\\nThere s News, Lasses, News 298\\nO, that I had ne er been Married 298\\nMully s Meek, Mally s Sweet 298\\nWanilering Willie 299\\nBraw Lads o Galla Water 299\\nAuld Rob Morris 300\\nOpen the Door to me, O 300\\nWhen Wild War s Deadly Blast 301\\nDuncan Gray (second set) 302\\nDeluded Swain, the Pleasure 302\\nHere is the Glen 303\\nLet not Women e er Complain. 303\\nLord Gregory 303\\nO Poortith Cauld 304", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0018.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\nO, stay, Sweet Warbling Wood-lark 304\\nSaw ye Bonie Lesley 305\\nSweet fa s the Eve 305\\nYoung Jessie 305\\nAdown Winding Nith 306\\nA Lass wi a Tocher 307\\nBlythe hae I been on Yon Hill 307\\nBy Allan Stream 307\\nCanst thou leave me 308\\nCome, let me take thee 308\\nContented wi Little 308\\nFarewell, thou Stream 309\\nHad I a Cave 309\\nHere s a Health 310\\nHow Cruel are the Parents 310\\nHusband, Husband, cease your\\nStrife 311\\nIt was the Charming Month 311\\nLast May a Braw Wooer 312\\nMy Nanie s awa 313\\nNow Rosy May 313\\nNow Spring has Clad 314\\nO, this is no my Ain Lassie 314\\nO, watye wha that lo es me 315\\nScots, Wha hae 315\\nTheir Groves o Sweet Myrtle 316\\nThine am I 316\\nThou hast Jeft me ever, Jamie 317\\nHighland Mary 317\\nMy Chloris, Mark 318\\nFairest Maid on Devon Banks 318\\nLassie wi the Lint-white Locks 319\\nLong, Long the Night 319\\nLogan Water 320\\nYon Rosy Brier 320\\nWhere are the Joys 320\\nBehold the Hour 321\\nForlorn my Love 321\\nCa the Yowes to the Knowes (second\\nset) 322\\nHow can my Poor Heart 322\\nIs there for Honest Poverty 323\\nMark Yonder Pomp 324\\nO let me in this Ae Night 324\\nO Philly, Happy be that Day 325\\nO, were my Love 32S\\nSleep st thou 326\\nThere was a Lass 327\\nThe Lea-rig 328\\nMy Wife s a Winsome Wee Thing 328\\nMary Morison 329\\nPage\\nMiscelhmeous Soigs\\nA Ruined Farmer 329\\nMontgomerie s Peggy 330\\nThe Lass of Cessnock Banks 330\\nTho Fickle Fortune 332\\nRaging Fortune 332\\nMy Father was a Farmer 332\\nO, Leave Novels 333\\nThe Mauchline Lady 334\\nOne Night as I did Wander 334\\nThere was a Lad 334\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 335\\nHer Flowing Locks 335\\nThe I-ass o Ballochmyle 335\\nThe Night was Still 336\\nMasonic Song 336\\nThe Bonie Moor-hen 337\\nHere s a Bottle 337\\nThe Bonie Lass of Albania 338\\nAmang the Trees 338\\nThe Chevalier s Lament 338\\nYestreen I had a Pint o Wine 339\\nSweet are the Banks 340\\nYe Flowery Banks 340\\nCaledonia 341\\nYou re Welcome, Willie Stewart 342\\nWhen First I Saw 342\\nBehold the Hour (first set) 343\\nHere s a Health to them that s\\nawa 343\\nAh, Chloris 344\\nPretty Peg 344\\nMeg o the Mill (second set) 344\\nPhillis the Fair 345\\nO saw ye my Dear, my Philly 345\\nTwas na her Bonie Blue E e 346\\nWhy, why tell thy Lover 346\\nThe Primrose 346\\nO, wert thou in the Cauld Blast 346\\nInterpolations\\nYour Friendship 347\\nFor thee is Laughing Nature 347\\nNo Cold Approach 347\\nAltho he has left me 347\\nLet Loove Sparkle 347\\nAs down the Burn 348\\nIiiiprobables\\nOn Rough Roads 348\\nElegy on Stella 348", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0019.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS.\\nPage\\niPoem on Pastoral Poetry 350\\nOn the Destruction of Drumlan-\\nrig Woods 351\\nThe Joyful Widower 351\\nWhy should we idly waste our\\nPrime 352\\nThe Tree of Liberty 352\\nTo a Kiss 354\\nDelia (an ode) 354\\nTo the Owl 354\\nThe Vowels (a tale) 355\\nOn the Illness of a Favourite\\nChild 356\\nOn the Death of a Favourite\\nChild 356\\nPoems of Doubtful Authen-\\nticity\\nA Tippling Ballad 357\\nThe Wren s Nest 358\\nMy Girl she s Airy 358\\nThe Ploughman s Life 358\\nSound be his Sleep 358\\nWhen Pleasure Fascinates 358\\nOn Thomas Kirkpatrick, Late\\nBlacksmith in Stoop 359\\nSick of the World 359\\nThe Philosopher s Stone 359\\nNow, God in Heaven 359\\nLeezie Lindsay 359\\nIt may do maun do. 359\\nDear Sir, our Lucky humbly Begs, 359\\nI look to the West 360\\nAh, Chloris I 360\\nKist Yestreen, Kist Yestreen 360\\nCome fill me a Bumper 360\\nExtempore Lines 360\\nThanksgiving for a National Vic-\\ntory 360\\nPoems rejected by Latest Edi-\\ntors OF Burns:\\nThe Hermit of Aberfeldy 361\\nPastoral Verses to Clarinda 362\\nThe Ruined Maid s Lament 362\\nPage\\nThe Banks of Nith 363\\nHappy Friendship 363\\nCome rede me, Dame 364\\nVerses written under Violent Grief 364\\nAs I was a-wandering 365\\nCould aught of Song 365\\nOn himself 366\\nEpitaph on the Poet s Daughter 366\\nI met a Lass, a Bonie Lass 366\\nOn Maria Dancing 366\\nJenny M Craw 366\\nLass, when your Mither is frae Hame 366\\nLament 367\\nO gie my Love Brose, Brose 367\\nO wat ye what my Minnie did 367\\nOh wha is she that lo es me 368\\nEvan Banks 368\\nPowers Celestial whose Protection 369\\nO can ye sew Cushions 369\\nOn Burns s Horse being Impounded 369\\nHughie Graham 370\\nThe Selkirk Grace 370\\nDamon and Sylvia 370\\nWhan I sleep I Dream 370\\nKatharine Jaffray 370\\nBraw Lads of Galla Water 371\\nLiberty 371\\nThe Last Braw Bridal 372\\nThere came a Piper 372\\nThere s naethin like the Honest\\nNappy 372\\nWhen I think on the Happy Days 372\\nYe hae lien a Wrang, Lassie 372\\nJohnny Peep 373\\nInnocence 373\\nVerses on Lincluden Abbey 373\\nVerses to my Bed 374\\nBruce 374\\nShelah O Neil 374\\nNotes 377\\nGlossary 385\\nChronological Index 421\\nGeneral Index of Titles and\\nFirst Lines 432", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0020.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nRobert Burns was born January 25, 1759.\\nHis father, William Burns, or Burness, was of the North of Scotland where, at\\nKincardineshire, his ancestors for many generations had been farmers. He was\\nthrown by early misfortunes on the world at large, says the poet in his biographical\\nletter to Dr. Moore, and there he adds, after many years wanderings and sojourn-\\nings, I picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to which I\\nam indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who\\nunderstood men, their manners and their ways, equal to him; but stubborn, ungainly\\nintegrity, and headlong, ungovernable irascil)ility, are disqualifying circumstances;\\nconsequently, I was born a very poor man s son.\\nAfter several years residence near Edinburgh, he took seven acres of land in\\nDoonside with the intention of becoming a nurseryman, but was engaged as gardener\\nand overseer to Mr. Fergusson of Doonholm. He retained the land, and on one\\nspot of it built a clay biggin or cottage, divided into a kitchen with a recess for a\\nbed, and a spence or sitting-room with a fireplace and chimney. Gilbert Burns\\nremarked, long afterwards, that when it was altogether cast over inside and outside\\nwith lime it had a neat and comfortable appearance. It still stands,and is used as\\na Burns museum. Here in December, 1757, he brought his bride, Agnes Brown, the\\ndaughter of a Carrick farmer; a red-haired, dark-eyed, hot-tempered lassie eleven\\nyears his junior.\\nRobert was their first-born. When he was seven years old his father became\\ntenant of a small farm belonging to Mr. Fergusson, at Mount Oliphant, not far from\\nthe mouth of Bonnie Doon. The land was poor; and after the death of their\\ngenerous master they fell into the hands of a factor, who, says Burns, sat for\\nthe picture that he drew of one in his tale of Twa Dogs.\\nStill more trying was their life at Tarbolton on the Ayr, where they took a larger\\nfarm in 1777. At first they lived comfortably; but a difference as to terms arose,\\nand after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, the suit was\\ndecided in favor of the landlord, and William Burness, whose health and spirit were\\nentirely broken, died in February, 1784, just saved from the horrors of a jail.\\nRobert began to go to school when he was six years old. In 1765, John Murdoch,\\na young man of eighteen, became his teacher. In his recollections Murdoch says\\nthat Robert and Gilbert were generally near the head of their classes, even when\\nranged with boys by far their seniors. He says that they committed to memory the\\nhymns and other poems of Masson s collection with uncommon facility; but strangely\\nenough the two boys were behind all the others in music. Robert s ear, says", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0021.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nMurdoch, was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I\\ncould get them to distinguish one tune from another; and, in conclusion, he\\ndeclares, that certainly if any person who knew the two boys had been asked which\\nof them was the most likely to court the Muses, he would surely never have guessed\\nthat Robert had a propensity of that kind.\\nThough it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, says Burns, I made an\\nexcellent English scholar; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a\\ncritic in substantives, verl)S, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owe\\nmuch to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkal:)le for her ignorance,\\ncredulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country\\nof tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks,\\nspunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, death-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, enchanted\\ntowers, giants, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of\\npoesy. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was The\\nVision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison s beginning, How are thy servants blest,\\nO Lord\\nHe says that the first books that he read in private were The Life of Hannibal,\\nlent to him by Mr. Murdoch, and the History of Sir William Wallace, which he\\nprocured from a neighboring blacksmith; and declares that Hannibal gave his young\\nideas such a turn, that he used to strut in rapture up and down after the recruiting\\ndrum and bagpipe, and wish himself tall enough to be a. soldier; while the story of\\nWallace poured into his veins a Scottish prejudice which would boil along there till\\nthe flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest.\\nSalmon s and Guthrie s geogra]ihical grammars told him all that he knew of\\nancient story. His ideas of modern manners, of literature and criticism, he\\ngot from the Spectator. Tope s works, some of Shakespeare s plays, Locke s\\nEssay on Human Understanding, Allan Ramsay s works, Taylor s Scripture\\nDoctrine of Original Sin, a select collection of English songs, Hervey s Medita-\\ntion, and a few other books, formed the whole of his early reading.\\nThe collection of songs, he says, was his vade mecuin I pored over them driv-\\ning my cart, or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse carefully noting the\\ntrue, tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced, he adds, I\\nowe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as it is.\\nAfter Mr. Murdoch, who wa.s, unfortunately, addicted to the use of ardent spirits,\\nleft Mr. Oliphant he sometimes came back to make visits, and on one occasion read\\nShakespeare s Titus Andronicus and it is said that Robert s pure taste rose in a\\npassionate revolt against its coarse cruelties and unspirilual horrors. Murdoch also\\nhelped him to a small knowledge of French. But when a lady once asked him if he\\nhad studied Latin, he replied\\nAll I know of Latin is contained in three words, omnia vincit Amor\\nAfter the removal of the family to Lochlea in 1777, he received from his father\\nyearly wages of seven pounds sterling. In order to give his manners a brush, as he\\nexpresses it, he at that time began to go to a country dancing-school. His father had\\nau unaccountable antipathy against such meetings and indeed he had reason to\\ntremble for his son. On his death-bed, when Robert was present alone with him and\\nhis sister, Mrs. Begg, he confessed that there was one of his family for whose future", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0022.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH,\\nhe feared. Robert asked: Oh, father, is it me you mean? and when the old man\\nsaid it was, Robert turned to the window and burst into tears.\\nBurns had already been initiated into the delirious society of love and had com-\\nmitted the sin of rhyme. When he was about sixteen his partner in the harvesting\\nwas Miss Nellie Kilpatrick, known as Handsome Nell, a girl a year younger than\\nhimself. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly, and it was to\\nher favorite reel that he first attempted to fit words. It was the song beginning:\\nO, once I lov d a bonnie lass,\\nAy, and I love her still,\\nAnd whilst that virtue warms my breast\\nI 11 love my handsome Nell.\\nFal lal de ral, etc.\\nHis own criticism upon it in his Common-Place Book is interesting and curious.\\nAfter taking it up stanza by stanza he adds I remember I composed it in a wild\\nenthusiasm of passion; and to this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my\\nblood sallies at the remembrance.\\nThe dancing-school offered further opportunities in what the Scotch call sweet-\\nhearting. Burns, who saw no way to rise above his surroundings and yet had a vast\\nambition, became discouraged, and simply drifted with the tide. He says of this\\nperiod\\nMy heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess\\nor other; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various, some-\\ntimes I was received with favor, and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At\\nthe plough, scythe, or reap-hook I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute\\nwant at defiance; and as I never cared farther for my labors than while I was in\\nactual exercise, I spent the evenings in the v/ay after my own heart.\\nAll this was a dangerous but powerful training for the profession of minnesinger.\\nWhen he was eighteen years of age, he studied mensuration, surveying, drilling,\\nand kindred branches of practical knowledge, under the parish schoolmaster of\\nKirkoswald in the district of Carrick, where he spent some time, probably with his\\nmother s relatives.\\nThe schoolmaster, whose name was Rodger, was skilled in mathematics, but\\npossessed a narrow understanding and little general knowledge. He discovered\\nthat Burns and a youth called Willie were in the habit of holding disputations\\nor arguments on speculative questions. This seemed to him absurd and one\\nday, when the whole school was assembled, he went up to the two young men and\\nbegan very sarcastically to twit them on their debates. The other scholars who had\\nbeen invited to join in these intellectual disputes, but who preferred ball or shinty,\\nburst into uproarious laughter at the teacher s wit,\\nWillie replied that he was sorry to find that Robert and he had given offence;\\nthat it was unintentional; indeed, they supposed he would be pleased to know of\\ntheir attempts to improve their minds. Rodger asked what they disputed about, and\\nWillie replied that their question that day had been whether a great general or a\\nrespectable merchant were the most valuable member of society. The master, laugh-", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0023.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\ning contemptuously at the silliness of such a question, said there could be no doubt\\nabout it, and was drawn into an argument by Burns, who easily got the better of him.\\ntrailing to regain his superiority Rodger fell into such a pitiable state of vexation\\nthat he had to dismiss the school.\\nBut it was not altogether mental improvement he found at this noted school.\\nThat wild coast was the resort of smugglers. He made good progress in his mathe-\\nmatics, but he says he made greater progress in the knowledge of mankind: The\\ncontraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me\\nto fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissi-\\npation were, till this time, new to me; but I was no enemy to social life. Here,\\nthough I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I\\nwent on with a high hand with my geometry till the sun entered Virgo, a month which\\nis always a carnival in my bosom; when a charming fillette, who lived next door to\\nthe school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the spheres of\\nmy studies.\\nThe image of that modest and innocent girl effectually prevented any more\\nattempts to measure the sun s altitude. Study was useless. But the ebullition of\\nthat passion was only a song, one of his most beautiful, beginning Now westlin\\nwinds and slaught ring guns.\\nOn his return to Tarbolton he still further indulged his love of discussion by join-\\ning with his brother Gilbert and five other young men in establishing a debating\\nsociety, where the young people set for themselves such questions as this Suppose\\na young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry\\neither of two women the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person\\nnor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm\\nwell enough the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation,\\nand behavior, but without any fortune: which of them shall he choose?\\nAt Tarbolton also, while still under his father s roof. Burns wrote several of his\\nfinest and sweetest songs\\nBehind yon hills, where Lugar flows\\nMang moors an mosses many, O\\nThe wintry sun the day has clos d,\\nAn I 11 awa to Nanie, O.\\nand\\nIt was upon a Lammas night.\\nWhen corn rigs are bonie,\\nBeneath the moon s unclouded light,\\nI held awa to Annie\\nand more than one in praise of the Tarbolton lasses\\nThere s few sae bonie, nane sae guid\\nIn a King George dominion.\\nWTiile still at Tarbolton, Burns was induced by his friend, John Rankine, to join\\nSt. Mary s Lodge of Free-masons; and he became like Mozart, and about the same\\ntime, an enthusiastic member of the order.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0024.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAFHICAL SKETCH.\\nWhen he was about twenty-three years old, he conceived the idea of going into\\nthe flax business; so he went to live with a (lax-dresser named Peacock, a relative of\\nhis mother s, in the neighboring town of Irvine.\\nAmong his acquaintances at Irvine, which was a small seaport town, were also\\nsmugglers, whose inlluence upon him was not good; and his chief friend was a young\\nfellow named Richard Brown, whom he called a very noble character, but a hapless\\nson of misfortune. This noble fellow, whose mind was fraught with indepen-\\ndence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue, was the only man. Burns confesses,\\nwho was a greater fool than himself where Woman was the presiding star. He\\nspoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with\\nhorror. Here his friendship did me a mischief and the consequence was that soon\\nafter I assumed the plough, I wrote the Poet s Welcome.\\nThe illegitimate daughter thus welcomed bore a striking resemblance to Burns. She\\nmarried Mr. John Bishop of Polkemmet, and died in 1S17. It is proper to add that\\nthe poet was afterwards stung by a manly sorrow at the tone in which this poem\\nto his shame was written.\\nDoubtless his recklessness was partly due to the fact that he had just been disap-\\npointed in his hopes of marrying Miss Ellison Begbie, an amiable, intelligent, but\\nnot particularly handsome girl, in the service of a family on the banks of the\\nCessnock. To her he wrote the song\\nOn Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;\\nCould I describe her shape and mien\\nOur lasses a she far excels.\\nAn she has twa sparkling rogueish een.\\nHe was deeply in love with her, but her affections were given to another.\\nHe was at this time suffering from a nervous disorder, and his constitutional\\nhypochondria, inherited from his father, was intensified by the depressing effects of\\ndissipation. His gloomy state of mind may be seen in certain passages of a letter\\nwritten to his father two days after Christmas, 1781 or 1782:\\nHonored Sir,\\nMy health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little\\nsounder, and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very\\nslow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind that I dare\\nneither review past events, nor look forward into futurity; for the least anxiety or\\nperturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Some-\\ntimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a\\nlittle into futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is\\nlooking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite trans-\\nported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to\\nall the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life; for I assure you I\\nam heartily tired of it, and if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly\\nand gladly resign it. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it.\\nI am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0025.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nbe capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the\\nthoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and oljscurity probably await me, and I\\nam in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. I have iiut just\\ntime and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety\\nyou have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but\\nwhich 1 hope have been remembered ere it is yet too late.\\nThree days later, while he and some of his friends were giving a welcome carou-\\nsal to the new year, the shop was set on fire and totally destroyed, so that he was\\nleft like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. He attributed it to the drunken care-\\nlessness of his partner s wife. His partner he called a scoundrel of the first\\nwater, who made money by the mystery of thieving\\nA year or two afterwards, in March, 1784, he wrote in his Common-Place Book\\nThere was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses\\nand disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune.\\nMy body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or\\nconfirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me\\nyet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in\\none of which I composed the Prayer Under the Pressure of Violent Anguish,\\nwhich begins:\\nO Thou Great Being what Thou art\\nSurpasses me to know\\nYet sure I am, that known to Thee\\nAre all Thy works below.\\nBut at last the cloud passed, as is shown by the cheerfulness of his extempore lines\\nwhich are referred to the following April\\nO, why the deuce should I repine,\\nAnd be an ill foreboder?\\nI m twenty-three, and five feet nine\\nI 11 go and be a sodger.\\nI gat some gear wi meikle care,\\nI held it weel thegither;\\nBut now it s gane and something mair\\nI 11 go and be a sodger.\\nAfter his return to Lochlea, he and his brother Gilbert hired a farm of one hundred\\nand nineteen acres at Mossgiel, near the village of Mauchline, at an annual rental of\\nninety pounds. Three months later their father died, leaving his affairs in utter ruin.\\nHis all, says Burns, went among the hell hounds that growl in the kennel of\\njustice. As his sons and two married daughters ranked as creditors for arrears of\\nwages, they saved a little money from the wreck, and the whole family moved. to\\nMossgiel in March, 1784. Gilbert Burns bears witness to his brother s steadiness and\\nindustry during their joint partnership, but, after all, the drudgery of farming was\\nirksome to a poet: it was Pegasus harnessed to a plough.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0026.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nHe expresses his feelings in a rhymed epistle to his friend David Sillar, a brother\\npoet, lover, ploughman, and tiddler\\nWhile winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw\\nAnd bar the doors wi drivin snaw,\\nAnd hing us owre the ingle,\\nI set me down to pass the time.\\nAnd spin a verse or twa o rhyme,\\nIn hamely, westlin jingle\\nWhile frosty winds blaw in the drift,\\nBen to the chimla lug,\\nI grudge a wee the great-folk s gift,\\nThat live sae bien an snug\\nI tent less, and want less\\nTheir roomy fireside;\\nBut hanker, and canker,\\nTo see their cursed pride.\\nIt s hardly in a body s pow r\\nTo keep, at times, frae being sour,\\nTo see how things are shar d;\\nHow best o chiels are whyles in want,\\nWhile coofs on countless thousands rant.\\nIt s no in titles nor in rank;\\nIt s no in wealth like Lon on Bank,\\nTo purchase peace and rest;\\nIt s no in makin muckle, mair\\nIt s no in books, it s no in lear,\\nTo make us truly blest\\nIf happiness hae not her seat\\nAn centre in the breast.\\nWe may be wise, or rich, or great.\\nBut never can be blest\\nNae treasures nor pleasures\\nCould make us happy lang;\\nThe heart ay s the part ay,\\nThat makes us right or wrang.\\nBut tent me, Davie, ace o hearts\\n(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,\\nAnd flatt ry 1 detest)\\nThis life has joys for you and I;\\nAnd joys that riches ne er could buy.\\nAnd joys the very best.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0027.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "BIO(]RAPniCAL SKETCH.\\nThere s a the pleasures o the heart,\\nThe lover an the frien\\nYe hae your Meg, your dearest part,\\nAnd I my darling Jean\\nIt warms me, it charms me\\nTo mention but her name\\nIt heats me, it beets me.\\nAnd sets me a on flame\\nThe darling Jean, celebrated in his Epistle to Davie, and in many another\\npoem, was Jean Armour, a comely country lass, whom he met at a penny wedding\\nat Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the same quadrille when the poet s\\ndog sprang to his master and almost upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked\\nthat he wished he could get any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.\\nSome days afterward, Jean, seeing him pass as she was bleaching clothes on the\\nvillage green, called to him and asked him if he had as yet got any of the lasses to\\nlike him as well as his dog did.\\nThis was the beginning of an acquaintance which colored all of Burns s life.\\nIn the spring of 1786 he learned that she was about to become a mother.\\nIn Scotland at that time a license and a ceremony were not required in order to\\nlegalize a marriage. Burns, who was inclined to be honorable, gave Jean a written\\nacknowledgment of marriage a sufficient reparation in the eyes of the law.\\nBut the master-mason, her father, compelled her to destroy the paper and to have\\nnothing more to do with Burns, who was then in the straits of poverty owing to a\\nsuccession of bad crops, and who was with some reason looked upon by the pious\\ninhabitants of that parish as little better than a Pariah.\\nThis was in April. It was under the gloom of this bitter trouble that Burns wrote\\nhis Lament occasioned by the Unfortunate Issue of a Friend s Amour\\nO thou pale -Orb that silent shines\\nWhile care-untroubled mortals sleep\\nThou seest a wretch who inly pines.\\nAnd wanders here to wail and weep\\nWith woe I nightly vigils keep.\\nBeneath thy wan, unwarming beam;\\nAnd mourn, in lamentation deep,\\nHow life and love are all a dream.\\nThe friend was of course his best friend and worst enemy himself.\\nBurns was really very fond of his Bonnie Jean, and he wrote that though he had\\nnot a hope or a wish to make her his after her conduct, yet when he was told that\\nthe names were out of the informal marriage contract, his heart died within him\\nand his veins were cut with the news.\\nEmerson says: Nature s darlings, the great, the strong, the beautiful, are not\\nchildren of our law do not come out of the Sunday school, nor weigh their food,\\nnor punctually keep the commandments.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0028.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nSo much the worse for them.\\nThe destruction of the paper did not, of course, absolve Burns, but he determined\\nto leave Scotland forever. He entered into negotiations with Dr. John Hamilton\\nwith the view of going out to Jamaica as bookkeeper on a plantation there.\\nWhile this matter was pending, and while he was still sore at the treatment which\\nhe had received from the Armours, Mary Campbell, known to fame as Hieland\\nMary, a most sprightly, blue-eyed creature of great modesty and self-respect, whcj\\nhad been in the service of his friend and landlord, Gavin Hamilton, showed so much\\nsympathy with him, that Burns, considering himself free, offered to make her his\\nwife, and she agreed to go with him to Jamaica. She left Mauchline and started on\\nfoot for Campbelltown in the Highlands, where her father was a sailor.\\nBurns acoompanied her. It was the second Sunday in May, 1786. They reached\\na sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, now a railway runs within a few\\nyards of it, and there the parting took place. According to tradition, they stood\\non opposite sides of a slow-running brook, and, dipping their hands into the pure\\nwater, swore solemn vows to be true and one till death.\\nAt the Burns monument at Ayr are preserved the Bibles which they exchanged.\\nMary s gift to Burns is a small plain one his to her, a dainty edition in two vol-\\numes. In pne of them the poet wrote the Scripture verse\\nKf shall not swear by my name falsely I am the Lord (Levit. xix. 12).\\nAnd in the other\\nThou shall not forswear thyself, but shall perfortn unto the Lord thine oaths (Matt.\\nV. 33)-\\nThe poem To Mary is referred by Burns to this time when he was thinking\\nof going to the West Indies\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary,\\nAnd leave auld Scotia s shore?\\nWill ye go the Indies, my Mary,\\nAcross the Atlantic s roar?\\nNothing more was said about Alary Campbell going to Jamaica with him. Indeed,\\nhe never saw her again. After making her visit at Campbelltown, she started for\\nGlasgow to take the prosaic place of a servant; but stopping at Greenock to care for\\na sick brother, she caught the fever and died.\\nThere is nothing in Burns s behavior or his letters to indicate that this poetic end-\\ning of a miserable story was regarded as anything but a relief. When he heard the\\nnews his face changed anil he left the house; but he said nothing about it, and only\\nhis immortal poem To Mary in Heaven, written years afterward, shows that it\\nmade an impression on him.\\nOn the contrary, it was probably only a hasty episode conducted partly under the\\ninfluence of pique; and so he continued his preparations for his journey, and wrote his\\nrhymes, and conceived the idea of publishing them.\\nIn the following June, 1786, he wrote to Mr. David Brice, a shoemaker of\\nGlasgow, a full account of his trouble. He said\\nPoor, ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You Ijave heard", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0029.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nall the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her con-\\nduct now, I don t know; one thing I do know she has made me completely\\nmiserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her and\\nto confess a truth between you and nie, I do still love her to distraction after ail,\\nthough I won t tell her so if I were to see her, which I don t want to do. My poor,\\ndear, unfortunate Jean how happy have 1 been in thy arms! It is not the losing her\\nthat makes me so unhappy, but fur her sake I feel most severely I foresee she is in\\nthe road to, 1 am afraitj, eternal ruin.\\nMay Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my\\nvery soul forgive her; and may His grace be with her and bless her in all her future\\nlife 1 can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment that what I have\\nfelt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run\\ninto all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking-matches, and other\\nmischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure\\nthe ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell\\ndear old Scotland and farewell dear, ungrateful Jean for never, never will I see\\nyou more.\\nYou will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to-morrow\\nmy works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages\\nit is just the last foolish action I intend to do; ami then turn a wise man as fast\\nas possible.\\nIt was only after considerable hesitation that he had determined to venture into\\nprint with a volume of poems. Thus he expressed his doubts in a poetic epistle to bis\\ncrony, Mr. James Smith, a shopkeeper in Mauchline\\nJust now I ve taen the fit o rhyme.\\nMy barmie noddle s working prime,\\nMy fancie yerkit up sublime\\nWi hasty summon\\nHae ye a leisure-moment s time\\nTo hear what s comin?\\nSome rhyme a neebor s name to lash;\\nSome rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu cash;\\nSome rhyme to court the countra clash,\\nAn raise a din;\\nFor me, an aim 1 never fash;\\nI rhyme for fun.\\nThe star that rules my luckless lot,\\nHas fated me the russet coat,\\nAn damn d my fortune to the groat;\\nBut, in rec|uit.\\nHas blest me with a random-shot\\nO countra wit.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0030.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nThis while my motion s taen a sklent,\\nTo try my fate in guid, black prent;\\nBut still the mair I m that way bent,\\nSomething cries, Hoolie\\nI red you, honest man, tak tent\\nYe 11 shaw your folly\\nThere s ither poets, much your betters.\\nFar seen in Greek, deep men o letters,\\nHae thought they had ensur d their debtors,\\nA future ages;\\nNow moths deform, in shapeless tatters.\\nTheir unknown pages.\\nThen farewell hopes o laurel boughs\\nTo garland my poetic brows\\nHenceforth I 11 rove where busy ploughs\\nAre whistling thrang;\\nAn teach the lanely heights an howes\\nMy rustic sang.\\nHe had material enough for a volume. For months he had been pouring forth his\\nmost beautiful poems. He had electrified his brother Gilbert by repeating to him\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night that sentimental apotheosis of humble piety and\\nrural content.\\nMany of his songs were household words in his neighborhood. He had won\\nunstinted applause and even more unbounded blame by his satiric verses occasioned\\nby a quarrel which was dividing the parish at that day, and into which he entered\\nwith all the zeal of his impetuous nature.\\nThe descendants or representatives of the old Covenanters, naturally proud of their\\ndistinction, clung to a fierce and unmodified Calvinism. Their clergy and the elders\\nof the Kirk possessed a moral dominion which had become a veritable tyranny, ex-\\ntending from the weightier matters of the law even down to the merest trifles of con-\\nduct or opinion.\\nThis party were called The Auld Lichts.\\nOpposed to them were the New Lights, or Moderates, who believed that Christians\\nhad no right to lay down the law upon their brethren in matters of faith and practice,\\nand that the Kirk Session that is, the Committee of the Elders existed simply\\nto assist the minister in knowing his congregation.\\nThe two ministers of Ayr belonged to the New Lights, and one of them, Dr.\\nMcGill, had undergone persecution. Burns s kind landlord and friend, Gavin Hamil-\\nton, had been aV)sent from church two or three Sundays, and it was discovered, by\\nquestioning the servants, that he was remiss in the ordinances of family worship. He\\nhad also neglected to pay a small church rate. He was selected as a special victim\\nof the dominant party. Burns, whose father was a Moderate, naturally sympathized\\nwith that side.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0031.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAnilCAL SKETCH.\\nThe armor of the Evangelicals was not arrow-proof. The shafts of ridicule could\\nfind joints to pierce and, worse yet, vital jilaces were not ])r(jtected. Some of the\\nmost violent persecutors of Ciavin Hamilton were secretly guilty of unworthy practices,\\nand Burns was alert to seize every chance.\\nThus he picked out Mr. William Fisher, one of the Kirk elders of Mauchline, and\\ngibbeted him in the doggerel rhymes unfortunately not guiltless of vulgarity\\nentitled Holy Willie s Prayer\\nOh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,\\nWha, as it pleases best Thysel\\nSends ane to heaven and ten to hell,\\nA for Thy glory,\\nAnd no for onie guid or ill\\nThey ve done afore Thee\\nThe attack was after all not so disreputaljle as the elder s own career. Burns\\ncalled him a hypocrite; he was worse. He afterwards was found guilty of embezzling\\nchurch funds; and he died in a ditch into which he fell while elevated, as they\\nthen called being tipsy.\\nTwo Auld Licht divines had quarrelled about their parish boundaries, and Burns\\nsatirized them in his Twa Herds\\nO a ye pious godly flocks,\\nWeel fed on pastures orthodox,\\nWha now will keep you frae the fox\\nOr worrying tykes?\\nOr wha will tent the waifs an crocks\\nAbout the dykes?\\nThe twa best herds in a the wast,\\nThat e er gae gospel horn a blast\\nThese five and twenty summers past\\nO, dool to tell!\\nHae had a bitter, black out-cast\\nAtween themsel\\nSic twa O do I live to see t\\nSic famous twa sud disagree t,\\nAn names like villain, hypocrite,\\nIlk ither gi en,\\nWhile New-Light herds wi laughin spite\\nSay, neither s liein\\nThe Sacrament of the Lord s Supper had in many places gradually degenerated\\ninto a sort of carousal, where there was much eating and drinking, much gossip and", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0032.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\neven flirtation. This state of things Burns satirized in his poem entitled The Holy\\nFair\\nUpon a simmer Sunday morn,\\nWhen Nature s face is fair,\\nI walked forth to view the corn.\\nAn snuff the caller air.\\nThe risin sun, owre Galston muirs,\\nWi glorious light was glintin;\\nThe hares were hirplin down the furs,\\nThe lav rocks they were chantin\\nFu sweet that day.\\nAs lightsomely the poet glowers abroad to see a scene so gay, three Hizzies\\nFun, Superstition, and Hypocrisy come skelpin up the way, bound for\\nMauchline Holy Fair and Fun, his crony dear, invites him to accompany\\nthem. The sights that he witnessed he then describes with more zest than propriety.\\nThere were more satirical poems of the same sort; and though they had their\\nlegitimate effect (as was the case with The Holy Fair and worked a needed\\nreform, they brought much ol)loquy upon Burns himself, who was perfectly reckless\\nas long as he made a point.\\nIt was not hypocrisy in religion alone which he satirized. The village school-\\nmaster set up a grocery store, and, having a liking for drugs, advertised that advice\\nwould be given in common disorders, at the shop, gratis. He put on great airs of\\nmedical knowledge, and Burns one day repeated to his brother Gilbert the terrible\\nlines entitled Death and Doctor Hornbook.\\nHere the Deil describes the various cases in which\\nHornl)ook was by wi ready art,\\nto prevent poor humanity from paying its last debt, and stop him of his lawfu\\nprey.\\nThe laughter caused by this satire was so great, that it actually drove John Wil-\\nson, the apothecary and schoolmaster, out of the country.\\nIt seemed to Burns that his local reputation as a poet justified him in risking the\\nventure so he collected over three hundred subscriptions, and engaged John Wil-\\nson, a printer at Kilmarnock, to publish the volume.\\nWhile he was busy correcting the proofs, Jean Armour came home. He went to\\ncall upon her, not, so he wrote, from the least view of reconciliation, but merely\\nto ask for her health and from a foolish, hankering fondness, very ill-placed\\nindeed.\\nHer mother forbade him the house; and with anger in his heart, he resolved to\\ngain his certificate as a single man, promised him by the minister, provided he\\nwould comply with the rules of the church. On the seventeenth of July he wrote to\\nMr. David Brice\\nI have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of\\nstanding in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld\\nhas promised me, I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0033.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nher friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the\\nminister would not allow it, which bred a great trcjuble, I assure you, and I am\\nblamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent but I am very much\\npleased, for all that, not to have had her company.\\nIn order to drive Bums from the country, Jean s father got out a warrant to\\narrest him. Some ill-advised people, he wrote Ur. Moore, had uncoupled the\\nmerciless pack of the law at his heels, and he was skulking about from Carrick to\\nKyle, and from Kyle to Carrick.\\nThe ship Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua,\\nwas to sail toward the latter part of August. Here was the chance for Burns. He\\nwas saying good-by to his friends.\\nHe had passed what he supposed was his last night at the Tarbolton Lodge, where\\nit was afterwards remembered that he came in a pair of buckskins, out of which he\\nwould always pull the other shilling for the other bowl till it was five o clock in the\\nmorning.\\nThe departure was postponed till September, and in September poor Jean repaid\\nhim double. An understanding was reached between the two families as to the\\nnurture of the twins and still Burns lingered, with tender yearnings of heart for\\nthe little angels to whom he gave existence, and with indefinite hopes that after all\\nhe might not be exiled, abandoned, forlorn.\\nHis poems had succeeded better than he feared. After he had settled with\\nWilson, he had about twenty pounds to his credit, and was trying to publish a second\\nedition. But Wilson refused to undertake it unless the twenty-seven pounds required\\nfor paper were advanced. This, said Burns, is out of my power, so farewell\\nhopes of a second edition till I grow richer! an epocha which, I think, will arrive at\\nthe payment of the British national debt. And he added in reference to his\\ndomestic troubles\\nI have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which\\nyou pretty well know the pang of disajipointment, the sting of pride, with some\\nwandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when\\nattention is not called away by the calls of society, or the vagaries of the Muse.\\nEven in the hour of social mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated\\ncriminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go\\nabroad; and to all these reasons I have only one answer, the feelings of a\\nfather. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be\\nlaid in the scale against it.\\nThe poems were becoming known outside of Ayrshire. Dr. Lawrie of Lou-\\ndon, near Kilminiock, sent a copy of the precious volume to Dr. Thomas Black-\\nlock of Edinburgh, the well-known blind poet and preacher, who replied in a\\nmost complimentary manner, and wished, for the sake of the young man, that\\na second edition, more numerous than the former, could immediately be printed.\\nProfessor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh had a country residence at Catrine-on-\\nthe-.\\\\yr, only a few miles from Mossgiel and having come into possession of\\nBurns s poems, he invited the young man to dine with him. On this occasion he\\nmet Basil William, Lord Daer, the son of the Earl of Selkirk, a youth of twenty-\\nthree, and shortly afterward wrote the poem beginning:", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0034.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nThis wot ye all whom it concerns:\\nI, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,\\nOctober twenty-third,\\nA ne er-to-be-forgotten day,\\nSae far I sprachl d up the brae\\nI dinner d wi a Lord\\nProtessor Stewart declared that his manners were simple, manly, and independent;\\nstrongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without anything that indicated\\nforwardness, arrogance, and vanity.\\nAbout the same time the Edinburgh Magazine came out with a favorable review of\\nthe poems, and Burns was so much encouraged that he determined to go to Edin-\\nburgh and try his fortunes there.\\nHe mounted his pony and reached Edina, Scotia s darling seat, on the evening\\nof November 28, 1786. For the first fortnight he suffered with a miserable\\nheadache and stomach complaint, and apparently did little else than\\nView that noble, stately dome\\nWhere Scotia s kings of other years,\\nFam d heroes had their royal home\\nand make himself familiar with the sights of the historic city.\\nHe found a warm welcome among the literary celebrities of the day, Professor\\nStewart, Professor Blair, Mr. Mackenzie, author of The Man of Feeling, and\\nothers. Mr. James Dalrymple of Orangetield, near Ayr, gave him an introtl uction\\nto his brother-in-law, the Earl of Glencairn, through whose influence he was brought\\nbefore the Caledonian Hunt, a society of the Scottish nobility. In a letter^ to\\nGavin Hamilton, dated December 7, he wrote\\nI am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John\\nBunyan and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the\\nwonderful events, in the Poor Robin s and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with\\nthe Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothvvell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and\\nthe Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing and by\\nall probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the\\nworld. Through my Lord s influence it is inserted in tlie records of the Cale-\\ndonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition.\\nThis subscription, amounting to a hundred guineas, insured the success of the\\nvolume. Private individuals, also, subscril ed hberally, one taking forty-two copies,\\nanother forty, another twenty, at five shillings each.\\nAs an enthusiastic Freemason, Burns was welcomed to the Kilwinning Lodge of\\nEdinburgh, and was made their Poet Laureate.\\nThere are a number of descriptions of Burns at that time. Professor Josiah\\nWalker described him as strong and well-knit in person, much superior to what\\nmight be expected in a plowman his stature rather above middle height, though\\nfrom want of setting up it seemed to be only of the middle size his large,\\ndark eye, the most striking index of his character; his dress simple, plain, but\\nappropriate; his hair, unpowdered, was tied behind and spread upon his forehead;", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0035.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAI IIICAL SKEICII.\\nhis manner, absolutely free from afifectation; nor did his conversation or behavior\\nl)etray that he had been for some months the favorite of all the fashionable circles of\\na metropolis.\\nWalter Scott, then a youth of sixteen, met him at the house of Dr. Adam Ferguson,\\nand remembered the dignified plainness and simplicity of his manners, the strong\\nexpression of strength and shrewdness in all his lineaments, and above all his large\\nand glowing eye, which alone seemed to indicate his poetical character and tem-\\nperament.\\nOnly two instances are on record where he allowed himself any breach of eti-\\nquette, and they were not serious. Generally he was welcomed as an equal; and if\\nhe shone in conversation in the more polished circles, he scintillated in the free and\\neasy life of the taverns and the lodges.\\nWhile he was correcting his proofs he was puzzling his head as to what the future\\nhad in store for him, and debating whether to go to farming again.\\nBurns recognized that he was out of place in Edinburgh. There was nothing for\\nhim to do; his rustic training had not fitted him for city life; there was no field for\\nliterary work. He was out of his element; like the fabled Antxus, he had need to\\nbe in contact with mother earth to find his strength. City pavements offer to such a\\nbard no inspiration. He was weary of adulation; he was too independent to live\\nhappily at the table of Patronage.\\nDr. Lawrie warned him against the dangers of his new life. Burns replied\\nI thank you, Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do not need\\nthem so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper\\naccounts and distant reports; but in reality, I have no great temptation to be intoxi-\\ncated with the cup of prosperity.\\nThe Earl of Buchan advised Burns to make a pilgrimage to the chief battle-fields of\\nScotland. He replied that he wished for nothing more than a leisurely tour through\\nhis native land, to fire his muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes, but he\\ndeclared that Wisdom, a long-visaged, dry, moral-phantom, whose home was with\\nPrudence, gave him different advice and he added\\nI must return to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way\\nat the plough-tail.\\nThe same Utopian thoughts he expressed to Mrs. Dunlop. The appellation\\nof a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride; to continue to deserve it is my most ex-\\nalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to\\nsing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine\\nof business, for which Heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrim-\\nages through Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; to wander on the romantic\\nbanks of her rivers; and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins once the\\nhonored abodes of her heroes.\\nBut again the idea of his true station in life comes to him; besides, he had an\\naged mother to care for, and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender.\\nThe volume appeared toward the last of April, 1787. Twenty-eight hundred\\ncopies were taken by subscription, and Burns s share of the profits was about live\\nhundred pounds.\\nThis little fortune seemed to justify Burns in undertaking the pilgrimages for", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0036.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nwhich he yearned, before he should settle down to his farming again. On the fifth\\nof May, in company with Robert Ainslie, he set forth on his auld, ga d gleyde o a\\nmeere, for a long ride. They spent the next day, which was Sunday, at Berry Well,\\nwith Ainslie s family; at church Miss Ainslie tried to Hnd the text, which was in con-\\ndemnation of obstinate sinners. Burns seeing it, wrote these lines on a piece of\\npaper and handed them to her\\nTair maid, you need not take the hint,\\nNor idle texts pursue\\nTwas guilty sinners that he meant,\\nNot angels such as you\\nAt Jedburgh he was presented with the freedom of the town, an honor which he\\nprized much less than the privilege of a walk with Miss Isabella Lindsay, whose\\nbeautiful hazel eyes bewitched him. They rode up the Tweed and the Ettrick,\\nand spent a night at Selkirk, where afterwards vScott served as Sheriff. Here they\\nfound some gentlemen drinking at Veitch s Inn and proposed to join them but\\nwhen the landlord said that one spoke rather like a gentleman, but the other was a\\ndrover-looking chap, the gentlemen declined their company, to the life-long regret\\nof at least one of them. At Selkirk he wrote the rhymed epistle to his publisher,\\nWilliam Creech, beginning, Auld chuckle Reekie s sair distrest.\\nDuring the trip Burns, for the first and only time, set foot on English soil. On\\nthe eighth of June, after a delightful trip, having dander d owre a the Kintra frae\\nDumbar to Selcraig, an fore-gather d wi mony a guid fallow an monie a weel far d\\nhizzie, he reached his home at Mauchline. He who had left them in disgrace, came\\nback the most distinguished man in Scotland. The money and the fame placed him\\nin a different light. Even old Armour forgot his resentment; and this made Burns\\nangry, as is seen by a letter which he dated June ii, 1787\\nI date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. If anything\\nhad been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour s family, their mean, servile\\ncompliance would have done it.\\nIn this unsettled state of mind he left Mauchline toward the last of June, and went\\nto the West Highlands, where he apparently found little to please him a country\\nwhere savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage\\nflocks, which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. At Inveraray, where he could\\nfinil no shelter, he composed these bitter lines\\nWhoe er he be that sojourns here,\\nI pity much his case.\\nUnless he come to wait upon\\nThe Lord their God, his Grace.\\nThere s naething here but Highland pride,\\nAnd Highland scab and hunger;\\nIf Providence has sent me here,\\nT was surely in an anger.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0037.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nBut later he found boon companions and the sort of wild dissipation which for a\\ntime caused him to forget his errors. He tells on one occasion when they danced\\ntill three in the morning, and how they ranged round the bowl till the good-fellow\\nhour of six.\\nThe next day they again pushed the bottle, and fnuling themselves not ma fuu\\nbut gaylie yet, they tried to outgallop a Highlamhiian who had a tolerably good\\nhorse. But the race ended in a bad tumble. His horse, which had never known\\nthe ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged across before my old spavin d hunter,\\nwhose name was Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all,\\nand down came Jenny and my bardsiiip; so I have got such a skinful of bruises\\nand wounds, that I shall be at least four weeks before I dare venture on my journey\\nto Edinburgh. I came off, he says in another letter, with a few cuts and\\nbruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future.\\nUnconsciously to himself he had woven a net at Mauchline which was to entangle\\nhim. He had renewed his intimacy with Jean Armour. It was while he w-as at\\nMossgiel on his return from this escapade, that he wrote his autobiographical letter\\nto Dr. Moore.\\nIn August he returned to Edinburgh, and on the twenty-fifth of the month started\\nwith a truly original but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the\\nhigh school in Edinburgh, on a twenty-two days trip or near six hundred miles,\\nthrough the Highlands. On the twenty-sixth he wrote:\\nThis morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of\\nthe immortal Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for Old Caledonia\\nover the hole in a blue whinstone, where Roljert de Bruce fixeii his royal standard on\\nthe banks of Bannockburn; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the\\nsetting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth, through the rich carse of\\nStirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk.\\nHe described his trip not only in various letters, but also in a jotted diary, so that\\nall his steps are known.\\nAt Blair Athole, where he was so cordially welcomed by honest men and bonnie\\nlasses, he left behind him the poem entitled, The Humble Petition of Bruar\\nWater. The Earl carried out the idea, and shaded the banks wi tow riiig trees\\nand bonnie spreading bushes.\\nAt Stirling he inscril)ed on the window-pane of a tavern with a recently purchased\\ndiamond ring these lines\\nHere Stewarts once in glory reign d,\\nAnd laws for Scotland s weal ordair d;\\nBut now unroof d their palace stands,\\nTheir sceptre fallen to other hands;\\nThe injured Stewart line is gone,\\nA race outlandish tills their throne\\nAn idiot race, to honor lost\\nWho knows them best despise them most.\\nThe minister ot Gladsmuir attacked him for the treason thus expressed, and Burns\\nreplied with another epigram", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0038.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nWith Esop s lion, Burns says Sore I feel\\nEach other IjIow: but damn that ass s heel.\\nIn October, after his return to Edinburgh, he started on another tour, this time\\nwith his friend Dr. Adair.\\nAt Clackmannan they visited Mrs. Bruce, who had the helmet and sword of the\\ngreat chieftain, from whom she inherited it. She conferred knighthood on the two\\ntravellers, remarking that she had a better right to give the honor than some people\\nhad. At Stirling, Burns, who had been told that his treasonable lines might affect\\nhis prospects, broke the pane of glass, and indulged in a still bitterer epigram.\\nNeither was forgotten\\nRash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name\\nShall no longer appear in the records of Fame\\nDost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,\\nSays, the more t is a truth, Sir, the more t is a libel?\\nAt HaPv ieston he enjoyed a visit to the accomplished Miss Margaret Chalmers,\\nwhom he immortalized as Peggy in the two songs entitled Peggy s Charms. He\\nspent two days at Ochtertyre on the Teith, surprising every one by his flashes of\\nintellectual brightness, and visited Ochtertyre in Strathearn, where he wrote the\\npoem, On Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit, and the song to Miss Euphemia\\nMurray of Lintrove, known as the Flower of Strathearn\\nBlythe, blythe and merry was she,\\nBlythe was she butt and ben\\nBlythe by the banks of Earn,\\nAnd blythe in Glenturit glen.\\nAt Dunfermline they visited the ruined abbey, and Abbey Church, and Burns\\nfrom the pulpit delivered a mock reproof and exhortation to Dr. Adair, mounted on\\nthe cutty stool, or stool of repentance.\\nRobert Bruce is buried in the churchyard, under two broad flagstones; and Burns,\\nsays Dr. Adair, knelt and kissed the stone with sacred fervor, and heartily execrated\\nthe worse than Gothic neglect of the first of Scottish heroes.\\nOn his return to Edinburgh he was still undecided whether to take a farm of Mr.\\nMiller, or enter into partnership with his brother Gilbert, who was, as he said, an\\n.excellent farmer, and, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man. Creech, the\\npul)lisher of his poems, was slow in making a settlement; there were rumors of his\\ninsolvency, and Burns remained in town, rooming in St. James s Square with Mr.\\nWilliam Cruickshank.\\nEarly in December, at the house of Miss Nimmo, he made the acquaintance of a\\nMrs. M Lehose, of a somewhat voluptuous style of beauty. Her maiden name\\nhad been Agnes Craig; she was the daughter of a surgeon, and had been known in\\nCilasgow society as the pretty Miss Nancy. She was mariied at the early age of\\nseventeen to James M Lehose, a law-agent, from whom she separated four years later.\\nHer husband was in Jamaica. She was a poet.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0039.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nShe invited Burns to talce tea with her at lier lodgings on the evening of Saturday,\\nDecember 8; hut a drunl en coachman overset him, bruising his knees so that he\\ncould not stir out. Burns wrote a nute expressing his chagrin.\\nMrs. M Lehose replied that if she were his sister she would call and see him!\\nShe also enclosed some verses.\\nThis was the beginning of a ]ieriIous friendship which ran over the sea of passion,\\nthough the fair widow had a kedge-anchor to windward in her intensely religious\\nnature.\\nThe correspondence between Sylvandcr and Clarinda (as they sentimentally\\ncalled themselves) is famous in the history of literature.\\nMrs. M Lehose long outlived Burns; for thirty or forty years she was said to be in\\ncompany five-sevenths of the time. Those who saw her in later life found her a\\nshort, plain, snuff-taking little woman. But to the last she worshipped the memory\\nof Burns, and lived in the hope that they should meet in another sphere where love\\nis not a crime. To her Burns wrote the poem in which he called her the fair sun\\nof all her sex.\\nPerhaps, if both of them had been free, lUirns might have married Clarinda,\\nmistress of his soul, as he more than once wrote but he was even less free than he\\nsupposed.\\nIn February, 1788, Burns went for the third time to inspect Mr. Miller s farms at\\nDalswinton. On his way he stopped at Mossgiel, and had an interview with Jean\\nArmour, then wrote in regard to it to his sympathizing Clarinda:\\nI, this morning as I came home, called for a certain woman. I am disgusted with\\nher. I cannot endure her. I, while my heart smote me for the profanity, tried to\\ncompare her ^vith my Clarinda t was setting the expiring glimmer of a farthing taper\\nbeside the cloudless glory of the meridian sun. Here was tasteless insipidity, vul-\\ngarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there, polished good sense, Heaven-l^orn\\ngenius, and the most generous, the most delicate, the most tender passion. I have\\ndone with her, and she with me.\\nIn regard to the same interview he wrote more frankly to Robert Ainslie\\nI have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffeting of the evil one,\\nsince I came to this country. Jean I found banished, like a martyr, forlorn, destitute,\\nand friendless, all for the good old cause. I have reconciled her to her fate; I have\\nreconciled her to her mother; I have taken her a room; I have taken her to my\\narms; I have given her a mahogany bed; I have given her a guinea; and I have\\nembraced her till she rejoiced with joy unspeakable and full of glory. But as I\\nalways am on every occasion I have been prudent and cautious to an astounding de-\\ngree. I swore her privately and solemnly never to attempt any claim on me as a\\nhusband, even though anyljody should persuade her she had such a claim, which she\\nhad not, neither during my life nor after my death. She did all this like a good girl.\\nSuch conduct requires no comment. It speaks for itself. He returned to Edin-\\nburgh in March, and on the fourteenth of the month he wrote to INIiss Chalmers that\\nhe had completed a bargain for the farm of Ellisland on the banks of the Nith,\\nbetween five and six miles above Dumfries.\\nThe birth and death of a second pair of twins seems to have changed his opinions\\nin regard to Jean Armour. He made up his mind that some sacrifices were neces-", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0040.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nsary for his peace of mind. On tlie 2Sth of April he wrote Mr. James Smith, There\\nis a certain clean-Hmbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance,\\nto whom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my cori)us. In this\\nktter he first calls Jean Armour Mrs. Burns, though he adds, t is only her private\\ndesignation.\\nTo his uncle Samuel Brown he wrote whimsically It would be a vain attempt\\nfor me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in since I saw you\\nlast; but this know, I engaged in a siiitig^ling trade, and God knows if ever any poor\\nman experienced better returns two for one; but as freight and delivery have\\nturned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out a license and beginning in fair trade.\\nI have taken a farm on the borders of the Nilh, and, in imitation of the old patri-\\narchs, get men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and\\ndaughters.\\nIn June he wrote to Mrs. Dunlop from Ellisland, telling her how busy he was\\nbuilding his farmhouse, digging foundations, carting stones and lime, and dwelling\\na solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence; far from every object I love, or by whom\\nI am beloved; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the\\nold mare I ride on; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkviard\\nignorance and bashful inexperience. In this letter he confirmed her suspicions that\\nhe was a husband.\\nOf his wife he says\\nThe most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition; a warm heart, grate-\\nfully devoted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness,\\nset off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure; these, I\\nthink, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page\\nbut the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter\\nassembly than a penny pay wedding.\\nLess than a month later Burns and his wife appeared before the Kirk Session and\\npublicly acknowledged their irregular marriage and their sorrow for their irregu-\\nlarity. The Session agreed that they should both be rebuked and be solemnly\\nengaged to adhere faithfully to one another as man and wife all the days of their\\nlife.\\nWhile he was building his house and qualifying for his position on the Excise, to\\nwhich he had been appointed, he left his wife at Mauchline and dwelt alone at Ellis-\\nland. It was in the Honeymoon; and, as Burns says, here he wrote those beautiful\\nsongs to his Jean\\nOf a the airts the wind can blaw\\nI dearly like the west,\\nFor there the bonie lassie lives,\\nThe lassie I lo e best;\\nand\\nO, were I on Parnassus hill.\\nBurns s letters during this time are filled with curious contradictions. He tells\\nMrs. Dunlop that he might easily fancy a more agreeable companion for his journey", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0041.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nof life. He writes Mr. Bengo that his choice was as random as Ijlind-man s huff. He\\nwrites Miss Chahners:\\nShortly after my last return to Ayrshire I married My Jean. This was not in con-\\nsequence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; but I hatl a long and much loved\\nfellow-creature s happiness or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle with\\nso important a deposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite\\ntattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with\\nthe multiform curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the handsomest\\nfigure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the\\ncounty.\\nIn Novemljer he \\\\\\\\rote to Dr. Blacklock\\nI am more and more pleased with the step I took respecting My Jean. Two\\nthings, from my happy experience, I set down as apophthegms in life, A wife s head\\nis immaterial compared with her heart; and, Virtue s (for wisdom, what poet pre-\\ntends to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.\\nIn December Jean appeared upon the scene, Ijringing her household belongings,\\nincluding a four-post bedstead, a gift from Mrs. Dunlop, and a faithful servant-maid\\nnamed Elizabeth Smith. He welcomed her with the poem beginning, I hae a wife\\no my ain.\\nThe house was small, but Burns M as on the whole content. This was the\\nhappiest period of his life. He was comparatively regular in his habits, though\\nhis poem of The Whistle shows that he occasionally indulged in the intoxicating\\nbowl after the universal custom of the day. He became interested in the local\\nlibrary, for which he ordered the Spectator, the Lounger, Keligictts Pieces, and\\nother works from Edinburgh and he still took an interest in theological matters,\\nas is proved by his satire entitled, The Kirk s Alarm, occasioned by an heretical\\nwork by Pastor IMcGill.\\nThe first year at EUisland was fairly successful. The crops turned out well;\\nMajor Dunlop sent him a present of a heifer; Mr. John Tennant forwarded to\\nhim a cask of whiskey; he was in frequent correspondence with his friends.\\nIn the summer of 1790 Captain Francis Grose, an English antiquary, visited\\nScotland and made Burns s acquaintance. To him was indirectly due the tale f\\nTam o Shanter, that famous masterpiece of Scottish character, Scottish humor,\\nScottish witchlore, and Scottish imagination. This piece, Burns declared, was\\nhis standard performance in the poetical line.\\nIn the same year Samuel Egerton Brydges, the poet, visited Burns at Ellis-\\nland. He wrote\\nAt first I was not entirely pleased with his countenance. I thought it had a sort\\nof capricious jealousy, as if he was half inclined to treat me as an intruder. I\\nresolved to bear it, and try if I could humor him. I let him choose his turn of\\nconversation, but said a word about the friend whose letter I had brought to him.\\nIt was now about four o clock in the afternoon of an autumn day. While we\\nwere talking, Mrs. Burns, as if accustomed to entertain visitors in this way,\\nbrought in a bottle of Scotch whiskey, and set the table. I accepted this hospitality.\\nI could not help observing the curious glance with which he watched me at the en-\\ntrance of this sequel of homely entertainment. He was satisfied; he filled our glasses.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0042.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nHere s a health to Aulc Caledonia. The fire sparkled in his eye, and\\nmine sympathetically met his. He shook my hands, and we were friends at\\nonce. Then he drank Erin forever, and the tear of delight burst from his eye.\\nThe fountain of his mind and his heart opened at once, and flowed with abundant\\nforce almost till midnight.\\nHe had amazing acuteness of intellect, as well as glow of sentiment. I do\\nnot deny that he said some absurd things and many coarse ones, and that his\\nknowledge was very irregular, and sometimes too presumptuous and that he did\\nnot endure contradiction with sufficient patience. His pride, and perhaps his\\nvanity, was even morbid. I carefully avoided topics in which he could not take an\\nactive part. Of literary gossip he knew nothing, and, therefore, kept aloof from\\nit in the technical parts of literature, his opinions were crude and unformed\\nbut whenever he spoke of a great writer whom he had read, his taste was gen-\\nerally sound. To a few minor writers he gave more credit than they deserved.\\nHis grand beauty was his manly strength and his energy and elevation of thought\\nand feeling. He had always a full mind, and all flowed from a genuine spring. I\\nnever conversed with a man who appeared to be more warmly impressed with\\nthe beauties of Nature; and visions of female beauty and tenderness seemed to\\ntransport him. He did not merely appear to be a poet at casual intervals, but\\nat every moment a poetical enthusiasm seemed to beat in his veins; and he\\nlived all his days the inward, if not the outward, life of a poet.\\nIn order to enable his brother Gilbert to remain at Mossgiel, Burns advanced\\nhim one hundred and eighty pounds the rest of the small fortune made by his\\npoems was gradually sunk in the unsuccessful conduct of the farm.\\nHe had been appointed Exciseman; and his duties, on a salary of fifty\\npounds a year, condemned him, as he expressed it, to galop over ten parishes\\nat least two hundred miles every week, to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels.\\nThese absences, and frequent attacks of illness; a lame knee and a broken arm,\\noccasioned by a fall not from but with his horse; an omnipotent toothache,\\nwere not to the advantage of farming. A deranged nervous system, resulting in\\nincessant headache, kept him ill all the following winter.\\nHe determined to relinquish his curst farm and as Mr. Miller was willing\\nto free him from his lease, he gave it up. Toward the last of July, 1791, he\\nsold his crops at an average of a guinea an acre above value. Burns writing about it\\nto a friend, said\\nBut such a scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After\\nthe roup was over, about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for his\\nown hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better\\nin the house. No fighting indeed, but the folks lying drunk on the floor, and\\ndecanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them, that they\\ncould not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I was no\\nfarther over than you used to see me.\\nIn November he was appointed excise-ofiicer for the district of Dumfries, at a\\nsalary of seventy pounds a year, and the hope of being promoted to be supervisor\\nat a salary of two hundred pounds.\\nHe sold off his stock and farming implements, and moved to a small house", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0043.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nin the Wee Vennel of Dumfries. The thought of Burns at the plough awakens a\\npleasurable picture; we remember his poem to the Mountain Daisy, and the P ield\\nMouse. But Burns as a gauger of ardent spirits is pathetic; it connects him too\\ndirectly with the indecent wit and vulgar lowness of The Jolly Beggars that\\nmove was a step toward his ruin.\\nWhile Mrs. Burns was visiting in Ayrshire, Burns himself was still lingering at\\nEllisland, and for no good. Annie Park, the fair niece of the hostess of the (llobe\\nTavern, had met his eye. To her he wrote the song, The Gowden Locks of Anna,\\nwith its impudent, reckless postscript. The price of that song was a soul. When\\nBurns tried to get his brother to take the helpless babe, who was iiorn of his intrigue,\\nMrs. Burns, with characteristic magnanimity, insisted on adopting the little girl, and\\nbecame very fond of her. She was the image of her father; she made an excellent\\nmarriage, and lived till within a few years ago.\\nBefore he settled in Dumfries, Burns visited Edinburgh for the last time, and\\nsaw his beloved Clarinda, with whom he had kept up an infrequent corre-\\nspondence. She was about to sail for Jamaica to join her repentant but worth-\\nless husband. This episode gave rise to the songs Aince Mair I hail thee,\\nthou Gloomy December, Behold the Hour, the Boat arrive, Ae Fond Kiss\\nand then we sever, and My Nanie s Awa Burns wrote her that whenever he\\nwas called upon to give a toast, he regularly proposed, Mrs. Mac, or Clarinda,\\nthough he kept them all in the dark as to whom he meant by it.\\nFortunately, Mrs. Burns was not a jealous woman; for her husband s susceptible\\nheart, not vitrified as he once feared it was, found constant fuel in Dumfries.\\nIn August, 1792, he wrote Mrs. Dunlop that he was in love, souse over head\\nand ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean, with her\\nneighbor, Miss Lesley Baillie. The young lady, on her way to England with her\\nfather and sister, called on him. Burns rode fourteen or fifteen miles with them, and\\non his way back composed the song\\nO, saw ye bonie Lesley\\nAs she gaed o er the border\\na sort of parody on the old ballad:\\nMy bonnie Lizie Baillie,\\nI 11 rowe thee in my plaidie.\\nThe very next month Mr. George Thomson, clerk to the Board of Trustees for\\nthe Encouragement of Manufactures in Scotland, who was interested in publishing a\\ncollection of Scots songs, wrote to enlist Burns in his scheme. Burns replied that he\\nwould do so on three conditions: that he should not be hurried (was not his crest a\\nslow-worm supported by two sloths, and his motto De il tak the Foremost\\nthat he need not be expected to write English verses; and that he should not be\\npaid for them.\\nMr. Thomson s work was published in 1801-2; and Burns, in the course of four\\nyears, contriliuted at least a hundred songs Once five pounds was sent to him, and\\nBurns replied. I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0044.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nparcel. It degrades me in my own eyes and he threatened that any more traffic\\nof that ebtor and creditor l ind would break off their friendship. He so loved the\\nwork that he felt that any talk of money, wages, fee, hire, and such like would be\\ndownright prostitution of soul\\nHe seems to have made an effort to cure himself of hard drinking. In December\\nhe wrote Mrs. Dunlop\\nAs to myself, I am better, though not quite free of my complaint. You must\\nnot think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I\\nhave enough; but occasionally hard drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have\\nagain and again bent my resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have\\ntotally abandoned it is the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drink-\\ning gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief; but even this I have more\\nthan half given over.\\nDumfries was then, says Chalmers, a great stage on the road from England to\\nthe North of Ireland. Visitors were apt to send for Burns to meet them and drink\\nwith them. He had not the will-power to resist. Early one summer morning one\\nof his neighbors just getting to work received a visit from him as he was staggering\\nhome from some such debauch. The poet said\\nO George you are a happy man. You have risen from refreshing sleep and left\\na kind wife and children, while I am returning, a self-condemned wretch, to mine\\nYet he was not neglectful of his duties. In February, 1792, a contraband brig was\\ndiscovered in Solway Frith. Burns sent for a squad of dragoons, put himself at\\ntheir head, and was the first to board her. In spite of superior numbers opposed to\\nhim, he made himself master of her the brig was next day sold with all her\\ncontents.\\nWhile his messenger, a man named Lewars, was gone for the dragoons, Burns\\ncomposed the poem, The De il s Awa\\nThe De il cam fiddling thro the town,\\nAnd danc d awa wi the Exciseman.\\nIn spite of such zeal he had ruined his chances slim though they were of\\nbecoming a supervisor. In the preceding December the Board was ordered to\\ninquire into his political conduct; and he wrote a pitiful appeal to Mr. Robert\\nGraham, not so much for himself as in behalf of the much-loved wife of his bosom\\nand his helpless, prattling little ones, likely to be turned adrift into the world,\\ndegraded and disgraced. He declared that the attack upon him arose from the\\ndamned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy.\\nYet there was some ground for suspicion of him. It was known that he looked\\nwith favor on the Revolutionary party in France; that he had sent to the French\\nConvention a present of four small cannon, for which he paid three pounds. At a\\ndinner party, when the toast to Pitt was proposed. Burns gave the health of George\\nWashington, a better man. In his cups he indulged in sarcasms and rampant\\nradicalism. Epigrams of his were in circulation. For such a man promotion was\\nout of the question. At one time the good people of Dumfries even refused to recog-\\nnize him on the street.\\nAt heart he was sound enough. He wrote to Mr. Graham To the British", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0045.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nConstitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most devoutly at-\\ntached; and when there seemed to be some danger of a French invasion, he\\npublished in the Dumfries Journal (May 5, 1795) the immensely popular song\\nDoes Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat? He also joined the Dumfries volunteers,\\nand wore the uniform of kersey breeches, l)lue coat, and round hat.\\nIn July, 1793, lUirns, in company with Mr. Syme, stamp distributor, made an\\nexcursion into Galloway, and, during a thunder storm on the wilds of Kenmore,\\ncomposed his famous song, Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled.\\nAt Whitsuntide of this year he had moved his family into a larger and better\\nhouse in the Mill-hole Brae, afterward named Burns Street. The rent was eight\\npounds a year.\\nDuring all these months he was constantly inspired to compose songs for Mr.\\nThomson s collection.\\nAmong the fair ladies in whose honor he wrote, was Miss Jean Lorimer, whom he\\ncelebrated in a dozen songs under the name of Chloris, because of her light flaxen\\nhair Lassie wi the Lint-white Locks is one of the most popular of them. Still\\nanother was Mrs. Lucy Oswald, of Ayrshire, on whom he wrote the song beginning\\nO, wat ye wha s in yon town,\\nYe see the e enin sun upon?\\nThe dearest maid s in yon town\\nThat e enin sun is shining on.\\nStill another was Mrs. Maria Riddell, of Woodley Park, only eighteen, and, like\\nClarinda, a poet. Burns called her the most amiable of her sex. She and her\\nhusband made Burns welcome at their table. On one occasion, when all the men\\nhad been drinking (as usual) heavily, Burns went with the rest to the drawing-room,\\nand, entirely forgetting himself, marched up to his hostess and kissed her on the lips.\\nThe scene may be imagined The next morning he wrote to her a most abject letter\\nof apology, in which he says\\nIf I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle\\nwhom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my\\ntorments. Yox this reason I troul)le you with this letter. To the men of the com-\\npany I will make no apology. Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than\\nI chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my\\nguilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued\\nas one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to\\nforfeit it.\\nCaptain Riddell never forgave Burns. He died a few months later. Unfor-\\ntunately, Burns, exasperated at what he considered unfair treatment, wrote several\\ncruel epigrams upon Mrs. Riddell, which he afterward deeply regretted.\\nEven such a severe warning had no lasting effect upon him, nor the fact that he\\nsaw his health was failing. On December 29, 1795, he wrote Mrs. Dunlop Very\\nlately I was a boy; but t other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel\\nthe rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame. Other\\nletters presage his early death.\\nIn the following January he stayed late at the tavern with boon companions, per-", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0046.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nhaps trying to drown his sorrow at the recent loss of his daughter, his sweet little\\ngirl. On his way home he was overcome with drowsiness, sat down in the snow, and\\nfell asleep. The exposure brought on an attack of rheumatic fever, which kept him\\nin bed all the rest of the winter, and ended in what he dreaded in flying gout,\\na sad business.\\nEven in June he wrote Mrs. Riddell, who had gradually restored to him her\\nfavor\\nRacked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of\\nBalak to Balaam Come, curse me Jacob and come, defy Israel So say I\\nCome, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north Would you have me\\nin such circumstances copy you out a love-song?\\nOn the fourth of July he was taken to Brow on the Solvvay, where Mrs. Riddell\\nwas staying. She called upon him and saw that the stamp of death was imprinted\\non his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity.\\nHis first greeting was, Well, Madam, have you any commands for the other\\nworld? She wrote these details to a friend of liers, and told how anxious Burns\\nseemed about his family, and how concerned about the care of his literary fame.\\nHe wished that such letters and verses as had been written with unguarded and\\nimproper freedom might be burned in oblivion.\\nHe lamented, she wrote, that he had written many epigrams on persons\\nagainst whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry\\nto wound; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which he feared would now, with all\\ntheir imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world.\\nOn the seventh of July he wrote to Mr. Cunningham urging him to use his influence\\nthat his full salary might be paid him while he was on the sick-list, his salary as\\nExciseman being reduced, while off duty, to instead of ;i{^50.\\nLess than a week later he wrote his cousin, Mr. James Burness, appealing for\\nassistance. Ilis cousin immediately sent him ten pounds, and afterward offered to\\nbring up and educate his son Robert.\\nThen he put his pride mto his pocket, and implored Mr, G. Thomson for five\\npounds, promising, if he recovered, to furnish him with five pounds worth of the\\nneatest song genius he had seen. That morning he wrote his last song\\nFairest maid on Devon banks.\\nCrystal Devon, winding Devon,\\nWilt thou lay that frown aside.\\nAnd smile as thou wert wont to do?\\nOn the eighteenth he returned to Dumfries in a small spring cart. When he\\nalighted, he could not stand. He immediately wrote his father-in-law it was his\\nlast letter\\nDo, for Heaven s sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My wife is hourly\\nexpecting to be put to bed. Good God what a situation for her to be in, poor girl,\\nwithout a friend I returned from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my medical\\nfriends would almost persuade me that I am better; but I think and feel that my\\nstrength is so gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0047.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\\nHis children were sent to the house of Mr. Lewars. Miss Jessie Lewars, of\\nwhom he had written some of his sweetest songs, was sleepless in her attendance\\nupon him.\\nOn the twenty-first he became delirious. His children were allowed to see him\\nfor the last time. He died (July 21, 1796), with an execration upon the legal agent\\nwhose threats had troubled him.\\nOn the evening of July 25 his remains were taken to the Town Hall, and the\\nfuneral was conducted on the following day. Several regiments of infantry and cav-\\nalry assisted in the obsequies, which were solemn and impressive. A long procession\\nmarched between rows of military to the sound of the Dead March in Saul. Three\\nvolleys were fired over the grave.\\nDuring the service Burns s posthumous son, Maxwell, was born a pathetic\\nincident.\\nBurns himself predicted that he should be l)etter understood a hundred years later.\\nHe had not to wait a hundred years.\\nHenry MacKenzie, author of The Man of Feeling, in an article in the Lomiger,\\nearly compared him to Shakspere; not in range of genius, but in magnanimity and\\nunaffected character, in vigor and power. Hazlitt, who uses almost precisely the\\nsame words, says in addition: He was as much of a man, not the twentieth part of\\na poet, as Shakspere. He had an eye to see, a heart to feel no more. His\\nstrength is not greater than his weakness; his virtues were greater than his vices;\\nhis virtues belonged to his genius; his vices to his situation, which did not correspond\\nto his genius.\\nLord Jeffrey predicted that the name of Burns would endure long after the circum-\\nstances that contributed to its notoriety were forgotten.\\nA writer in the Universal Magazine in 1S09 said: He dipt his pencil in the\\nliving tints of Nature. Like Shakspere, the current of his inspiration was un-\\nchecked by the cold niceties of critical perfection; it flowed impetuously onwar\\nsometimes spreading into magnificence and beauty; sometimes meandering in peace-\\nful murmurs, and sometimes rushing with sublime energy over precipices and rocks,\\nforming the thundering cataracts or the eddying whirlpool.\\nMrs. Oliphant declares Not even for a second Shakspere could we let go our\\nBurns; and she adds: If ever man was anointed and consecrated to a special\\nwork in this world, for which all his antecedents, all his training, all his surrounding\\ncircumstances, combined to fit him, Robert Burns was that man.\\nCarlyle called him a rugged Saxon brother, one of tlie strongest, noblest men\\na Scottish Thor, a true Peasant-Thunder-God.\\nAlmost all men have given equally high tribute to Burns. He is the idol of the\\nScotch; his poems, next to the Bible, are their consolation and delight.\\nIn the splendor of their richness, Burns s faults are almost forgotten, or are taken\\nas a lesson. They were the faults of his age. Burns left in his own writings the ideal\\nto which he would fain have reached. Let us judge him by that.\\nN.VTHAN Haskell Dole.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0048.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "POEMS OF ROBERT BURNS.\\nKILMARNOCK 1786.\\no \u00c2\u00bbKc\\nTHE TWA DOGS.\\nA Tale\\n[According to Gilbert Burns, the tale\\nof The Twa Dogs was composed after\\nthe resolution of publishing was nearly\\ntaken. During the night before the death\\nof William Burness, Robert s favorite dog,\\nLuath, was killed by some person unknown.\\nCcEsar was merely the creature of the poet s\\nima ;ination. It was Luath s successor,\\nwhose appearance at the penny dance\\nat Mauchline led Burns to remark that he\\nwished he could get any of the lasses to\\nlike him as well as his dog did.\\nT WAS in that place o Scotland s isle\\nThat bears the name of auld King\\nCoil,\\nUpon a bonie day in June,\\nWhen wearing thro the afternoon,\\nTwa dogs, that were na thrang at\\nhame.\\nForgathered ance upon a time.\\nThe first I ll name, they ca d him\\nCssar,\\nWas keepit for his Honor s pleasure\\nHis hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,\\nShew d he was nane o Scotland s\\ndogs\\nBut whalpit some place far abroad,\\nWhare sailors gang to fish for cod.\\nHis locked, lettered, braw brass collar\\nShew d him the gentleman an\\nscholar\\nBut tho he was o high degree,\\nThe fient a pride, nae pride had he;\\nBut wad hae spent an hour caressin,\\nEv n wi a tinkler-gipsy s messin\\nAt kirk or market, mill or smiddie,_\\nNae tawted tyke, tho e er sae duddie,\\nBut he wad s tan t, as glad to see him,\\nAn stroan t on stanes an hillocks wi\\nhim.\\nThe tither was a ploughman s collie,\\nA rhyming, ranting, raving billie,\\nWha for his friend an comrade had\\nhim.\\nAnd in his freaks had Luath ca d\\nliim.\\nAfter some dog in Highland sang.\\nWas made lang syne Lord knows\\nhow lang.\\nHe was a gash an faithfu tyke,\\nAs ever lap a sheugh or dyke.\\nHis honest, sonsie, baws nt face\\nAy gat him friends in ilka place\\nHis breast was white, his tousie back\\nWeel clad wi coat o glossy black\\nHis gawsie tail, wi upward curl.\\nHung owre his hurdles wi a swirl.\\nNae doubt but they were fain o\\nither.\\nAnd unco pack an thick thegither;\\nWi social nose whyles snuff d an\\nsnowkit;\\nWhyles mice an moudieworts they\\nhowkit", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0049.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "THE TWA DOGS.\\nWhyles scour d awa in lang excursion,\\nAn worry d ither in diversion\\nTill tir d at last \\\\vi monie a farce.\\nThey sat them down upon their arse,\\nAn there began a lang digression\\nAbout the lords o the creation.\\nI ve aften wonder d, honest Luath,\\nWhat sort o life poor dogs like you\\nhave\\nAn when the gentry s life I saw,\\nWhat way poor bodies liv d ava.\\nOur laird gets in his racked rents,\\nHis coals, his kain, an a his stents\\nHe rises when he likes himsel\\nHis flunkies answer at the bell\\nHe ca s his coach he ca s his horse\\nHe draws a bonie silken purse,\\nAs lang s my tail, whare, thro the\\nsteeks.\\nThe yellow letter d Geordie keeks.\\nFrae morn to e en it s nought but\\ntoiling.\\nAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling;\\nAn tho the gentry first are stechin.\\nYet ev n the ha folk fill their pechan\\nWi sauce, ragouts, and sic like trash-\\ntrie.\\nThat s Uttle short o downright was-\\ntrie\\nOur whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner.\\nPoor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner.\\nBetter than onie tenant-man\\nHis Honor has in a the Ian\\nAn what poor cot-folk pit their painch\\nin,\\nI own it s past my comprehension.\\nTrowth, Caesar, whyles they re fash t\\neneugli\\nA cotter howkin in a slieugh,\\nWi dirty stanes biggin a dyke,\\nBaring a quarry, an sic like\\nHimsel, a wife, he thus sustains,\\nA smytrie o wee duddie weans,\\nAn nought but his han darg to keep\\nThem right an tight in thack an\\nrape.\\nAn when they meet wi sair disas-\\nters,\\nLike loss o health or want o mas-\\nters.\\nYe maist wad think, a wee touch\\nlanger,\\nAn they maun starve o cauld and\\nhunger\\nBut how it comes, I never kend yet.\\nThey re maistly wonderfu contented\\nAn buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies,\\nAre bred in sic a way as this is.\\nCESAR.\\nBut then to see how ye re negleckit,\\nHow huft d, an cuff d, an disrespec-\\nkit\\nLord man, our gentry care as little\\nFor delvers, ditchers, an sic cattle;\\nThey gang as saucy by poor folk.\\nAs I wad by a stinking brock.\\nI ve notic d, on our laird s court-\\nday,\\n(An monie a time my heart s been\\nwae).\\nPoor tenant bodies, scant o cash.\\nHow they maun thole a factor s snash\\nHe 11 stamp an threaten, curse an\\nswear\\nHe 11 apprehend them, poind their\\ngear;\\nWhile they maun staun wi aspect\\nhumble.\\nAn hear it a an fear an tremble\\nI see how folk live tliat hae riches\\nBut surely poor- folk maun be wretches\\nThey re nae sae wretched s ane\\nwad think\\nTho constantly on poortith s brink.\\nThey re sae accustom d wi the sight.\\nThe view o t gies them little fright.", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0050.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "THE TWA DOGS.\\nThen chance an fortune are sae\\nguided.\\nThey re ay in less or mair provided\\nAn tho fatigu d \\\\vi close employment,\\nA blink o rest s a sweet enjoyment.\\nThe dearest comfort o their lives,\\nTheir grushie weans an faithfu wives\\nThe prattling things are just their\\npride,\\nThat sweetens a their fire-side.\\nAn whyles twalpennie worth o\\nnappy\\nCan mak the bodies unco happy\\nThey lay aside their private cares,\\nTo mind the Kirk and State affairs\\nThey U talk o patronage an priests,\\nWi kindUng fury i their breasts,\\nOr tell what new taxation s comin.\\nAn ferlie at the folk in Lon on.\\nAs bleak-fac d Hallowmass returns.\\nThey get the jovial, ranting kirns.\\nWhen mral life, of ev ry station,\\nUnite in common recreation;\\nLove blinks, Wit slaps, an social\\nMirth\\nForgets there s Care upo the earth.\\nThat merry day the year begins.\\nThey bar the door on frosty win s\\nThe nappy reeks wi mantling ream.\\nAn sheds a heart-inspiring steam\\nThe luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill.\\nAre handed round wi right guid will\\nThe cantie auld folks crackin crouse.\\nThe young anes ranting thro the\\nhouse\\nMy heart has been sae fain to see them,\\nThat I for joy hae barkit wi them.\\nStill it s owre true that ye hae said\\nSic game is now owre aften play d\\nThere s monie a creditable stock\\nO decent, honest, fawsont folk.\\nAre riven out baith root an branch,\\nSome rascal s pridefu greed to quench,\\nWha thinks to knit himsel the faster\\nIn favor wi some gentle master,\\nWha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin\\nFor Britain s guid his saul indent-\\nin\\nHaith, lad, ye little ken about it\\nFor Britain s guid guid faith I doubt\\nit.\\nSay rather, gaun as Premiers lead him\\nAn saying aye or no s they bid him\\nAt operas an plays parading,\\nMortgaging, gambling, masquerad-\\ning: _\\nOr maybe, in a frolic daft.\\nTo Hague or Calais taks a waft,\\nTo mak a tour an tak a whirl.\\nTo learn bo)i ton, an see the worP.\\nThere, at Vienna or Versailles,\\nHe rives his father s auld entails\\nOr by Madrid he taks the rout.\\nTo thrum guitars an fecht wi nowt\\nOr down Italian vista startles,\\nWhore-hunting amang groves o myr-\\ntles\\nThen bowses drumlie German-water,\\nTo mak himsel look fair an fatter.\\nAn clear the consequential sorrows.\\nLove-gifts of Carnival signoras.\\nFor Britain s guid! for her destruc-\\ntion!\\nWi dissipation, feud an faction.\\nLUATH.\\nHech man! dear sirs! is that the\\ngate\\nThey waste sae monie a braw estate\\nAre we sae foughten an harass d\\nFor gear ta gang that gate at last\\nO would tliey stay aback frae courts,\\nAn please themsels wi countra sports.\\nIt wad for ev ry ane be better.\\nThe laird, the tenant, an the cotter\\nFort hae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,\\nFient haet o them s ill-hearted fellows\\nExcept for breakin o their timmer,\\nOr speakin lightly o their limmer,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0051.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "SCOTCH DRINK.\\nOr shootin of a hare or moor-cock,\\nThe ne er-a-bit they re ill to poor folk.\\nBut will ye tell me, master Ca;sar\\nSure great folk s life s a life o pleasure\\nNae cauld nor hunger e er can steer\\nthem,\\nThe vera thought o t need na fear\\nthem.\\nLord, man, were ye but whyles\\nwhare I am.\\nThe gentles, ye wad ne er envy em\\nIt s true, they need na starve or\\nsweat.\\nThro winter s cauld, or simmer s\\nheat\\nThey ve nae sair wark to craze their\\nbanes,\\nAn fill auld-age wi grips an granes\\nBut human bodies are sic fools,\\nFor a their colleges an schools,\\nThat when nae real ills perplex them,\\nThey mak enow themsels to vex\\nthem;\\nAn ay the less they hae to sturt\\nthem.\\nIn hke proportion, less will hurt them.\\nA countra fellow at the pleugh.\\nHis acre s till d, he s right eneugh\\nA countra girl at her wheel.\\nHer dizzen s done, she s unco weel\\nBut gentlemen, an ladies warst,\\nWi ev n down want o wark are curst\\nThey loiter, lounging, lank an lazy;\\nTho deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy:\\nTlieir days insipid, dull an tasteless\\nTheir nights unquiet, lang an restless.\\nAn ev n their sports, their balls\\nan races,\\nTheir galloping through public places.\\nThere s sic parade, sic pomp an art,\\nThe joy can scarcely reach the heart.\\nThe men cast out in party-matches,\\nThen sowther a in deep debauches\\nAe night they re mad wi drink an\\nwhoring.\\nNiest day their life is past enduring.\\nThe ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,\\nAs great an gracious a as sisters\\nBut hear their absent thoughts o\\nit her,\\nThey re a run deils an jads thegither.\\nWhyles, owre the wee bit cup an\\nplatie.\\nThey sip the scandal-potion pretty\\nOr lee-lang nights, wi crajjbit leuks\\nPore owre the devil s pictur d beuks\\nStake on a chance a farmer s stack-\\nyard.\\nAn cheat like onie unhang d black-\\nguard.\\nThere s some exceptions, man an\\nwoman\\nBut this is Gentry s life in common.\\nBy this, the sun was out o sight,\\nAn darker gloamin brought the\\nnight\\nThe bum-clock humm d wi lazy\\ndrone\\nThe kye stood rowtin i the loan\\nWhen up they gat, an shook their\\nlugs,\\nRejoic d they were na men, but dogs\\nAn each took aff his several way,\\nResolv d to meet some ither day.\\nSCOTCH DRINK.\\nGic him strong drink until he wink.\\nThat s sitikiiio- in despair\\nAn rujuor giiid to fire his bluid.\\nThat s prest 7ui grief an care\\nThere let him bo^ose, and deep carouse.\\nWi bumpers fioiuing o er.\\nTill he forgets his loves or debts.\\nAn minds his griefs no more.\\nSolomon s Fkoverrs, xxxi. 6, 7.\\n[Composed some time between the be-\\nginning of November, 1785, .-ind Feb. 17,\\n1786. The metre is that of Fergusson s", "height": "3043", "width": "1937", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0052.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "SCOTCH DRINK.\\n5\\nCauler Water, of which Scotch Drink\\nis a kind of parody.]\\nLet other poets raise a frdcas\\nBout vines, an wines, an drucken\\nBacchus,\\nAn crabbit names an stories wrack\\nus,\\nAn grate our lug\\n1 sing the juice Scotch bear can mak\\nus,\\nIn glass or jug.\\nO thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch\\ndrink\\nWhether thro wimplin worms thou\\njink,\\nOr, richly brown, ream owre the brink.\\nIn glorious faem.\\nInspire me, till I lisp an wink,\\nTo sing thy name\\nLet husky wheat the haughs adorn.\\nAn aits set up their awnie horn,\\nAn pease an beans, at e en or morn.\\nPerfume the plain\\nLeeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,\\nThou king o grain\\nOn thee aft Scotland chows her cood.\\nIn souple scones, the wale o food\\nOr tumbling in the boiling flood\\nWi kail an beef;\\nBut when tliou pours thy strong\\nheart s blood.\\nThere thou shines chief.\\nFood fills the wame. an keeps us livin\\nTlio life s a gift no worth receivin.\\nWhen heavy-dragg d wi pine an\\ngrievin\\nBut oil d by thee,\\nThe wheels o life gae down-hill,\\nscrievin,\\nWi rattlin glee.\\nThou clears the head o doited Lear,\\nThou cheers the heart o drooping\\nCare\\nThou strings the nerves o Labour\\nsair.\\nAt s weary toil\\nThou ev n brightens dark Despair\\nWi gloomy smile.\\nVII.\\nAft. clad in massy siller weed,\\nWi gentles thou erects thy head\\nYet, humbly kind in time o need,\\nThe poor man s wine\\nHis wee drap parritch, or his bread.\\nThou kitchens line.\\nVIII.\\nThou art the life o public haunts\\nBut thee, what were our fairs and\\nrants\\nEv n godly meetings o the saunts.\\nBy thee inspir d,\\nWhen, gaping, they besiege the tents,\\nAre doubly fir d.\\nThat merry night we get the corn in,\\nO sweetly, then, thou reams the horn\\nin!\\nOr reekin on a New-Year mornin\\nIn cog or bicker.\\nAn just a wee drap sp ritual burn in.\\nAn gusty sucker\\nWhen Vulcan gies his bellows breatli.\\nAn ploughmen gatlier wi their graith,\\nO rare to see thee fizz an freath\\nr th lugget caup\\nThen Burnewin comes on like death\\nAt ev ry chaup.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0053.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "SCOTCH DRINK.\\nNae mercy, then, for aim or steel\\nThe brawnie, painie, ploughman cliiel,\\nBrings hard owreliip, wi sturdy wheel,\\nThe strong forehammer,\\nTill block an studdie ring an reel,\\nWi dinsome clamour.\\nWhen skirlin weanies see the light.\\nThou maks the gossips clatter bright,\\nHow fumbling cuifs their dearies\\nslight\\nWae worth the name\\nNae howdie gets a social niglit,\\nOr plack frae them.\\nWhen neebors anger at a plea,\\nAn just as wud as wud can be,\\nHow easy can the barley-brie\\nCement the quarrel\\nIt s aye the cheapest lawyer s fee,\\nTo taste the barrel.\\nAlake that e er my Muse has reason,\\nTo wyte her countrymen wi treason\\nBut monie daily weet their weason\\nWi liquors nice,\\nAn hardly, in a winter season,\\nE er spier her price.\\nWae worth that brandy, burnin trash\\nFell source o monie a pain an brash\\nTwins monie a poor, doylt, drucken\\nhash,\\nO half his days\\nAn sends, beside, auld Scotland s\\ncash\\nTo her warst faes.\\nYe Scots, wha wish auld Scotland\\nwell\\nYe chief, to you my tale I tell,\\nPoor, plackless devils like mysel\\nIt sets you ill,\\nWi bitter, dcarthfu wines to mell,\\nOr foreign gill.\\nMay gravels round his blather wrench,\\nAn gouts torment him, inch by inch,\\nWha twists his gruntle wi a glunch\\nO sour disdain,\\nOut owre a glass o whisky-punch\\nWi honest men\\nO Whisky soul o plays an pranks\\nAccept a Bardie s gratefu thanks\\nWhen wanting thee, what tuneless\\ncranks\\nAre my poor verses\\nThou comes they rattle i their\\nranks\\nAt ither s arses\\nThee, Ferintosh O sadly lost\\nScotland lament frae coast to coast\\nNow colic grips, an barkin hoast\\nMay kill us a\\nFor loyal Forbes chartered boast\\nIs taen awa!\\nThae curst horse-leeches o th Excise,\\nWHia mak the whisky stells their\\nprize\\nHaud up thy han Deil ance, twice,\\nthrice\\nThere, seize the blinkers\\nAn bake them up in brunstane pies\\nFor poor damn d drinkers.\\nFortune! if thou 11 but gie me still\\nHale breeks, a scone, an whisky gill.\\nAn rowth o rhyme to rave at will,\\nTak a the rest.\\nAn deal t about as thy blind skill\\nDirects thee best.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0054.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "THE AUTHOR S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER.\\nTHE AUTHOR S EARNEST\\nCRY AND PRAYER.\\nTO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES\\nIN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.\\nDearest of dtstillation last and best\\nHow art thou lost 1\\nPakouy on Ml LI on.\\n[In the 1787 edition Burns added a foot-\\nnote, Tiiis was wrote before the Act anent\\nthe Scotcli distilleries, ot session 1786, for\\nwhich Scotland and the autlior return their\\nmost grateful thanks.\\nI.\\nYe Irish lords, ye knights an squires,\\nWha represent our brughs an shires,\\nAn doucely manage our affairs\\nIn Parliament,\\nTo you a simple Bardie s prayers\\nAre humbly sent.\\nAlas! my roupet Muse is haerse\\nYour Honors hearts wi grief twad\\npierce,\\nTo see her sitting on her arse\\nLow i the dust.\\nAnd scriechin out prosaic verse,\\nAn like to brust\\nIII.\\nTell them wha hae the chief direction,\\nScotland an me s in great affliction.\\nE er sin they laid that curst restric-\\ntion\\nOn aqua-vitas\\nAn rouse them up to strong convic-\\ntion,\\nAn move their pity.\\nIV.\\nStand forth, an tell yon Premier\\nyouth\\nThe honest, open, naked trutli\\nTell him o mine an Scotland s\\ndrouth.\\nHis servants humble\\nThe muckle deevil blaw you south,\\nIf ye dissemble\\nDoes onie great man glunch an\\ngloom\\nSpeak out, an never fash your thumb\\nLet posts an pensions sink or soom\\nWi them wha grant em\\nIf honestly they canna come.\\nFar better want em.\\nIn gath rin votes you were na slack\\nNow stand as tightly by your tack\\nNe er claw your lug, an lidge your\\nback.\\nAn hum an haw\\nBut raise your arm, an tell your crack\\nBefore them a\\nPaint Scotland greetin owre her\\nthrissle\\nHer mutchkin stowp as toom s a\\nwhissle\\nAn damn d excisement in a bustle,\\nSeizin a stell,\\nTriumphant, crushin t like a mussel,\\nOr lampit shell\\nThen, on the tither hand, present\\nher\\nA blackguard smuggler right behint\\nher.\\nAn cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner\\nColleaguing join,\\nPickin her pouch as bare as winter\\nOf a kind coin.\\nIs there, that bears the name o Scot,\\nBut feels his heart s bluid rising hot,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0055.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "8\\nTHE AUTHOR S EARNEST CRY AND TkAVER.\\nTo see his poor auld mither\\\\s pot\\nThus dung in staves,\\nAn plundered o her hindmost groat,\\nBy gallows knaves?\\nX.\\nAlas! I m but a nameless wight,\\nTrode i the mire out o sight\\nBut could I like Montgomeries fight,\\nOr gab like Boswell,\\nThere s some sark-necks I wad draw\\ntight.\\nAn tie some hose well.\\nGod bless your Honors! can ye see t,\\nThe kind, auld, cantie carlin greet,\\nAn no get warmly to your feet.\\nAn gar them hear it.\\nAn tell them wi a patriot-heat,\\nYe winna bear it?\\nXII.\\nSome o you nicely ken the laws,\\nTo round the period an pause.\\nAn with rhetoric clause on clause\\nTo mak harangues\\nThen echo thro Saint Stephen s wa s\\nAuld Scotland s wransfs.\\nDempster, a true blue Scot I se warran\\nThee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilker-\\nran\\nAn that glib-gabbet Highland baron.\\nThe Laird o Graham\\nAn ane, a chap that s damn d auld-\\nfarran.\\nDundas his name\\nXIV.\\nErskine, a spunkie Norland billie\\nTrue Campbells, Frederick and Hay;\\nAn Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie\\nAn monie ithers,\\nWhom auld Demosthenes or Tully\\nMight own for brithers.\\nXV.\\nThee sodger Hugh, my watchman\\nstentcd.\\nIf Bardies e er are represented\\nI ken if that your sword were wanted.\\nYe d lend your hand\\nBut when tliere s ought to say anent it,\\nYe re at a stand.\\nArouse, my boys! exert your mettle,\\nTo get auld Scotland back her kettle\\nOr faith I 11 wad my new pleugh-\\npettle.\\nYe 11 see t or lang,\\nShe 11 teach you, wi a reekin whittle,\\nAnither sang.\\nThis while she s been in crankous\\nmood,\\nHer lost Militia fir d her bluid\\n(Deil na they never mair do guid,\\nPlay d her that pliskie!)\\nAn now she s like to rin red-wud\\nAbout her whisky.\\nAn Lord! if ance they pit her till t,\\nHer tartan petticoat she 11 kilt,\\nAn durk an pistol at her belt.\\nShe 11 tak the streets,\\nAn rin her whittle to the hilt,\\nr the first she meets\\nFor God-sake, sirs then speak her\\nfair,\\nAn straik her cannie wi the hair.\\nAn to the Muckle House repair,\\nWi instant speed.\\nAn strive, wi a your wit an lear,\\nTo get re mead.\\nXX.\\nYon ill-tongu d tinkler, Charlie Fox,\\nMay taunt you wi his jeers an mocks", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0056.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "THE AUTHOR S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER.\\nBut gie him t het, my hearty cocks\\nIn spite o a the thievish kaes.\\nE en covve the cadie\\nThat haunt St. Jamie s\\nAll send him to his dicing box\\nYour humble Bardie sings an prays,\\nAn sportin lady.\\nWhile Rab his name is.\\nXXI.\\nPOSTSCRIPT.\\nTell yon guid bluid of auld Bocon-\\nXXVI.\\nnock s.\\n1 11 be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,\\nLet half-starv d slaves in warmer skies\\nAn drink his health in auld Nanse\\nSee future wines, rich-clust ring, rise;\\nTinnock s\\nTheir lot auld Scotland ne er envies.\\nNine times a-week,\\nBut, blythe and frisky,\\nIf he some scheme, like tea an win-\\nShe eyes her freeborn, martial boys\\nnocks,\\nTak aff their whisky.\\nWad kindly seek.\\nXXVII.\\nXXII.\\nWhat tho their Phoebus kinder warms.\\nCould he some commutation broach,\\nWhile fragrance blooms and Beauty\\nI 11 pledge my aith in guid braid\\ncharms.\\nScotch,\\nWhen wretches range, in famish d\\nHe needna fear their foul reproach\\nswarms.\\nNor erudition.\\nThe scented groves\\nYon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-\\nOr, hounded forth, dishonor arms\\npotch,\\nIn hungry droves\\nThe Coahtion.\\nXXVIII.\\nXXIII.\\nTheir gun s a burden on their\\nAuld Scotland has a raucle tongue\\nshouther\\nShe s just a devil wi a rung\\nThey downa bide the stink o pow-\\nAn if she promise auld or young\\nther\\nTo tak their part,\\nTheir bauldest thought s a hank ring\\nTho by the neck she should be\\nswither\\nstrung,\\nTo Stan or rin,\\nShe 11 no desert.\\nTill skelp a shot they re aff, a\\nthrow ther,\\nXXIV.\\nTo save their skin.\\nAnd now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,\\nMay still your mither s heart support\\nXXIX.\\nye\\nBut bring a Scotsman frae his hill,\\nThen, tho a minister grow dorty,\\nClap in his cheek a Highland gill,\\nAn kick your place,\\nSay, such is royal George s will.\\nYe 11 snap your fingers, poor an\\nAn there s the foe\\nhearty.\\nHe has nae thought but how to kill\\nBefore his face.\\nTwa at a blow.\\nXXV.\\nXXX.\\nGod bless your Honors, a your days.\\nNae cauld. faint-hearted doublings\\nWi sowps o kail and brats o claes,\\ntease him", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0057.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "10\\nTHE HOLY FAIR.\\nDeath comes, wi fearless eye he sees\\nhim\\nWi bluidy han a welcome gies him\\nAn when he fa s,\\nHis latest draught o breathin lea es\\nhim\\nIn faint huzzas.\\nXXXI.\\nSages their solemn een may steek\\nAn raise a philosophic reek,\\nAn physically causes seek\\nIn clime an season\\nBut teil me whisky s name in Greek\\nI 11 tell the reason.\\nScotland, my auld, respected mither!\\nTho whiles ye moistify your leather,\\nTill whare ye sit on craps o heather\\nYe tine your dam.\\nFreedom and whisky gang thegither,\\nTak atf your dram\\nTHE HOLY FAIR.\\nA robe of seeming truth and trust\\nHid crafty observation\\nAnd secret huu^^, with poison d crust.\\nThe dirk of defamation\\nA mask that like the gorget show d,\\nDye-varying on the pigeon\\nAnd for a mantle large and broad,\\nHe wrapt him itt Religion.\\nHypocrisy A-la-mode.\\nHoly Fair is a common phrase in the\\nWest of Scotland for a sacramental occa-\\nsion. (R. B. in Edinburgh editions.) The\\nsatire is chiefly concerned with the tent-\\npreaching outside the church while the Com-\\nmunion service went on within. Andrew\\nLang says, As Lockhart justly observes,\\nBurns in another mood could have given a\\nsolemn picture of a very solemn occasion.\\nI.\\nUpon a simmer Sunday morn.\\nWhen Nature s face is fair,\\nI walked forth to view the corn.\\nAn snuff the caller air.\\nThe rising sun, owre Galston Muirs,\\nWi glorious light was glintin\\nThe hares were hirplin down the furs.\\nThe lav rocks they w^ere chantin\\nFu sweet that day.\\nAs lightsomely I glowr d abroad,\\nTo see a scene sae gay.\\nThree hizzies, early at the road,\\nCam skelpin up the way.\\nTwa had manteeles o dolefu black,\\nBut ane wi lyart lining\\nThe third, that gaed a wee a-back,\\nWas in the fashion shining\\nF u gay that day.\\nThe twa appear d like sisters twin.\\nIn feature, form, an claes\\nTheir visage witlier d, lang an thin,\\nAn sour as onie slaes\\nThe third cam up, hap-step-an -lowp,\\nAs light as onie lambie,\\nAn wi a curchie low did stoop.\\nAs soon as e er she saw me,\\nFu kind that day.\\nIV.\\nWi bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass,\\nI think ye seem to ken me\\nI m sure I e seen that bonie face,\\nBut yet I canna name ye.\\nQuo she, an laughin as she spak,\\nAn taks me by the ban s,\\nYe, for my sake, hae gi en the feck\\nOf a the Ten Comman s\\nA screed some day.\\nMy name is Fun your cronie dear,\\nThe nearest friend ye hae\\nAn this is Superstition here.\\nAn that s Hypocrisy.\\nI m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,\\nTo spend an hour in daffin\\nGin ye 11 go there, yon runkl d pair,\\nWe will get famous laughin\\nAt them this day.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0058.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "THE HOLY FAIR.\\nII\\nQuoth I, Wi a my heart, I 11 do t\\n1 11 get my Sunday s sark on,\\nAn meet you on the holy spot\\nFaith, we Ise hae fine remarkin!\\nThen I gaed hame at crowdie-time,\\nAn soon 1 made me ready\\nFor roads were clad, frae side to side,\\nWi monie a wearie body.\\nIn droves that day.\\nHere farmers gash, in ridin graith,\\nGaed hoddin by their cotters\\nThere swankies young, in braw braid-\\nclaith.\\nAre springin owre the gutters.\\nThe lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang.\\nIn silks an scarlets glitter;\\nWi sweet-milk cheese, in monie a\\nwhang,\\nAn farls, bak d wi butter,\\nFu crump that day.\\nWhen by the plate we set our nose,\\nWeel heaped up wi ha pence,\\nA greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,\\nAn we maun draw our tippence.\\nThen in we go to see the show\\nOn ev ry side they re gath rin\\nSome carryin dails, some chairs an\\nstools.\\nAn some are busy bletli rin\\nRight loud that day.\\nHere stands a shed to fend the\\nshow rs.\\nAn screen our countra gentry\\nThere Racer Jess, an twa-three\\nwhores.\\nAre blinkin at the entry.\\nHere sits a raw o tittlin jads,\\nWi heavin breasts an bare neck\\nAn there a batch o wabster lads,\\nBlackguardin frae Kilmarnock,\\nFor fun this day.\\nHere some are thinkin on their sins,\\nAn some upo their claes\\nAne curses feet that fyl d his shins,\\nAnither sighs an prays\\nOn this hand sits a chosen swatch,\\nWi screw d-up, grace-proud faces\\nOn that a set o chaps, at watch,\\nThrang winkin on the lasses\\nTo chairs that day.\\nXI.\\nO happy is that man an blest!\\nNae wonder that it pride him!\\nWhase ain dear lass, that he likes best,\\nComes clinkin down beside him!\\nWi arm reposed on the chair back.\\nHe sweetly does compose him\\nWhich, by degrees, slips round her\\nneck,\\nAn s loof upon her bosom,\\nUnkend that day.\\nNow a the congregation o er\\nIs silent expectation\\nf^or Moodie speels the holy door,\\nWi tidings o damnation\\nShould Hornie, as in ancient days,\\nMang sons o God present him\\nThe vera sight o Moodie s face\\nTo s ain het hame had sent him\\nWi fright that day.\\nHear how he clears the points o Faith\\nWi rattlin and thumpin!\\nNow meekly calm, now wild in wrath,\\nHe s stampin, an he s jumpin!\\nHis lengthen d chin, his turn d-up\\nsnout.\\nHis eldritch squeel an gestures,\\nO how they fire the heart devout\\nLike cantharidian plaistcrs\\nOn sic a day.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0059.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "12\\nTHE HOLY FAIR.\\nBut hark! the tent has changed its\\nvoice\\nThere s peace an rest nae langer;\\nF(ir a the real judges rise.\\nThey canna sit for anger\\nSniilh opens out his cauld harangues,\\nOn ractice and on morals\\nAn at^t the godly pour in thrangs,\\nro gie the jars an barrels\\nA lift that day.\\nXV.\\nWhat signifies his barren shine,\\nOf moral pow rs an reason\\nHis Englisli style, an gesture fine\\nAre a clean out o season.\\nLike Socrates or Antonine.\\nOr some auld pagan heathen,\\nThe moral man he does define,\\nBut ne er a word o faith in\\nThat s right that day.\\nXVI.\\nIn guid time comes an antidote\\nAgainst sic poison d nostmm\\nFor Peebles, frae the water-fit,\\nAscends the holy rostrum\\nSee, up he s got the word o God,\\nAn meek an mim has view d it,\\nWhile Common-sense has taen the\\nroad,\\nAn aff, an up the Cowgate\\nFast, fast that day.\\nXVII.\\nWee Miller niest, the guard relieves,\\nAn orthodoxy raibles.\\nThe in his heart he weel believes.\\nAn thinks it auld wives fables\\nBut faith! the birkie wants a manse\\nSo, cannilie he hums them\\nAltho his carnal wit an sense\\nLike hafrtins-wise o ercomes him\\nAt times that day.\\nNow butt an ben the change-house\\nfills,\\nWi yill-caup commentators\\nHere s crying out for bakes an gills,\\nAn there the pint-stowp clatters;\\nWhile thick an thrang, an loud an\\nlang,\\nWi logic an wi Scripture,\\nThey raise a din, that in the end\\nIs like to breed a rupture\\nO wrath that day.\\nLeeze me on drink! it gies us mair\\nThan either school or college\\nIt kindles wit, it waukens lear.\\nIt pangs us fou o knowledge\\nBe t whisky-gill or penny wheep,\\nOr onie stronger potion,\\nIt never fails, on drinkin deep,\\nTo kittle up our notion,\\nBy night or day.\\nXX.\\nThe lads an lasses, blythely bent\\nTo mind baith sauI an body,\\nSit round the table, weel content,\\nAn steer al)out the toddy\\nOn this ane s dress, an that ane s leuk,\\nThey re makin observations;\\nWhile some are cozie i the neuk.\\nAn formin assignations\\nTo meet some day.\\nBut now the Lord s ain trumpet touts,\\nTill a the hills are rairin.\\nAnd echoes back return the shouts\\nBlack Russell is na spairin\\nHis piercin words, like Highlan\\nswords.\\nDivide the joints an marrow\\nHis talk o Hell, whare devils dwell,\\nOur verra sauls does harrow\\nWi fright that day!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0060.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.\\n13\\nA vast, unbottom d, boundless pit,\\nFiird fou o lovvin brunstane,\\nWhase ragin flame, an scorchin heat.\\nWad melt the hardest whun-stane!\\nThe half-asleep start up wi fear.\\nAn think they hear it roarin\\nWhen presently it does appear,\\nT was but some neebor snorin\\nAsleep that day.\\nT wad be owre lang a tale to tell,\\nHow monie stories past\\nAn how they crouded to the yill,\\nWhen they were a dismist\\nHow drink gaed round, in cogs an\\ncaups,\\nAmang the furms an benches\\nAn cheese an bread, frae women s\\nlaps,\\nWas dealt about in lunches.\\nAn dawds that day.\\nIn comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,\\nAn sits down by the fire.\\nSyne draws herkebbuck an her knife\\nThe lasses they are shyer:\\nThe auld guidmen, about the grace,\\nFrae side to side they bother\\nTill some ane by his bonnet lays,\\nAn gies them t, like a tether,\\nFu lang that day.\\nWaesucks for him that gets nae lass,\\nOr lasses that hae naething!\\nSma need has he to say a grace.\\nOr nielvie his braw claithing!\\nO wives, be mindfu ance yoursel,\\nHow bonie lads ye wanted\\nAn dinna for a kebbuck-heel\\nLet lasses be affronted\\nOn sic a day!\\nNow Clinkumbell, wi rattlin tow.\\nBegins to jow an croon\\nSome swagger hame the best they\\ndow,\\nSome wait the afternoon.\\nAt slaps the billies halt a blink,\\nTill lasses strip their shoon\\nWi faith an hope, an love an drink.\\nThey re a in famous tune\\nFor crack that day.\\nXXVII.\\nHow monie hearts this day converts\\nO sinners and o lasses!\\nTheir hearts o stane, gin night, are\\ngane\\nAs saft as onie flesh is\\nThere s some are fou o love divine\\nThere s some are fou o brandy\\nAn monie jobs that day begin.\\nMay end in houghmagandie\\nSome ither day.\\nADDRESS TO THE DEIL.\\nO Prince/ O Chief of many throned pow rs f\\nThat led th embattl d seraphim to war.\\nMilton.\\n[Gilbert Burns states that his brother\\nfirst repeated the Address to the Deil in\\nthe winter following; the summer of 1784,\\nwhile they were going together with carts\\nof coal to the family fire. But it is clear\\nfrom Burns s letter to Richmond, Feb. 12,\\n17S6, that Gilbert misdates the poem by a\\nyear. The Address is in part a good-\\nnatured burlesque on Milton s Satan.]\\nO Thou whatever title suit thee\\nAuld Hornie, Satan. Nick, or Clootie\\nWha in yon cavern grim an sootie,\\nClos d under hatches,\\nSpairges about the brunstane cootie,\\nTo scaud poor wretches", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0061.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "14\\nADDRESS TO THE DEIL.\\nHear me, Auld Hangie. for a wee,\\nAn let poor damned bodies be\\nI m sure sma pleasure it can gie,\\nEv n to a deil.\\nTo skelp an scaud poor dogs like me\\nAn hear us squeel.\\nIII.\\nGreat is thy pow r an great thy fame\\nFar kend an noted is thy name\\nAn tho yon lowin heugh s thy hame,\\nThou travels far\\nAn faith thou s neither lag, nor lame,\\nNor blate, nor scaur.\\nIV.\\nWhyles, ranging like a roarin lion,\\nFor prey, a holes an corners trying\\nWhyles, on the strong-wing d tempest\\nfiyin,\\nTirlin the kirks\\nWhyles, in the human bosom pryin.\\nUnseen thou lurks.\\nI ve heard my rev rend graunie say,\\nIn lanely glens ye like to stray\\nOr, where auld ruin d castles grey\\nNod to the moon.\\nYe fright the nightly wand rer s way\\nWi eldritch croon.\\nWhen twilight did my graunie sum-\\nmon.\\nTo say her pray rs, douce, honest\\nwoman\\nAft yont the dyke she s heard you\\nbummin,\\nWi eerie drone\\nOr, rustlin, thro the boortrees comin,\\nWi heavy groan.\\nAe dreary, windy, winter night.\\nThe stars shot down wi sklenlin\\nlight,\\nWi you mysel, I gat a fright\\nAyont the lough,\\nYe, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,\\nWi waving sugh.\\nThe cudgel in my nieve did shake.\\nEach bristl d hair stood like a stake;\\nWhen wi an eldritch, stoor quaick,\\nquaick,\\nAmang the springs,\\nAwa ye squatter d like a drake,\\nOn whistling wings.\\nIX.\\nLet warlocks grim, an wither d hags.\\nTell how wi you, on ragweed nags.\\nThey skim the muirs an dizzy crags,\\nWi wicked speed\\nAnd in kirk-yards renew their leagues,\\nOwre howkit dead.\\nThence, countra wives, wi toil an pain.\\nMay plunge an plunge the kirn in\\nvain\\nFor O the yellow treasure s taen\\nBy witching skill\\nAn dawtit, twal-pint, hawkie s gaen\\nAs yell s the bill.\\nXI.\\nThence, mystic knots mak great abuse\\nOn young guidmen, fond, keen an\\ncroose\\nWhen the best wark-Iume i the house,\\nBy cantraip wit.\\nIs instant made no worth a louse.\\nJust at the bit.\\nXII.\\nWhen thowes dissolve the snawy\\nhoord.\\nAn float the jinglin icy boord.\\nThen, water-kelpies haunt the foord,\\nBy your direction,\\nAn nighted trav llcrs are allur d\\nTo their destruction.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0062.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE.\\n15\\nXIII.\\nAnd aft your moss-traversing spunkies\\nDecoy the wight that late an drunk is\\nThe bleezin, curst, mischievous\\nmonkies\\nDelude his eyes,\\nTill in some miry slough he sunk is,\\nNe er mair to rise.\\nWhen Masons mystic word an grip\\nIn storms an tempests raise you up.\\nSome cock or cat your rage maun stop,\\nOr, strange to tell\\nThe youngest brother ye wad whip\\nAfFstraught to hell.\\nLang syne in Eden s bonie yard.\\nWhen youthfu lovers first were pair d.\\nAn all the soul of love they shar d,\\nThe rapturd hour,\\nSweet on the fragrant flow ry swaird,\\nIn shady bow r\\nXVI.\\nThen you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog\\nYe cam to Paradise incog.\\nAn play d on man a cursed brogue\\n(Black be your fa\\nAn gied the infant warld a shog,\\nMaist ruin d a\\nD ye mind that day when in a bizz\\nWe reekit duds, an reestit gizz.\\nYe did present your smoutie phiz\\nMang better folk\\nAn sklented on the man of Uzz\\nYour spitefu joke\\nAn how ye gat him i your thrall.\\nAn brak him out o house an hal\\nWhile scabs an botches did him gall,\\nWi bitter claw\\nAn lows d his ill-tongu d wicked\\nscaul\\nWas warst ava\\nBut a your doings to rehearse.\\nYour wily snares an fechtin fierce,\\nSin that day Michael did you pierce\\nDown to this time.\\nWad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,\\nIn prose or rhyme.\\nAn now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye re\\nthinkin,\\nA certain Bardie s rantin, drinkin.\\nSome luckless hour will send him lin-\\nkin.\\nTo your black Pit\\nBut, faith! he ll turn a corner jinkin,\\nAn cheat you yet.\\nBut fare-you-weel, Auld Nickie-Ben!\\nO, wad ye tak a thought an men\\nYe aiblins might I dinna ken\\nStill hae a stake\\nI m wae to think upo yon den,\\nEv n for your sake\\nTHE DEATH AND DYING\\nWORDS OF POOR MAILIE.\\nTHE author s only PET YOWE AN\\nUNCO MOURNFU TALE.\\nPoor Mailie, says Lockhart, follow-\\ning Gilbert Burns, was a real personage,\\nthough she did not actually die until some\\ntime after her last words were written. She\\nhad been purchased by Burns in a frolic,\\nand became exceedingly attached to his\\nperson, as the pig loved Sir Walter Scott.\\nLike Scott, Burns was much loved by ani-\\nmals, whom he has made immortal.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nAs Mailie, an her lambs thegither.\\nWas ae day nibblin on the tether.\\nUpon her cloot she coost a hitch,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0063.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "i6\\nPOOR MAILIE S ELEGY.\\nAn owre she warsl d in the ditch\\nThere, groanin, dying, she did he,\\nWhen Hughoc he cam doytin by.\\nWi glowrin een, an lifted han s\\nPoor Hughoc hke a statue stan s\\nHe saw her days were near-hand\\nended,\\nBut, wae s my heart! he could na\\nmend it\\nHe gapid wide, but naething spak.\\nAt length poor Mailie silence brak\\nO thou, whase lamentable face\\nAppears to mourn my woefu case!\\nMy dying words attentive hear.\\nAn bear them to my Master dear.\\nTell him, if e er again he keep\\nAs muckle gear as buy a sheep\\nO, bid him never tie them mair,\\nWi wicked strings o hemp or hair\\nBut ca them out to park or hill,\\nAn let them wander at their will\\nSo may his flock increase, an grow\\nTo scores o lambs, an packs o woo\\nTell him, he was a Master kin\\nAn ay was guid to me an mine\\nAn now my dying charge I gie him,\\nMy helpless lambs, I trust them wi\\nhim.\\nO, bid him save their harmless\\nlives,\\nFrae dogs, an tods, an butchers\\nknives\\nBut gie them guid cow-milk their fill,\\nTill they be fit to fend themsel\\nAn tent them duly, e en an morn,\\nWi teats o hay an ripps o corn.\\nAn may they never learn thegaets.\\nOf ither vile, wanrestfu pets\\nTo slink thro slaps, an reave an\\nsteal.\\nAt stacks o pease, or stocks o kail\\nSo may they, like their great forbears,\\nFor monie a year come thro the\\nsheers\\nSo wives will gie them bits o bread.\\nAn bairns greet for them when they re\\ndead.\\nMy poor toop-lamb, my son an\\nheir,\\nO, bid him breed him up wi care!\\nAn if he live to be a beast,\\nTo pit some havins in his breast!\\nAn warn him what I winna name\\nTo stay content wi yovvcs at hame\\nAn no to rin an wear his cloots,\\nLike other menseless, graceless brutes.\\nAn niest, my yowie, silly thing\\nGude keep thee frae a tether string!\\nO, may thou ne er forgather up,\\nWi onie blastit, moorland toop\\nBut ay keep mind to moop an mell,\\nWi sheep o credit like thysel\\nAnd now, my bairns, wi my last\\nbreath,\\nI lea e my blessin wi you baith\\nAn when you think upo your mither,\\nMind to be kind to ane anither.\\nNow, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,\\nTo tell my master a my tale\\nAn bid him burn this cursed tether,\\nAn for thy pains thou se get my\\nblether.\\nThis said, poor Mailie turn d her\\nhead,\\nAn clos d her een amangf the dead!\\nPOOR MAILIE S ELEGY.\\nLament in rhyme, lament in prose,\\nWi saut tears tricklin down your\\nnose\\nOur Bardie s fate is at a close,\\nPast a re mead\\nThe last, sad cape-stane of his woes;\\nPoor Mailie s dead!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0064.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.\\n17\\nIt s no the loss of warrs gear,\\nThat could sae bitter draw the tear,\\nOr niak our Bardie, dowie, wear\\nThe mourning weed\\nHe s lost a friend an neebor dear\\nIn Mailie dead.\\nin.\\nThro a the toun she trotted by him\\nA lang half-mile she could descry him\\nWi kindly bleat, when she did spy\\nhim.\\nShe ran wi speed\\nA friend mair faithfu ne er cam nigh\\nhim,\\nThan Mailie dead.\\nI wat she was a sheep o sense,\\nAn could behave hersel wi mense\\nI 11 say t, she never brak a fence.\\nThro thievish greed.\\nOur Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence\\nSin Mailie s dead.\\nOr, if he wanders up the howe,\\nHer livin image in her yowe\\nComes bleatin till him, owre the\\nknowe.\\nFor bits o bread\\nAn down the briny pearls rowe\\nFor Mailie dead.\\nSlie was nae get o moorlan tips,\\nWi tawted ket, an hairy hips\\nFor her forbears were brought in\\nships,\\nFrae yont the Tweed\\nA bonier fleesh ne er cross d the clips\\nThan Mailie s dead.\\nWae worth the man wha first did\\nshape\\nC\\nThat vile, wanchancie thing a rape!\\nIt maks guid fellows girn an gape,\\nWi chokin dread\\nAn Robin s bonnet wave wi crape\\nFor Mailie dead.\\nO a ye bards on bonie Doon!\\nAn wha on Ayr your chanters tune!\\nCome, join the melancholious croon\\nO Robin s reed!\\nHis heart will never get aboon!\\nHis Mailie s dead!\\nEPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.\\nFriendship, viysterious cement of the soul I\\nSweet Iter of Life, and solder of Society\\nI owe thee much\\nBlair.\\n[The recipient of this epistle was the son\\nof Robert Smith, merchant, Mauchline.\\nHe was six years younger than the poet.\\nHe removed to Jamaica about 1788, where\\nhe died. His sister s wit is celebrated in\\nThe Belles of Mauchline. The Epistle\\nwas probably written early in 1786.]\\nDear Smith, the slee st, pawkie thief,\\nThat e er attempted stealth or rief\\nYe surely hae some warlock-breef\\nOwre human hearts\\nFor ne er a bosom yet was prief\\nAgainst your arts.\\nFor me, I swear by sun an moon,\\nAnd ev ry star that blinks aboon,\\nYe ve cost me twenty pair o shoon,\\nJust gaun to see you\\nAnd ev ry ither pair that s done,\\nMair taen I m wi you.\\nIII.\\nThat auld, capricious carlin. Nature,\\nTo mak amends for scrimpit stature.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0065.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "i8\\nEl lSTLK TO JAMKS SMIIII.\\nShe s turn d you off, a human-creature\\nOn her first plan\\nAnd in her freaks, on ev ry feature\\nShe s wrote the Man.\\nJust now I Ve taen the fit o rliyme,\\nMy Ijarmie noddle s working prime.\\nMy fancy yerkit up sublime,\\nWi hasty summon\\nHae ye a leisure-moment s time\\nTo hear what s comin\\nSome rhyme a neebor s name to lash\\nSome rhyme (vain thought!) for need-\\nfu cash\\nSome rhyme to court the countra\\nclash,\\nAn raise a din\\nFor me, an aim I never fash\\nI rhyme for fun.\\nVI.\\nThe star that rules my luckless lot,\\nHas fated me the russet coat.\\nAn damn d my fortune to the groat\\nBut, in requit,\\nHas blest me with a random-shot\\nO countra wit.\\nThis while my motion s taen a sklent,\\nTo try my fate in guid, black prent\\nBut still the mair I m that way bent,\\nSomething cries, Hoolie!\\nI red you, honest man, tak tent!\\nYe 11 shaw your folly\\nThere s ither poets, much your\\nbetters,\\nFar seen in Greek, deep men o letters,\\nHae thought they had ensur d their\\ndebtors,\\nA future ages\\nNow moths deform, in shapeless\\ntatters,\\nTheir unknown pages.\\nIX.\\nThen farewell hopes o laurel-boughs\\nTo garland my poetic brows!\\nHenceforth 1 11 rove where busy\\nploughs\\nAre whistling thrang\\nAn teach the lanely heights an howes\\nMy rustic sang.\\nI 11 wander on, wi tentless heed\\nHow never-halting moments speed.\\nTill Fate shall snap the brittle thread\\nThen, all unknown,\\nI 11 lay me with th inglorious dead,\\nForgot and gone!\\nBut why o death begin a tale?\\nJust now we re living sound an hale\\nThen top and maintop crowd the sail.\\nHeave Care o er-side!\\nAnd large, before Enjoyment s gale,\\nLet s tak the tide.\\nXII.\\nThis life, sae far s I understand,\\nIs a enchanted fairy-land.\\nWhere Pleasure is the magic-wand.\\nThat, wielded right,\\nMaks hours like minutes, hand in\\nhand.\\nDance by fu light.\\nThe magic-wand then let us wield\\nFor, ance that five-an -forty s speel d,\\nSee, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,\\nWi wrinkl d face.\\nComes hostin, hirplin owre the field,\\nWi creepin pace.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0066.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.\\n19\\nWhen ance life s day draws near the\\ngloamin,\\nThen fareweel vacant, careless roamin\\nAn fareweel chearfif tankards foamin,\\nAn social noise\\nAn fareweel dear, deluding Woman,\\nThe joy of joys!\\nO Life! how pleasant, in thy morn-\\ning.\\nYoung Fancy s rays the hills adorn-\\ning!\\nCold-pausing Caution s lesson scorn-\\ning.\\nWe frisk away,\\nLike school-boys, at th expected\\nwarning.\\nTo joy an play.\\nWe wander there, we wander here,\\nWe eye the rose upon the brier,\\nUnmindful that the thorn is near,\\nAmong the leaves\\nAnd tho the puny wound appear,\\nShort while it grieves.\\nXVII.\\nSome, lucky, find a flow ry spot,\\nFor which they never toil d nor swat\\nThey drink the sweet and eat the fat,\\nBut care or pain\\nAnd haply eye the barren hut\\nWith high disdain.\\nXVIII.\\nWith steady aim, some Fortune\\nchase\\nKeen Hope does evVy sinew brace\\nThro fair, thro foul, they urge the\\nrace.\\nAnd seize the prey\\nThen cannie. in some cozie place,\\nThey close the day.\\nAnd others, like your humble servan\\nPoor wights nae rules nor roads\\nobservin.\\nTo right or left eternal swervin,\\nTliey zig-zag on\\nTill, curst with age, obscur an starvin,\\nThey aften groan.\\nAlas! what bitter toil an straining\\nBut truce with peevish, poor com-\\nplaining!\\nIs Fortune s fickle L7iiia waning?\\nE en let her gang\\nBeneath what light she has remain-\\ning?\\nLet s sing our sang:.\\nMy pen I here fling to the door.\\nAnd kneel, ye Pow rs! and warm im-\\nplore,\\nTho I should wander Terra o er,\\nIn all her climes.\\nGrant me but this, I ask no more,\\nAy rowth o rhymes.\\nXXII.\\nGie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,\\nTill icicles hing fi-ae their beards\\nGie fine braw claes to fine life-guards\\nAnd maids of honor\\nAnd yill an whisky gie to cairds,\\nUntil they sconner.\\nA title, Dempster merits it;\\nA garter gie to Willie Pitt\\nGie wealth to some be-ledger d cit.\\nIn cent, per cent.\\nBut give me real, sterling wit,\\nAnd I m content\\nXXIV.\\nWhile ye are pleas d to keep me hale,\\nI 11 sit down o er my scanty meal,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0067.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "A DREAM.\\nBeH water-brose or muslin kail,\\nWi cheerfu face,\\nAs laiig s the Muses dinna fail\\nTo say the grace.\\nAn anxious e e I never throws\\nBehint my lug, or by my nose\\n1 jouk beneath Misfortune s blows\\nAs weel s 1 may\\nSworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,\\nI rhyme away.\\nXXVI.\\nO ye douce folk that live by rule,\\nGrave, tideless-blooded. calm an cool,\\nComiDar d wi you O fool! fool!\\nfool!\\nHow much unlike!\\nYour hearts are just a standing pool,\\nYour lives a dyke!\\nNae hair-brained, sentimental traces\\nIn your unlettered, nameless faces!\\nIn arioso trills and graces\\nYe never stray\\nViMi gravissiiiio^ solemn basses\\nYe hum away.\\nYe are sae grave, nae doubt ye re\\nwise\\nNae ferly tho ye do despise\\nThe hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys.\\nThe rattling squad\\nI see ye upward cast your eyes\\nYe ken the road!\\nWhilst I but I shall baud me there,\\nWi you I 11 scarce gang onie where\\nThen, Jamie, I sliall say nae mair.\\nBut quat my sang.\\nContent wi you to mak a pair,\\nWhare er I gang.\\nA DREAM.\\nThoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute\\nblames with reason\\nBut surely Dreams were ne er indicted\\nTreason.\\n[The leaning to JacoVjitism in this ad-\\ndress displeased some of his loyal patrons,\\nwho ol)jected to its retention in the 1787\\nedition, unless modified. But Burns wrote\\nto Mrs. Dimlop that he was not very\\namenable to counsel in such a matter;\\nand his sentiments once published, he\\nscorned either to withdraw them or to di-\\nlute his expression.]\\nOn reading in the public papers, the\\nLaureate s Ode with the other parade of\\nJune 4tli, 1786, the Author was no sooner\\ndropt asleep, than he imagined himself\\ntransported to the Birth-day Levee and,\\nin his dreaming fancy, made the following\\nAddress\\nGuiD-MORNiN to your Majesty!\\nMay Heaven augment your blisses,\\nOn ev ry new birth-day ye see,\\nA humble Poet wishes\\nMy Hardship here, at your Levee,\\nOn sic a day as this is.\\nIs sure an uncouth sight to see,\\nAmang thae birth-day dresses\\nSae fine this day.\\nI see ye re complimented thrang,\\nBy monie a lord an lady\\nGod Saiic tiie King s a cuckoo sang\\nThat s unco easy said ay\\nThe poets, too, a venal gang,\\nWi rhymes weel-turn d an ready.\\nWad gar you trow ye ne er do wrang,\\nBut ay unerring steady.\\nOn sic a day.\\nFor me! before a Monarch s face,\\nEv n there I winna flatter\\nFor neither pension, post, nor place,\\nAm I your humble debtor", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0068.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "A DREAM.\\nSo, nae reflection on your Grace,\\nYour Kino sliip to bespatter;\\nThere s monie waur been o the race,\\nAnd aibhns ane been better\\nThan you this day.\\nIV.\\nTis very true my sovereign King,\\nMy skill may weel be doubted\\nBut facts are chiels that winna ding,\\nAnd downa be disputed\\nYour royal nest, beneath your wing,\\nIs e en right reft and clouted.\\nAnd now the third part o the string,\\nAn less, will gang about it\\nThan did ae day.\\nFar be H frae me that I aspire\\nTo blame your legislation,\\nOr say, ye wisdom want, or fire\\nTo rule this mighty nation\\nBut faith I muckle doubt, my sire\\nYe ve trusted ministration\\nTo cliaps wha in a barn or byre\\nWad better filPd their station,\\nThan courts yon day.\\nVI.\\nAnd now ye Ve gien auld Britain\\npeace,\\nHer broken shins to plaister;\\nYour sair taxation does her fleece.\\nTill she has scarce a tester\\nFor me, thank God, my life s a lease,\\nNae bargain wearin faster,\\nOr fciith I fear, that, wi the geese,\\nI shortly boost to pasture\\nr the craft some day.\\nI m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,\\nWhen taxes lie enlarges,\\n(An Will s a true guid fallow s get,\\nA name not envy spairges).\\nThat he intends to pay your debt,\\nAn lessen a your charges\\nBut. God sake! let nae saving fit\\nAbridge your bonie barges\\nAn boats this day.\\nVIII.\\nAdieu, my Liege may Freedom geek\\nBeneath your high protection\\nAn may ye rax Corruption s neck.\\nAnd gie her for dissection\\nBut since I m here I II no neglect,\\nIn loyal, tme affection,\\nTo pay your Queen, wi due respect,\\nMy fealty an subjection\\nThis great birth-day.\\nHail, Majesty most Excellent!\\nWhile nobles strive to please ye,\\nWill ye accept a compliment,\\nA simple Bardie gies ye?\\nThae bonie bairntime Heav n has lent,\\nStill higher may they heeze ye\\nIn bliss, till Fate some day is sent.\\nFor ever to release ye\\nFrae care that day.\\nFor 3-0U, young Potentate o Wales,\\nI tell your Highness fairly,\\nDown Pleasure s stream, wi swelling\\nsails,\\nI m tauld ye re driving rarely\\nBut some day you may gnaw your\\nnails,\\nAn curse your folly sairly.\\nThat e er ye brak Diana s pales,\\nOr rattl d dice wi Charlie\\nBy night or day.\\nXI.\\nYet aft a ragged cowte s been known,\\nTo mak a noble aiver\\nSo, ye may doucely fill a throne.\\nFor a their clish-ma-claver\\nThere, him at Agincourt wha shone,\\nFew better were or braver", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0069.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "THE VISION.\\nAnd yet, wi funny, queer Sir John,\\nHe was an unco shaver\\nFor monie a day.\\nXII.\\nFor you, right revVend Osnaburg,\\nNane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,\\nAltho a ribban at your lug\\nWad been a dress completer:\\nx\\\\.s ye disown yon paughty dog.\\nThat bears the keys of Peter,\\nThen Swith! an get a wife to hug,\\nOr trowth, yeUl stain the mitre\\nSome luckless day!\\nYoung, royal Tary-breeks, I learn,\\nYe ve lately come athwart her\\nA glorious galley, stem an stern\\nWeel rigg d for Venus barter\\nBut first hang out that she 11 discern\\nYour hymeneal charter\\nThen heave aboard your grapple-airn.\\nAn large upon her quarter,\\nCome full that day.\\nYe, lastly, bonie blossoms a\\nYe royal lasses dainty,\\nHeav n mak you guid as weel as\\nbraw.\\nAn gie you lads a-plenty!\\nBut sneer na British boys awa!\\nFor king are unco scant ay,\\nAn German gentles are but sma\\nThey re better just than want ay\\nOn onie day.\\nGod bless you a consider now,\\nYe re unco muckle dautet\\nBut ere the course o life be through,\\nIt may be bitter sautet\\nAn I hae seen their coggie fou.\\nThat yet hae tarrow t at it\\nBut or the day was done, I trow,\\nThe laggen they hae clautet\\nFu clean that day.\\nTHE VISION.\\n[The division into Duans was bor-\\nrowed from Ossian, Duan, a term of\\nOssiun s for the different divisions of a\\ndigressive ]3oeni. Fourteen stanzas of this\\npoem as originally composed were withheld\\nby liiuns from publication, and were first\\nprintrd {1852) in Chambers s edition from\\nthe Stair MS., then in the possession of\\nMr. Dick of Irvine. In all likelihood the\\npublished stanzas were revised for the Kil-\\nmarnock volume, the others remaining un-\\ntouched.]\\nDUAN FIRST.\\nThe sun had clos d the winter day,\\nThe curlers quat their roaring play,\\nAnd hunger d maukin taen her way,\\nTo kail-yards green,\\nWhile faithless snaws ilk step betray\\nWhare she has been.\\nThe thresher s weary flingin-tree,\\nThe lee-lang day had tired me\\nAnd when the day had clos d his e e\\nFar i the west,\\nBen i the spence, right pensivelie,\\nI 2:aed to rest.\\nThere, lanely by the ingle-cheek,\\nI sat and ey d the spewing reek.\\nThat fill d, wi hoast-provoking smeek,\\nTlie auld clay biggin\\nAn heard the restless rattons squeak\\nAbout the rijrsin.\\nAll in this mottie, inisty clime,\\nI backward mus d on wasted time\\nHow I had spent my youthfu prime,\\nAn done naetliing,\\nBut stringing blethers up in rhyme,\\nFor fools to sing.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0070.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "THE VISION.\\n23\\nHad I to guid advice but harkit,\\nI might, by tliis, hae led a market,\\nOr strutted in a bank and ckirkit\\nMy cash-account\\nWhile here, half-mad, half-fed, half-\\nsarkit,\\nIs a th amount.\\nI started, mutt ring Blockhead coof\\nAn heav d on high my waukit loof,\\nTo swear by a yon starry roof,\\nOr some rash aith.\\nThat I henceforth would be rhyme-\\nproof\\nTill my last breath\\nWhen click! the string the snick did\\ndraw\\nAnd jee! the door gaed to the wa\\nAnd by my ingle-Iowe I saw,\\nNow bleezin bright,\\nA tight, outlandish hizzie, braw.\\nCome full in sight.\\nYe need na doubt, I held my whisht\\nThe infant aith, half-form d, was\\ncrusht\\nI glowr d as eerie s I d been dusht.\\nIn some wild glen\\nWhen sweet, like modest Worth, she\\nblusht.\\nAnd stepped ben.\\nIX.\\nGreen, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs\\nWere twisted, gracefu round her\\nbrows\\nI took her for some Scottish Muse,\\nBy that same token\\nAnd come to stop those reckless\\nvows,\\nWould soon been broken.\\nA hair-brain d, sentimental trace\\nWas strongly marked in her face;\\nA wildly-witty, rustic grace\\nShone full upon her\\nHer eye, ev n turnxl on empty space,\\nBeam d keen with honor.\\nXI.\\nDown flowed her robe, a tartan sheen,\\nTill half a leg was scrimply seen;\\nAnd such a leg my bonie Jean\\nCould only peer it\\nSae straught, sae taper, tight an clean\\nNana else came near it.\\nXII.\\nHer mantle large, of greenish hue.\\nMy gazing wonder chiefly drew\\nDeep lights and shades, bold-min-\\ngling, threw\\nA lustre grand\\nAnd seem d, to my astonishVl view,\\nA well-known land.\\nHere, rivers in the sea were lost\\nThere, mountains to the skies were\\ntoss t\\nHere, tumbling billows mark d the\\ncoast\\nWith surging foam\\nThere, distant shone Art s lofty boast,\\nThe lordly dome.\\nHere, Doon pour d down his far-\\nfetched floods\\nThere, well-fed Irwine stately thuds\\nAuld hermit Ayr staw thro his woods,\\nOn to the shore\\nAnd many a lesser torrent scuds\\nWith seeming roar.\\nXV.\\nLow, in a sandy valley spread.\\nAn ancient borough rear d her head", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0071.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "24\\nTHE VISION.\\nStill, as in Scottish story read,\\nShe boasts a race\\nTo ev ry nobler virtue bred.\\nAnd polish d grace.\\nI5y stately tow r. or palace fair.\\nOr ruins ])endent in the air,\\nBold stems of heroes, here and there,\\nI could discern\\nSome seem d to muse, some seem d\\nto dare.\\nWith feature stern.\\nXVII.\\nMy heart did glowing transport feel.\\nTo see a race heroic wheel.\\nAnd brandish round the deep-dyed\\nsteel\\nIn sturdy blows\\nWhile, back-recoiling, seem d to reel,\\nTheir suthron foes.\\nHis Country s Saviour, mark him well!\\nBold Richardton s heroic swell\\nThe chief, on Sark who glorious fell\\nIn high command\\nAnd he whom ruthless fates expel\\nHis native land.\\nThere, where a sceptr d Pictish shade\\nStalk d round his ashes lowly laid,\\nI mark d a martial race, pourtray d\\nIn colours strong\\nBold, soldier-featur d, undismayed,\\nThey strode along.\\nThro many a wild, romantic grove.\\nNear many a hermit-fancied cove\\n(Fit haunts for friendship or for love\\nIn musing mood).\\nAn aged Judge, 1 saw him rove.\\nDispensing good.\\nWith deep-struck, reverential awe,\\nTlie learned Sire and Son I saw:\\nTo Nature s dod, and Nature s law,\\nThey gave their lore\\nThis, all its source and end to draw.\\nThat, to adore.\\nXXII.\\nBrydon s brave ward I well could spy.\\nBeneath old Scotia s smiling eye;\\nWho call d on Fame, low standing by.\\nTo hand him on.\\nWhere many a patriot-name on high,\\nAnd hero shone.\\nDUAN SECOND.\\nI.\\nWith musing-deep, astonish d stare,\\nI view d the heavenly-seeming Fair\\nA whisp ring tlirob did witness bear\\nOf kindred sweet.\\nWhen with an elder sister s air\\nShe did me greet.\\nAll hail my own inspired Bard\\nIn me thy native Muse regard\\nNor longer mourn thy fate is hard,\\nThus poorly low!\\nI come to give thee such reward.\\nAs we bestow.\\nKnow, the great genius of this land\\nHas many a light aerial band.\\nWho, all beneath his high command.\\nHarmoniously,\\nAs arts or arms they understand.\\nTheir labors ply.\\nThey Scotia s race among them\\nshare\\nSome fire ihe soldier on to dare", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0072.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "THE VISION.\\n25\\nSome rouse the patriot up to bare\\nCorruption s heart\\nSome teach the bard a darling\\ncare\\nThe tuneful art.\\nMong swelling floods of reeking\\ngore,\\nThey, ardent, kindling spirits pour\\nOr, mid the venal Senate s roar,\\nThey, sightless, stand,\\nTo mend the honest patriot-lore,\\nAnd grace the hand.\\nAnd when the bard, or hoary sage,\\nCharm or instruct the future age.\\nThey bind the wild poetic rage\\nIn energy\\nOr point the inconclusive page\\nFull on the eye.\\nHence, Fullarton, the brave and\\nyoung\\nHence, Dempster s zeal-inspired\\ntongue\\nHence, sweet, harmonious Beattie\\nsung\\nHis Minstrel lays.\\nOr tore, with noble ardour stung.\\nThe sceptic s bays.\\nVIII.\\nTo lower orders are assign d\\nThe humbler ranks of human-kind,\\nThe rustic bard, the laboring hind,\\nThe artisan\\nAll chuse, as various they re inclin d.\\nThe various man.\\nWhen yellow waves the heavy grain.\\nThe threat ning storm some strongly\\nrein,\\nSome teach to meliorate the plain,\\nWith tillage-skill\\nAnd some instruct the shepherd-train,\\nBlythe o er the hill.\\nSome hint the lover s harmless wile\\nSome grace the maiden s artless\\nsmile\\nSome soothe the laborer s weary toil\\nFor humble gains.\\nAnd make his cottage-scenes beguile\\nHis cares and pains.\\nXI.\\nSome, bounded to a district-space,\\nExplore at large man s infant race.\\nTo mark the embryotic trace\\nOf rustic bard\\nAnd careful note each opening grace,\\nA guide and guard.\\nOf these am I Coila my name\\nAnd this district as mine I claim.\\nWhere once the Campbells, chiefs of\\nfame.\\nHeld niling pow r\\nI mark d thy embryo-tuneful flame,\\nThy natal hour.\\nWith future hope I oft would gaze.\\nFond, on thy little early ways\\nThy rudely caroll d, chiming phrase.\\nIn uncouth rhymes\\nFir d at the simple, artless lays\\nOf other times.\\nI saw thee seek the sounding shore.\\nDelighted with the dashing roar;\\nOr when the North his fleecy store\\nDrove thro the sky,\\nI saw grim Nature s visage hoar\\nStruck thy young eye.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0073.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "26\\nTHE VISION.\\nOr when the deep green-mantled\\nearth\\nWarm cherished ev ry floweret s birth,\\nAnd joy and music pouring forth\\nIn ev ry grove\\nI saw thee eye the general mirth\\nWith boundless love.\\nWhen ripen d fields and azure skies\\nCaird forth the reaper s rustling noise,\\nI saw thee leave their ev ning joys,\\nAnd lonely stalk,\\nTo vent thy bosom s swelling rise,\\nIn pensive walk.\\nWhen youthful Love, warm-blushing,\\nstrong.\\nKeen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,\\nThose accents grateful to thy tongue,\\nTh adored Na/nc,\\nI taught thee how to pour in song\\nTo soothe thy flame.\\nI saw thy pulse s maddening play,\\nWild-send thee Pleasure s devious\\nway,\\nMisled by Fancy s meteor-ray.\\nBy passion driven\\nBut yet the light that led astray\\nWas light from Heaven.\\n[The following are the suppressed stanzas.\\nAfter the i8th of Duan i.\\n^With secret throes I marked that\\nearth,\\nThat cottage, witness of my birth\\nAnd near I saw, bold issuing forth\\nIn youthful pride,\\nA Lindsay race of noble worth.\\nFamed far and wide.\\nWhere, hid behind a spreading wood.\\nAn ancient Pict-built mansion stood.\\nI spied, among an angel brood,\\nA female fair\\nSweet shone their high maternal blood\\nAnd fathers air.\\nAn ancient tower to memory brought\\nHow Dettingen s bold hero fought;\\nStill, far from sinking into nought,\\nIt owns a lord\\nWho far in western climates fought,\\nWith trusty sword.\\nAmong the rest I well could spy\\nOne gallant, graceful, martial boy,\\nThe soldier sparkled in his eye,\\nA diamond water\\nI blest that noble badge with joy\\nThat owned mQfrater.\\nXIX.\\nI taught thy manners-painting strains\\nThe loves, the ways of simple swains,\\nTill now, o er all my wide domains\\nThy fame extends\\nAnd some, the pride of Coila s plains,\\nBecome thy friends.\\nThou canst not learn, nor can I show,\\nTo paint with Thomson s landscape\\nglow\\nOr wake the bosom-melting throe\\nWith Shenstone s art\\nOr pour, with Gray, the moving flow\\nWarm on the heart.\\n[After the 20th stanza of the text\\nNear by arose a mansion fine,\\nThe seat of many a muse divine\\nNot rustic muses such as mine.\\nWith holly crown d,\\nBut th ancient, tuneful, laurell d Nine,\\nFrom classic ground.\\nI mourn d the card that Fortune dealt,\\nTo see where bonie Whitefoords\\ndwelt", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0074.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "THE VISION.\\n27\\nBut other prospects made me melt\\nThat village near\\nThere Nature, Friendship, Love, I felt,\\nFond-mingling dear!\\n^Hail! Nature s pang, more strong\\nthan death\\nWarm Friendship s glow, like kindling\\nwrath!\\nLove, dearer than the parting breath\\nOf dying friend!\\nNot ev n with life s wild devious path.\\nYour force shall end!\\nThe PowV that gave the soft alarms\\nIn ijlooming Whiteford^s rosy charms.\\nStill threats the tiny, feathered arnTS,\\nThe barbed dart,\\nWhile lovely Wilhelminia warms\\nThe coldest heart.\\nYet, all beneath th unrivall d rose,\\nThe lowly daisy sweetly blows\\nTho large the forest s monarch throws\\nHis army-shade.\\nYet green the juicy hawthorn grows\\nAdown the glade.\\n[After the 21st stanza of the text\\nWhere Lugar leaves his moorland\\nplaid.\\nWhere lately Want was idly laid,\\nI marked busy, bustling Trade,\\nIn fervid flame.\\nBeneath a Patroness s aid.\\nOf noble name.\\nWiM, countless hills I could survey,\\nAnd countless flocks as wild as they\\nBut other scenes did charms display,\\nThat better please.\\nWhere polish d manners dwell with\\nGray,\\nIn rural ease.\\nWhere Cessnock pours with gurgling\\nsound\\nAnd Irwine, marking out the bound,\\nEnamour d of the scenes around,\\nSlow runs his race,\\nA name I doubly honor d found,\\nWith knightly grace.\\nBrydone s brave ward, I saw him\\nstand.\\nFame humbly offering her hand,\\nAnd near, his kinsman s rustic band,\\nWith one accord,\\nLamenting their late blessed land\\nMust change its lord.\\nThe owner of a pleasant spot,\\nNear sandy wilds, I last did note\\nA heart too warm, a pulse too hot\\nAt times, o erran\\nBut large in ev ry feature wrote,\\nAppear d the Man.\\nThen never murmur nor repine\\nStrive in thy humble sphere to shine\\nAnd trust me, not Potosi s mine,\\nNor king s regard,\\nCan give a bliss o ermatching thine,\\nA rustic Bard.\\nTo give my counsels all in one\\nThy tuneful flame still careful fan\\nPreserve the dignity of Man,\\nWith soul erect;\\nAnd trust the Universal Plan\\nWill all protect.\\nAnd wear thou ////s She solemn\\nsaid.\\nAnd bound the holly round my head\\nThe polish d leaves and berries red\\nDid rustling play;\\nAnd, like a passing thought, she fled\\nIn light away.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0075.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "28\\nHALLOWEEN,\\nHALLOWEEN.^\\nVes let the rich deride, the proud disdain,\\nThe simple pleasures of the lowly train\\nTo me more dear, congenial to my heart.\\nOne native charm, than all the gloss of art.\\nGoldsmith.\\nThe following Poem will by many\\nreaders he well enough understood; but\\nfor the sake of those who are unacquainted\\nwith the manners and traditions of the\\ncountry where the scene is cast, notes arc\\nadded to give some account of the principal\\ncharms and spells of that night, so big with\\nprophecy to the peasantry in the west of\\nScotland. The passion of prying into futu-\\nrity makes a striking part of the history of\\nhuman nature, in its rude state, in all ages\\nand nations; and it maybe some entertain-\\nment to a philosophic mind if any such\\nshould honor the author with a perusal, to\\nsee the remains of it, among the more un-\\nenlightened in our own (R. B.). See\\nNotes.]\\nUpon that night, when fairies light\\nOn Cassilis Downans dance,\\nOr owre the lays, in splendid blaze,\\nOn spriglitly coursers prance\\nOr for Colean the route is taen,\\nBeneath the nioon s pale beams\\nThere, up the Cove,-^ to stray and rove,\\nAmang the rocks and streams\\nTo sport that night\\nAmang the bonie winding banks,\\nWhere Doon rins, winiplin, clear\\nWhere Bruce ance ruled the martial\\nranks,\\nAn shook his Carrick spear;\\nSome merry, friendly, country-folks\\nTogether did convene,\\nTo burn their nits, an pou their\\nstocks,\\nAn hand their Halloween\\nFu blythe that night.\\nThe lasses feat an cleanly neat,\\nMair braw than when they re fine\\nTheir faces blythe fu sweetly kythe\\nHearts leal, an warm, an kin\\nTlie lads sae trig, wi wooer-babs\\nWeel-knotted on their garten;\\nSome unco blate, an some wi gabs\\nGar lasses hearts gang startin\\nWhyles fast at night.\\nIV.\\nThen, first an foremost, thro the kail,\\nTheir stocks^ maun a be sought\\nance;\\nThey steek their een, an grape an\\nwale\\nFor muckle anes, an straught anes.\\nPoor hav rel Will fell affthe drift.\\nAn wandered thro the bow-kail,\\nAn pow t, for want o better shift,\\nA runt, was like a sow-tail,\\nSae bow t that night.\\nThen, straught or crooked, yird or\\nnane.\\nThey roar an cry a throu ther\\nThe vera wee-things, toddlin, rin\\nWi stocks out-owre their shouther\\nAn gif the custock s sweet or sour,\\nWi joctelegs they taste them\\nSyne coziely, aboon the door,\\nWi cannie care, they ve plac d\\nthem\\nTo lie that night.\\nThe lasses staw frae niang them a\\nTo pou their stalks o corn\\nBut Rab slips out, an jinks about,\\nBehint the muckle thorn\\nHe grippet Nelly hard an fast\\nLoud skirl d a the lasses\\nBut her tap-pickle maist was lost.\\nWhan kiutlin in the fause-house\\nWi him that night.\\nVII.\\nThe auld guid-wife s weel-hoordet\\nnits", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0076.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "HALLOWEEN.\\n29\\nAre round an round divided,\\nAn nionic lads an lasses fates\\nAre there tliat night decided\\nSome kindle couthie, side by side,\\nAn l^urn thegither trimly\\nSome start awa wi saucy pride,\\nAn jump out-owre the chimlie\\nFu hiirh that night.\\nJean slips in twa, wi tentie e e\\nWha t was, she wadna tell\\nI!ut this is/( ci\\\\ an this is we,\\nShe says in to herself:\\nHe bleez d owre her, an she owre him,\\nAs they wad never mair part\\nTill tuff! he started up the lum,\\nAnd Jean had e en a sair heart\\nTo see t that night.\\nPoor Willie, wi his bow-kail nmt,\\nWas burnt wi primsie Mallie\\nAn Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt.\\nTo be compar d to Willie\\nMall s nit lap out, wi pridefu fling.\\nAn her ain fit, it burnt it\\nWhile Willie lap, an swoor by jing,\\nT was just the way he wanted\\nTo be that night.\\nNell had the fause-house in her min\\nShe pits hersel an Rob in\\nIn loving bleeze they sweetly join.\\nTill white in ase they re sobbin\\nNell s heart was dancing at the view\\nShe whisper d Rob to leak for t\\nRob, stownlins, prie d her bonie mou,\\nFu cozie in the neuk for t,\\nUnseen that nitjht.\\nBut Merran sat behint their backs,\\nHer thoughts on Andrew Bell\\nShe lea es them gashing at their\\ncracks.\\nAn slips out by hersel\\nShe thro the yard the nearest taks.\\nAn to the kiln she goes then.\\nAn darklins grapit for the banks,\\nAnd in the blue-clue^ throws then,\\nRight fear t that night.\\nAn ay she win t, an ay she swat\\nI wat she made nae jaukin\\nTill something held within the pat,\\nGuid Lord! but she was quakin!\\nBut whether t was the Deil himsel,\\nOr whether t was a bauk-en\\nOr whether it was Andrew Bell,\\nShe did na wait on talkin\\nTo spier that night.\\nWee Jenny to her grannie says,\\nWill ye go wi me, grannie?\\nI 11 eat the apple^\u00c2\u00b0 at the glass,\\nI gat frae uncle Johiiie\\nShe fufif t her pipe wi sic a lunt,\\nIn wrath she was sae vap rin,\\nShe notic t na an aizle brunt\\nHer braw, new, worset apron\\nOut thro that night.\\nYe little skelpie-limmer s-face\\nI daur ye try sic sportin.\\nAs seek the Foul Thief onie place,\\nFor him to spae your fortune\\nNae doubt but ye may get a sight\\nGreat cause ye hae to fear it\\nFor monie a ane has gotten a fright,\\nAn liv d an died deleeret,\\nOn sic a night.\\nAe hairst afore the Sherra-moor,\\nI mind t as weel s yestreen\\nI was a gilpey then, I m sure\\nI was na past fyfteen\\nThe simmer had been cauld an wat,\\nAn stuff was unco green\\nAn ay a rantin kirn we gat,\\nAn just on Halloween\\nIt fell that night.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0077.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "30\\nHALLOWEEN.\\nOur stibble-rig was Rab M Graen,\\nA clever, sturdy fallow\\nHis sin gat Eppie Sim wi wean.\\nThat lived in Achmacballa\\nHe gat hemp-seed,!^ I mind it weel,\\nAn he made unco light o\\nBut monie a day was by himsel,\\nHe was sae sairly frighted\\nThat vera night.\\nXVII.\\nThen up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,\\nAn he swoor by his conscience,\\nThat he could saw hemp-seed a peck\\nFor it was a but nonsense\\nThe auld guidman raught down the\\npock,\\nAn out a handfa gied him\\nSyne bad him slip frae mang the folk,\\nSometime when nae ane see dhim.\\nAn try t that night.\\nHe marches thro amang the stacks,\\nTho he was something sturtin\\nThe graip he for a harrow taks.\\nAnd haurls at his curpin\\nAnd ev ry now and then, he says,\\nHemp-seed I saw thee.\\nAn her that is to be my lass\\nCome after me, an draw thee\\nAs fast this night.\\nHe whisti d up Lord Lcitox March,\\nTo keep his courage cheery\\nAltho his hair began to arch.\\nHe was sae fley d an eerie\\nTill presently he hears a squeak.\\nAn then a grane an gruntle\\nHe by his shouther gae a keek.\\nAn tumbl d wi a wintle\\nOut-owre that night.\\nHe roar d a horrid murder-shout.\\nIn dreadfu desperation\\nAn young an auld come rinnin out,\\nAn hear the sad narration\\nHe swoor twas hilchin Jean M Craw,\\nOr crouchie Merran Humphie\\nTill stop I she trotted thro them a\\nAn wha was it but grumphie\\nAsteer that night\\nMeg fain wad to the barn gaen.\\nTo winn three wechts o naeth-\\n.ing;i2\\nBut for to meet the Deil her lane,\\nShe pat but little faith in\\nShe gies the herd a pickle nits.\\nAn twa red-cheekit apples.\\nTo watch, while for the barn she sets,\\nIn hopes to see Tam Kipples\\nThat vera night.\\nxxir.\\nShe turns the key wi cannie thraw,\\nAn owre the threshold ventures\\nBut first on Sawnie gies a ca\\nSyne bauldly, in she enters\\nA ratton rattl d up the wa\\nAn she cry d, L d preserve her!\\nAn ran thro midden-hole an a\\nAn pray d wi zeal and fervour\\nFu fast that night.\\nXXIII.\\nThey hoy t out Will, wi sair advice\\nThey hecht him some fine braw\\nane\\nIt chanc d the stack he faddom t\\nthrice,\\nWas timmer-propt for thrawin\\nHe taks a swirlie. auld moss-oak\\nFor some black gruesome carlin\\nAn loot a winze, an drew a stroke.\\nTill skin in blypes cam haurlin\\nArt s nieves that night-\\nXXIV.\\nA wanton widow Leezie was,\\nAs cantie as a kittlin\\nBut ocli that night, amang the shaws,\\nShe gat a fearfu settlin!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0078.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION.\\n31\\nShe thro the whins, and by the cairn,\\nAn owre the hill gaed scrievin\\nWhare three lairds lands met at a\\nburn,!^\\nTo dip her left sark-sleeve in\\nWas bent that night.\\nWhyles owre a linn the burnie plays,\\nAs thro the glen it wimpl t\\nWhyles round a rocky scaur it strays,\\nWhyles in a wiel it dimpPt\\nWhyles glitter d to the nightly rays,\\nWi bickerin, dancin dazzle\\nWhyles cookit underneath the braes,\\nBelow the spreading hazel\\nUnseen that night.\\nAmang the brachens, on the brae,\\nBetween her an the moon,\\nThe Deil, or else an outler quey,\\nGat up an gae a croon\\nPoor Leezie s heart maist lap the\\nhool\\nNear lav rock-height she jumpit,\\nBut mist a fit. an in the pool\\nOut-owre the lugs she plumpit\\nWi a plunge that night.\\nIn order, on the clean hearth-stane.\\nThe luggies three are ranged\\nAnd ev ry time great care is taen\\nTo see them duly changed\\nAuld uncle John, wha wedlock s joys\\nSin Mar s-year did desire,\\nBecause he gat the toom dish thrice,\\nHe heav d them on the fire\\nIn wrath that niglit.\\nWi merry sangs, an friendly cracks,\\nI wat they did na weary\\nAnd unco tales, an funnie jokes\\nTheir sports were cheap an cheery\\nTill butter d sow ns,^^ wi fragrant\\nlunt.\\nSet a their gabs a-steerin\\nSyne, wi a social glass o strunt,\\nThey parted aff careerin\\nFu blythe that night.\\nTHE AULD FARMER S NEW-\\nYEAR MORNING SALUTA-\\nTION TO HIS AULD MARE,\\nMAGGIE.\\nON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED\\nRIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE\\nNEW-YEAR.\\n[This poem was probably composed\\nabout the beginning of the year 1786. It\\nillustrates Burns s warm love for animals.]\\nA GuiD New-Year I wish thee, Mag-\\ngie\\nHae, there s a ripp to thy auld bag-\\ncie\\nTho thou s howe-backit now, an\\nknaggie,\\nI ve seen the day\\nThou could hae gaen like onie staggie,\\nOut-owre the lay.\\nTho now thou s dowie, stiff, an\\ncrazy.\\nAn thy auld hide as white s a daisie,\\nI ve seen thee dappl t, sleek an\\nglaizie,\\nA bonie gray\\nHe should been tight that daur t to\\nraise thee,\\nAnce in a day.\\nIII.\\nThou ance was i the foremost rank,\\nA filly buirdly, steeve, an swank\\nAn set weel down a shapely shank\\nAs e er tread yird", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0079.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "32\\nNEW-VEAR MORMNG SALUTATION.\\nAn could hae flown out-owre a stank\\nLike onie bird.\\nIt s now some nine-an -tvventy year\\nSill thou was my guid-father s meere\\nHe gied me thee, o toclier clear,\\nAn fifty mark\\nTho, it was sma\\\\ t was weel-won gear,\\nAn thou was stark.\\nWhen first I gaed to woo my Jenny,\\nYe tlien was trottin wi your minnie\\nTho ye was trickie, slee, an funnie,\\nYe ne er was donsie\\nBut hamely, tawie, quiet, an cannie,\\nAn unco sonsie.\\nVI.\\nThat day, ye pranc d wi muckle pride.\\nWhen ye bure hame my bonie bride\\nAn sweet an gracefu she did ride,\\nWi maiden air\\nKyle-Stewart I could bragged wide.\\nFor sic a pair.\\nTho now ye dow but hoyte and hob-\\nble.\\nAn wintle like a saumont-coble.\\nThat day, ye was a jinker noble.\\nFor heels an win\\nAn ran them till they a did wauble.\\nFar, far behin\\nVIII.\\nWhen thou an I were young and\\nskiegh.\\nAn stable-meals at fairs were driegh,\\nHow thou wad prance, an snore, an\\nskriegh,\\nAn tak the road\\nTown s-bodics ran, an stood abiegh.\\nAn ca t thee mad.\\nWhen thou was corn t, an I was mel-\\nlow,\\nWe took the road ay like a swallow:\\nAt brooses thou had ne er a fellow,\\nFor pith an speed\\nBut ev ry tail thou pay t them hollow,\\nWhare er thou gaed.\\nThe sma droop-rumpl t, hunter cattle\\nMight aiblins waur t thee for a brattle\\nBut sax Scotch miles thou try t their\\nmettle,\\nAn gar t them whaizle\\nNae whip nor spur, but just a wattle\\nO sauffh or hazle.\\nThou was a noble fittie-lan\\nAs e er in tug or tow was drawn\\nAft thee an I, in aught hours gaun,\\nOn guid Alarch-weather,\\nHae turn d sax rood beside our han\\nFor days thegither.\\nThou never braing t, an fetch t, an\\nfliskit\\nBut thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit.\\nAn spread abreed thy weel-fill d\\nbrisket,\\nWi pith an pow r\\nTill sprittie knowes wad rair t, an\\nriskit.\\nAn slypet owre.\\nWhen frosts lay lang, an snaws were\\ndeep,\\nAn threaten d labour back to keep,\\nI gied thy cog a wee bit heap\\nAboon the timmer\\nI ken d my Maggie wad na sleep\\nFor that, or simmer.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0080.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "THE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\n33\\nIn cart or car thou never reestit\\nThe steyest brae thou wad liae fac t it\\nThou never hip, an sten t, an breastit,\\nThen stood to bhiw\\nBut just thy step a wee thing hastit,\\nThou snoov t avva.\\nMy pleugh is now thy bairntime a\\nFour gallant brutes as e er did draw\\nForbye sax niae 1 ve sell t awa,\\nThat thou hast nurst\\nThey drew me thretteen pund an\\ntwa,\\nThe vera warst.\\nMonie a sair darg we twa hae wrought,\\nAn wi the weary warl fought\\nAn monie an anxious day 1 thought\\nWe wad be beat\\nYet here to crazy age we re brought,\\nWi something yet.\\nXVII.\\nAn think na, my auld trusty ser-\\nvan\\nThat now perhaps thou s less de-\\nservin,\\nAn thy auld days may end in starvin\\nFor my last fow,\\nA heapet stimpart, I 11 reserve ane\\nLaid by for you.\\nWe ve worn to crazy years the-\\ngither\\nWe 11 toyte about wi ane anither\\nWi tentie care I 11 flit thy tether\\nTo some hain d rig,\\nWhare ye may nobly rax your leather\\nWi sma fatigue.\\nTHE COTTER S SATURDAY\\nNIGHT.\\nINSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ.\\nLet not Ambition mock their useful toil.\\nTheir homely joys, and destiny obscure\\nA or Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile.\\nThe short and simple annals of the poor.\\nGray.\\nThe poem is as manifestly based on\\nFeigusson s Farmer s Ingle, as is Hal-\\nloween on his Hallow Fair. But Fergus-\\nson is practically obsolete and forgotten,\\neclipsed among his own people by the most\\ngenerous of his admirers. Burns s verse is\\noriginal in its vein of piety, and Family\\nPrayers are unrecorded by the earlier poet,\\nwho spares, moreover, the lordling, scathed,\\nas usual, by Burns. Andrew Lang.\\nSee Notes.]\\nI.\\nMy lov d, my honor d, much respected\\nfriend\\nNo mercenary bard his homage\\npays\\nWith honest pride, I scorn each self-\\nish end.\\nMy dearest meed, a friend s esteem\\nand praise\\nTo you I sing, in simple Scottish\\nlays,\\nThe lowly train in life s sequester d\\nscene\\nThe native feelings strong, the\\nguileless ways\\nWhat Aiken in a cottage would have\\nbeen\\nAh tho his worth unknown, far\\nhappier there I ween\\nNovember chill blaws loud wi angry\\nsugh;\\nThe short ning winter-day is near\\na close\\nThe miry beasts retreating frae the\\npleugh\\nThe hlack ning trains o craws to\\ntheir repose", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0081.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "34\\nTHE COrrKR S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\nThe toil-worn Cotter frae his labor\\ngoes\\nThis night his weekly moil is at an\\nend,\\nCollects his spades, his mattocks,\\nand his hoes,\\nHoping the morn in ease and rest to\\nspend,\\nAnd weary, o er the moor, his course\\ndoes hameward bend.\\nAt length his lonely cot appears in\\nview.\\nBeneath the shelter of an aged\\ntree\\nTh expectant wee-things, toddlin,\\nstacher through\\nTo meet their dad, wi flichterin\\nnoise and glee.\\nHis wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie.\\nHis clean hearth-stane, his thrifty\\nwilie s smile,\\nThe lisping infant, prattling on his\\nknee.\\nDoes a his weary kiaugh and care\\nbeguile.\\nAnd makes him quite forget his labor\\nand his toil.\\nBelyve, the elder bairns come drap-\\nping in.\\nAt service out, amang the farmers\\nroun\\nSome ca the pleugh, some herd, some\\ntentie rin\\nA cannie errand to a neebor town\\nTheir eldest hope, their Jenny,\\nwoman grown.\\nIn youthfu bloom, love sparkling in\\nher e e,\\nComes hame perhaps, to shew a\\nbraw new gown.\\nOr deposite her sair-won penny-fee.\\nTo help her parents dear, if they in\\nhardship be.\\nWitli joy unfeign d, brotlicrs and sis-\\nters meet.\\nAnd each for other s weelfare kindly\\nspiers\\nThe social hours, swift-wing d, un-\\nnotic d fleet\\nEach tells the uncos that he sees or\\nliears.\\nTlie parents partial eye their hope-\\nful years\\nAnticipation forward points the view\\nThe mother, wi her needle and\\nher sheers.\\nGars auld claes look amaist as weel s\\nthe new\\nThe father mixes a wi admonition\\ndue.\\nTheir master s and their mistress s\\ncommand\\nThe younkers a are warned to obey\\nAnd mind their labors wi an eydent\\nhand.\\nAnd ne er, tho out o sight, to jauk\\nor play\\nAnd O be .sure to fear the Lord\\nalway,\\nAnd mind your duty, duly, morn and\\nnight\\nLest in temptation s path ye gang\\nastray.\\nImplore His counsel and assisting\\nmight\\nThey never sought in vain that sought\\nthe Lord aright.\\nBut hark a rap comes gently to the\\ndoor\\nJenny, wha kens the meaning o\\nthe same,\\nTells how a neebor lad came o er the\\nmoor.\\nTo do some errands, and convoy\\nher hame.\\nThe wily mother sees the conscious\\nflame", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0082.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "THE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\n35\\nSparkle in Jenny s e e, and flush her\\ncheek\\nWith heart-struck anxious care, en-\\nquires his name.\\nWhile Jenny halliins is afraid to\\nspeak\\nWeel-pleas d the mother hears, it s\\nnae wild, worthless rake.\\nWith kindly welcome, Jenny brings\\nhim ben\\nA strappin youth, he takes the\\nmother s e\\\\e\\nBlythe Jenny sees the visit s no ill\\ntaer\u00c2\u00bb;\\nThe father cracks of horses, pleughs,\\nand kye.\\nThe youngster s artless heart o er-\\nflows wi joy.\\nBut blate and laithfu scarce can weel\\nbehave\\nThe mother, wi a woman s wiles,\\ncan spy\\nWhat makes the youth sae bashfu\\nand sae grave\\nWeel-pleas d to think her bairn s\\nrespected like the lave.\\nhappy love! where love like this is\\nfound\\nO heart-felt raptures bliss beyond\\ncompare\\n1 ve paced much this weary, mortal\\nround,\\nAnd sage experience bids me this\\ndeclare\\nIf Heaven a draught of heavenly\\npleasure spare.\\nOne cordial in this melancholy vale,\\nTis when a youthful, loving, mod-\\nest pair,\\nIn other s arms, breathe out the tender\\ntale\\nBeneath the milk-white thorn that\\nIs there, in human form, that bears a\\nheart,\\nA wretch a villain lost to love\\nand truth\\nThat can, with studied, sly, ensnaring\\nart.\\nBetray sweet Jenny s unsuspecting\\nyouth\\nCurse on his perjur d arts! dissem-\\nbling, smooth\\nAre honor, virtue, conscience, all\\nexil d\\nIs there no pity, no relenting rath.\\nPoints to the parents fondling o er\\ntheir child?\\nThen paints the ruin d maid, and\\ntheir distraction wild\\nBut now the supper crowns their\\nsimple board,\\nThe healsome parritch, chief o\\nScotia s food\\nThe soupe their only hawkie does\\nafford,\\nThat, yont the hallan snugly chows\\nher cood\\nThe dame brings forth, in compli-\\nmental mood,\\nTo grace the lad, her, weel-hain d\\nkebbuck, fell\\nAnd aft he s prest, and aft he ca s\\nit guid\\nThe frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,\\nHow twas a towraond auld, sin lint\\nwas i the bell.\\nThe chearfu supper done, wi serious\\nface.\\nThey, round the ingle, form a circle\\nwide\\nThe sire turns o er, wi patriarchal\\ngrace.\\nThe big ha -Bible, ance his father s\\npride.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0083.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "36\\nTHE COrrER S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\nHis bonnet revVently is laid aside.\\nHis lyart haflfets wearing thin and\\nbare;\\nTliose strains that once did sweet\\nin Zion glide,\\nHe wales a portion witli judicious\\ncare,\\nAnd Let us worship God he says,\\nwith solemn air.\\nxin.\\nThey chant their artless notes in\\nsimple guise,\\nThev tune their hearts, by far the\\nnoblest aim\\nPerhaps Dundee s wild-warbling meas-\\nures rise,\\nOr plaintive Martyrs, worthy of\\nthe name\\nOr noble Eli^in beets the heaven-\\nward flame,\\nThe sweetest far of Scotia s holy\\nlays\\nCompared with these, Italian trills\\nare tame\\nThe tickl d ears no heart-felt raptures\\nraise\\nNae unison hae they, with our Crea-\\ntor s praise.\\nThe priest-like father reads the sacred\\npage,\\nHow Abram was the friend of God\\non high\\nOr, Moses bade eternal warfare wage\\nWith Amalek s ungracious prog-\\neny\\nOr, how the royal Bard did groan-\\ning lie\\nBeneath the stroke of Heaven s\\navenging ire;\\nOr Job s pathetic plaint, and wail-\\ning cry\\nOr rapt Isaiah s wild, seraphic fire\\nOr other holy Seers that tune the\\nsacred lyre.\\nPerhaps the Christian volume is the\\ntheme\\nHow guiltless blood for guilty man\\nwas shed\\nHow He, who bore in Heaven the\\nsecond name,\\nHad not on earth whereon to lay\\nH is head\\nHow His first followers and ser-\\nvants sped\\nThe precepts sage they wrote to many\\na land\\nHow he, who lone in Patmos ban-\\nished,\\nSaw in the sun a mighty angel stand,\\nAnd heard great Bab lon s dc^m pro-\\nnounc d by Heaven s command.\\nXVI.\\nThen kneeling down to Heaven s\\nEternal King,\\nThe saint, the fiither, and the hus-\\nband prays\\nHope springs exulting on triumphant\\nwing,\\nThat thus they all shall meet in\\nfuture days.\\nThere, ever bask in uncreated rays,\\nNo more to sigh or shed the bitter\\ntear,\\nTogether hymning their Creator s\\npraise.\\nIn such society, yet still more dear;\\nWhile circling Time moves round in\\nan eternal sphere.\\nCompar d with this, how poor Reli-\\ngion s pride.\\nIn all the pomp of method, and of\\nart\\nWhen men display to congregations\\nwide\\nDevotion s ev ry grace, except the\\nheart\\nThe Power, incens d, the pageant\\nwill desert,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0084.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "TO A MOUSE.\\n37\\nTlie pompous strain, the sacerdotal\\nstole\\nBut haply, in some cottage far apart.\\nMay hear, well-pleas d, the language\\nof the soul.\\nAnd in His Book of Life the inmates\\npoor enroll.\\nThen homeward all take oft their\\nsev ral way\\nThe youngling cottagers retire to\\nrest\\nThe parent-pair their secret homage\\npay.\\nAnd proffer up to Heaven the warm\\nrequest,\\nThat He who stills the raven s\\nclam rous nest,\\nAnd decks the lily fair in flow ry\\npride,\\nWould, in the way His wisdom sees\\nthe best.\\nFor them and for their little ones\\nprovide\\nBut, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace\\nDivine preside.\\nXIX.\\nFrom scenes like these, old Scotia s\\ngrandeur springs.\\nThat makes her lov d at home,\\nrever d abroad\\nPrinces and lords are but the breath\\nof kings,\\nAn honest man s the noblest work\\nof God\\nAnd certes, in fair Virtue s heavenly\\nroad.\\nThe cottage leaves the palace far be-\\nhind\\nWhat is a lordling s pomp a cum-\\nbrous load.\\nDisguising oft tlie wretch of human\\nkind,\\nStudied in arts of Hell, in wickedness\\nrefin d\\nO Scotia my dear, my native soil\\nFor whom my warmest wish to\\nHeaven is sent\\nLong may thy hardy sons of rustic\\ntoil\\nBe blest with health, and peace,\\nand sweet content\\nAnd O may Heaven their simple\\nlives prevent\\nFrom Luxury s contagion, weak and\\nvile\\nThen, howe er crowns and coronets\\nbe rent,\\nA virtuous populace may rise the\\nwhile.\\nAnd stand a wall of fire around their\\nmuch-lov d Isle.\\nO Thou who pour d the patriotic\\ntide,\\nThat stream d thro Wallace s un-\\ndaunted heart,\\nWho dar d to, nobly, stem tyrannic\\npride.\\nOr nobly die, the second glorious\\npart\\n(The patriot s God. peculiarly Thou\\nart.\\nHis friend, inspirer, guardian, and\\nreward\\nO never, never Scotia s realm de-\\nsert\\nBut still the patriot, and the patriot-\\nbard\\nIn bright succession raise, her orna-\\nment and guard\\nTO A MOUSE.\\nON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST\\nWITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER\\n1785.\\n[Gilbert Burns testifies that the verses to\\nthe Mouse were suggested by the inci-", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0085.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "38\\nEPISTLE TO DAVIE, A ]iR(JlIli:K I OET.\\ndent in the heading of the poem, and com-\\nposed while the author was holding the\\nplough.]\\nWee, sleekit, cowrin, timVous l)eastie,\\nO, what a panic s in thy breastie\\nThou need na start awa sae hasty\\nWi bickering brattle!\\nI wad be hiitii to rin an chase thee,\\nWi murdering pattle\\nII.\\nI ill truly sorry man s dominion\\nHas broken Nature s social union,\\nAn justilies that ill opinion\\nWliich makes thee startle\\nAt me, thy poor, earth-born compan-\\nion\\nAn fellow mortal\\nIII.\\nI doubt na, whyles, but thou may\\nthieve\\nWhat then? poor beastie, thou maun\\nlive\\nA daimen icker in a thrave\\nS a sma request\\nI 11 get a blessin wi the lave,\\nAn never miss t\\nThy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin\\nIts silly wa s the win s are strewin\\nAn naething, now, to big a new ane,\\nO foggage green\\nAn bleak December s win s ensuin,\\nBaith snell an keen\\nThou saw the fields laid bare an\\nwaste.\\nAn weary winter coniin fast.\\nAn cozie here, beneath the blast,\\nTliou thouglit to dwell.\\nTill crash the cruel coulter past\\nOut thro thy cell.\\nThat wee bit heap o leaves an stib-\\nble,\\nHas cost thee nionie a weary nibble\\nNow thou s turned out, for a tiiy\\ntrouble.\\nBut house or hald,\\nTo thole the winter s sleety dribble,\\nAn cranreuch cauld\\nvil.\\nBut Mousie, thou art no thy lane,\\nIn proving foresight may be vain\\nThe best-laid schemes o mice an\\nmen\\nGang aft agley.\\nAn lea e us nought but grief an pain,\\nFor promis d joy\\nVIII.\\nStill thou are blest, compared wi me!\\nThe present only touch etli thee\\nBut och I backward cast my e e,\\nOn prospects drear!\\nAn forward, tho I canna see,\\nI guess an fear\\nEPISTLE TO DAVIE, A\\nBROTHER POET.\\nJANUARY.\\n[Tlie Davie of the Epistle was\\nDavid Sillar, who published in 1789 a vol-\\nume of Poems in imitation of Burns, who\\nhelped him to get subscribers. He died\\nMay 2, 1830.]\\nWhile winds frae aft Ben-Lomond\\nblaw,\\nAnd bar the doors wi drivin snaw,\\nAnd hing us owre the ingle,\\nI set me down to pass the time,\\nAnd spin a verse or twa o rhyme.\\nIn hamely, westlin jingle", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0086.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.\\n39\\nWhile frosty winds blaw in the drift,\\nBen to the chimla lug.\\nI grudge a wee the great-folk s gift,\\nThat live sae bien an snug\\nI tent less, and want less\\nTheir roomy tirc-side\\nBut hanker, and canker,\\nTo see their cursed pride.\\nIt s hardly in a body s pow r,\\nTo keep, at times, frae being sour,\\nTo see how things are shar d\\nHow best o chiels are w^iyles in want.\\nWhile coofs on countless thousands\\nrant.\\nAnd ken na how to ware t\\nBut Davie, lad, ne er fash your head,\\nTho we hae little gear\\nWe re fit to win our daily bread,\\nAs lang s we re hale and fier\\nMair spier na, nor fear na,\\nAuld age ne er mind a feg\\nThe last o t, the warst o t,\\nIs only but to beg.\\nTo lie in kilns and barns at e en.\\nWhen banes are craz d, and bluid is\\nthin.\\nIs. doubtless, great distress\\nYet then content could make us blest\\nEv n then, sometimes, we d snatch a\\ntaste\\nOf truest happiness.\\nThe honest heart that s free frac a\\nIntended fraud or guile,\\nHowever Fortune kick the ba\\nHas ay some cause to smile\\nAnd mind still, you ll find still,\\nA comfort this nae sma\\nNae mair then, we ll care then,\\nNae farther can we fa\\nWhat tho like commoners of air.\\nWe wander out, we know not where.\\nBut either house or hal\\nYet Nature s charms, the hills and\\nwoods.\\nThe sweeping vales, and foaming\\nfloods,\\nAre free alike to all.\\nIn days when daisies deck the ground,\\nAnd blackbirds whistle clear,\\nWith honest joy our hearts will\\nbound,\\nTo see the coming year\\nOn braes when we please then,\\nWe 11 sit an sowth a tune\\nSyne rhyme till t we 11 time till t.\\nAn sinsf t when we hae done.\\nIt s no in titles nor in rank\\nIt s no in wealth like Lon on Bank,\\nTo purchase peace and rest.\\nIt s no in makin muckle, mair;\\nIt s no in books, it s no in lear,\\nTo make us truly blest\\nIf happiness hae not her seat\\nAn centre in the breast.\\nWe may be wise, or rich, or great,\\nBut never can be blest\\nNae treasures nor pleasures\\nCould make us happy lang\\nThe heart ay s the part ay\\nThat makes us right or wrang.\\nThink ye, that sic as you and I,\\nWha drudge and drive thro wet and\\ndry,\\nWi never ceasing toil\\nThink ye, are we less blest than they,\\nWha scarcely tent us in their way.\\nAs hardly worth their while?\\nAlas how oft, in haughty mood,\\nGod s creatures they oppress\\nOr else, neglecting a that s guid.\\nThey riot in excess\\nBaith careless and fearless\\nOf either Heaven or Hell;\\nEsteeming and deeming\\nIt a an idle tale", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0087.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "40\\nTHE LAMENT.\\nThen let us chearfir acquiesce.\\nNor make our scanty pleasures less\\nBy piniuii; at onr state\\nAnil, even should misfortunes come,\\n1 here wha sit hae met \\\\vi some,\\nAn s thankfu for them yet,\\nTliey gie the wit of age to youth\\nThey let us ken oursel\\nThey make us see the naked truth.\\nThe real guid and ill\\nTho losses and crosses\\nBe lessons right severe,\\nThere \\\\s wit there, ye 11 get there,\\nYe 11 find nae other where.\\nRut tent me, Davie, ace o hearts\\n(To say aught less wad wrang the\\ncartes,\\nAnd flatt ry I detest)\\nThis life has joys for you and I\\nAnd joys that riches ne er could buy.\\nAnd jo3 s the very best.\\nThere s a the pleasures o the heart,\\nThe lover an the frien\\nYe hae your Meg, your dearest part,\\nAnd I my darling Jean\\nIt warms me, it charms me\\nTo mention but her name\\nIt heats me, it beets me,\\nAnd sets me a on fiame\\nO all ye Pow rs who rule above\\nO Thou whose very self art love\\nThou know st my words sincere\\nThe life-blood streaming thro my\\nheart.\\nOr my more dear immortal part.\\nIs not more fondly dear\\nWhen heart-corroding care and grief\\nDeprive my soul of rest.\\nHer dear idea brings relief\\nAnd solace to my breast.\\nThou Being All-seeing,\\nO, hear my fervent pray r\\nStill take her, and make her\\nThy most peculiar care\\nAll hail ye tender feelings dear\\nThe smile of love, the friendly tear,\\nThe sympathetic glow\\nLong since, this world s thorny ways\\nHad numjjer d out my weary days,\\nHad it not been for you\\nFate still has blest me with a friend\\nIn every care and ill\\nAnd oft a more endearing band,\\nA tie more tender still.\\nIt lightens, it brightens\\nThe tenebrific scene.\\nTo meet with, and greet with\\nMy Davie or my Jean\\nXI.\\nO, how that Name inspires my style!\\nThe words come skelpin rank an\\nfile,\\nAmaist before I ken!\\nThe ready measure rins as fine.\\nAs Phoebus and the famous Nine\\nWere glowrin owre my pen.\\nMv spaviet Pegasus will limp,\\nTill ance he s fairly het;\\nAnd then he 11 hilch, an stilt, an\\njimp,\\nAnd rin an unco fit\\nBut least then, the beast then\\nShould rue this hasty ride,\\nI 11 light now, and dight now\\nHis sweaty, wizen d hide.\\nTHE LAMENT.\\nOCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE\\nISSUE OF A friend s AMOUR.\\nAlas hoiv oft does Goodness wound itself.\\nAnd sweet Affection prove the sprmg of\\nWoe!\\nHome.\\nThe iinfortunnte issue, not of a\\nfriend s, but of his own amour\\n(when Jean Armour, overliorne by paternal\\nauthority, agreed to discard him) was,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0088.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE LAMENT;\\n41\\nBurns declares, the unfortunate story\\nalluded to in the Lament.\\nO THOU pale Orb that silent shines\\nWhile care -untroubled mortals\\nsleep\\nThou seest a wretch who inly pines,\\nAnd wanders here to wail and\\nweep\\nWith Woe I nightly vigils keep,\\nBeneath thy wan, unwarming beam\\nAnd mourn, in lamentation deep,\\nHow life and love are all a dream!\\n1 joyless view thy rays adorn\\nThe faintly-marked, distant hill\\nI joyless view thy trembling horn\\nReflected in the gurgling rill\\nMy fondly-fluttering heart, be still!\\nThou busy pow r, Rernembrance,\\ncease\\nAh must the agonizing thrill\\nFor ever bar returning Peace\\nNo idly-feign d, poetic pains\\nMy sad. love-lorn lamentings claim\\nNo shepherd s pipe Arcadian strains\\nNo fabled tortures quaint and\\ntame.\\nThe plighted faith, the mutual\\nflame.\\nThe oft-attested Pow rs above.\\nThe promised father s tender name.\\nThese were the pledges of my love\\nEncircled in her clasping arms.\\nHow have the raptur d moments\\nflown\\nHow have I wished for Fortune s\\ncharms.\\nFor her dear sake, and hers alone!\\nAnd, must I think it is she gone.\\nMy secret heart s exulting boast?\\nAnd does she heedless hear my\\ngroan\\nAnd is she ever, ever lost?\\nO can she bear so base a heart,\\nSo lost to honour, lost to truth,\\nAs from the fondest lover part.\\nThe plighted husband of her\\nyouth\\nAlas Life s path may be unsmooth!\\nHer way may lie thro rough distress\\nThen, who her pangs and pains\\nwill soothe.\\nHer sorrows share, and make them\\nless?\\nYe winged Hours that o er us pass d,\\nEnraptur d more the more enjoy d,\\nYour dear remembrance in mv l^reast\\nMy fondly treasur d thoughts em-\\nploy d\\nThat breast, how dreary now, and\\nvoid,\\nFor her too scanty once of room\\nEv n ev ry ray of Hope destroy d.\\nAnd not a wish to gild the gloom\\nThe morn, that warns th approach-\\ning day,\\nAwakes me up to toil aiid woe\\nI see the hours in long array.\\nThat I must suffer, lingering slow\\nFull many a pang, and many a\\nthroe,\\nKeen Recollection s direful train,\\nMust wring my soul, ere Phoebus,\\nlow.\\nShall kiss the distant western main.\\nAnd when my nightly couch I try,\\nSore-harass d out with care and\\ngrief.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0089.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "42\\nDESPONDENCY.\\nMy toil-beat nerves and tear-worn eye\\nKeep watchings with the nightly\\nthief:\\nOr, if I slumber, Fancy, chief,\\nReigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright\\nEv n day, all-bitter, brings relief\\nFrom such a horror-breathing night.\\nIX.\\nO thou bright Queen, who, o er th\\nexpanse\\nNow highest reign st, with bound-\\nless sway\\nOft has thy silent-marking glance\\nObserv d us, fondly- wandering, stray!\\nThe time, unheeded, sped away.\\nWhile Love s luxurious pulse beat\\nhigh.\\nBeneath thy silver-gleaming ray,\\nTo mark tlie mutual-kindling eye.\\nO scenes in strong remembrance set\\nScenes, never, never to retuf n\\nScenes if in stupor I forget,\\nAgain I feel, again I burn\\nFrom ev ry joy and pleasure torn,\\nLife s weary vale I wander thro\\nAnd hopeless, comfortless, I 11\\nmourn\\nA faithless woman s broken vow\\nDESPONDENCY.\\nAn Ode.\\n[Composed, no doubt, a little after the\\nLament. Jean, it seems, had gone to\\nPaisley. Highland Mary now occupied the\\nempty heart. Andrew Lang.]\\nOppress d with grief, opprcss d with\\ncare,\\nA burden more than I can bear,\\nI set me down and sigh\\nO Life thou art a galling load,\\nAlong a rough, a weary road,\\nTo wretches such as I\\nDim-backward, as I cast my view,\\nWhat sick ning scenes appear\\nWhat sorrows yet may i)ierce me thro\\nToo justly 1 may fear!\\nStill caring, despairing,\\nMust be my bitter doom\\nMy woes here shall close ne er\\nBut with the closing tomb!\\nHappy ye sons of busy life,\\nWho. equal to the bustling strife,\\nNo other view regard\\nEv n when the wished end s denied,\\nYet while the busy means are plied.\\nThey bring then- own reward\\nWhilst L a hope-abandoned wight,\\nUnfitted with an aim.\\nMeet ev ry sad returning night\\nAnd joyless morn the same.\\nYou. bustling and justling.\\nForget each grief and pain\\nL listless yet restless.\\nFind ev ry prospect vain.\\nHow blest the Solitary s lot,\\nWho, all-forgetting, all-forgot,\\nWithin his humble cell\\nThe cavern, wild with tangling roots\\nSits o er his newly-gather d fruits,\\nBeside his crystal well!\\nOr haply to his ev ning thought.\\nBy unfrequented stream.\\nThe ways of men are distant brought,\\nA faint-collected dream\\nWhile praising, and raising\\nHis thoughts to Hcav n on high.\\nAs wand ring, meand ring,\\nHe views the solemn sky.\\nThan I, no lonely hermit plac d\\nWhere never human footstep trac d,\\nLess fit to play the part\\nThe lucky moment to improve,\\ni", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0090.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.\\n43\\nAnd just to stop, and just to move,\\nWith self-respecting art\\nBut ah those pleasures, loves, and\\njoys.\\nWhich I too keenly taste,\\nThe Solitary can despise\\nCan want and yet be blest!\\nHe needs not. he heeds not\\nOr human love or hate\\nWhilst I here must cry here\\nAt perfidy ingrate\\nO enviable early days.\\nWhen dancing thoughtless pleasure s\\nmaze,\\nTo care, to guilt unknown\\nHow ill exchanged for riper time\\nTo feel the follies or the crimes\\nOf others, or my own\\nYe tiny elves that guiltless sport.\\nLike linnets in the bush,\\nYe little know the ills ye court.\\nWhen manhood is your wish\\nThe losses, the crosses\\nThat active man engage\\nThe fears all, the tears all\\nOf dim declining Age\\nMAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.\\nA Dirge.\\n[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. lo,\\n1788, Burns tells of an old grand-uncle who\\nhad gone blind. His most voluptuous\\nenjoyment was to sit down and cry, while\\nmy mother would sing the simple old song\\nof- The Life and Age of Man.\\nI.\\nWhen chill November s surly blast\\nMade fields and forests bare,\\nOne ev ning, as I wand red forth\\nAlong the banks of Ayr,\\n1 spied a man, whose aged step\\nSeem d weary, worn with care.\\nHis face was furrow d o er with years.\\nAnd hoary was his hair.\\nYoung stranger, whither wand rest\\nthou?\\nBegan the rev rend Sage\\nDoes thirst of wealth thy step con-\\nstrain.\\nOr youthful pleasure s rage?\\nOr haply, prest with cares and woes,\\nToo soon thou hast began\\nTo wander forth, with me to mourn\\nThe miseries of Man.\\nThe sun that overhangs yon moors.\\nOut-spreading far and wide,\\nWhere hundreds labour to support\\nA haughty lordling s pride\\nI ve seen yon weary winter-sun\\nTwice forty times return\\nAnd ev ry time has added proofs.\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nO Man while in thy early years.\\nHow prodigal of time\\nMis-spending all thy precious hours,\\nThy glorious, youthful prime\\nAlternate follies take the sway,\\nLicentious passions burn\\nWhich tenfold force gives Nature s\\nlaw,\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nLook not alone on youthful prime,\\nOr manhood s active might\\nMan then is useful to his kind.\\nSupported is his right\\nBut see him on the edge of life.\\nWith cares and sorrows worn\\nThen Age and Want O ill-match d\\npair\\nShevy Man was made to mourn.\\nVI.\\nA few seem favourites of Fate,\\nIn Pleasure s lap carest", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0091.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "44\\nWINTER.\\nYet think not all the rich and great\\nAre likewise truly blest\\nBut oh what crowds in ev ry land,\\nAll wretched and forlorn,\\nThro weary life this lesson learn,\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nMany and sharp the num rous ills\\nInwoven with our frame\\nMore pointed still we make ourselves\\nRegret, remorse, and shame\\nAnd Klan, whose heav n-erected face\\nThe smiles of love adorn,\\nMan s inhumanity to man\\nMakes countless thousands mourn!\\nSee yonder poor, o erlabour d wight,\\nSo abject, mean, and vile,\\nWho begs a brother of the earth\\nTo give him leave to toil\\nAnd see his lordly fellow-worm\\nThe poor petition spurn.\\nUnmindful, tho a weeping wife\\nAnd helpless offspring mourn.\\nIX.\\nIf I m designed yon lordling s slave\\nBy Nature s law designed\\nWhy was an independent wish\\nE er planted in my mind?\\nIf not, why am I subject to\\nHis cruelty, or scorn\\nOr why has Man the will and pow r\\nTo make his fellow mourn.\\nYet let not this too much, my son,\\nDisturb thy youthful breast\\nThis partial view of human-kind\\nIs surely not the last\\nThe poor, oppressed, honest man\\nHad never, sure, been born,\\nHad there not been some recom-\\npense\\nTo comfort those that mourn\\nO Death! the poor man s dearest\\nfriend.\\nThe kindest and the best\\nWelcome the hour my aged limbs\\nAre laid with thee at rest\\nThe great, the wealthy fear thy blow,\\nFrom pomp and ])leasure torn\\nBut, oh a blest relief to those\\nThat weary-laden mourn\\nWINTER.\\nA DIRGE.\\n[The poet, in 1787, notes this as being\\nthe oldest of his printed poems. In April,\\n1784, lie had inserted it in his Common-\\nPlace Book, prefaced with some eloquent\\nremarks. Gilbert Burns affirms it to be a\\njuvenile production.]\\nI.\\nThe wintry west extends his blast,\\nAnd hail and rain does blaw\\nOr the stormy north sends driving\\nforth\\nThe blinding sleet and snaw\\nWild-tumbling brown, the burn comes\\ndown.\\nAnd roars frae bank to brae\\nWhile bird and beast in covert rest,\\nAnd pass the heartless day.\\nThe sweeping blast, the sky o ercast,\\nThe joyless winter day\\nLet others fear, to me more dear\\nThan all the pride of May\\nThe tempest s howl, it soothes my\\nsoul.\\nMy griefs it seems to join\\nThe leafless trees my fancy please,\\nTheir fate resembles mine\\nThou Pow r Supreme, whose mighty\\nscheme\\nThese woes of mine fulfil,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0092.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.\\n45\\nHere, firm I rest, they must be best,\\nBecause they are Thy will\\nThen all I want (O, do Thou grant\\nThis one request of mine\\nSince to enjoy Thou dost deny,\\nAssist me to resign.\\nA PRAYER IN THE PROS-\\nPECT OF DEATH.\\n[The poet entered these verses in his\\nearly Common-Place Book under this\\ntitle A prayer when fainting-fits, and\\nother alarming symptoms of a pleurisy or\\nsome other dangerous disorder, which in-\\ndeed still threaten me, first put nature on\\nthe alarm. It has been assigned by some\\nauthorities to the year 1781 by others, to\\nthe year 1784.]\\nO Thou unknown. Almighty Cause\\nOf all my hope and fear\\nIn whose dread presence, ere an hour,\\nPerhaps I must appear\\nIf I have wanderd in those paths\\nOf life I ought to shun\\nAs something, loudly, in my breast,\\nRemonstrates I have done\\nThou know st that Thou hast formed\\nme\\nWith passions wild and strong\\nAnd listening to their witching voice\\nHas often led me wrong.\\nWhere human weakness has come\\nshort.\\nOr frailty stept aside.\\nDo Thou, All-good for such Thou\\nart\\nIn shades of darkness hide.\\nWhere with intention I have err d,\\nNo other plea I have,\\nBut, Thou art good; and Goodness\\nstill\\nDelighteth to forgive.\\nTO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.\\nON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE\\nPLOUGH IN APRIL 1 786.\\n[On the 20th of April, 1786, the poet\\ntranscribed these verses, under the title of\\nThe Gowan, to his friend John Kennedy,\\nwith these words 1 have here enclosed a\\nsmall piece, the very latest of my produc-\\ntions, etc.]\\nI.\\nWee, modest, crimson-tipped flow r.\\nThou s met me in an evil hour\\nFor I maun crush amang the stoure\\nThy slender stem\\nTo spare thee now is past my powV,\\nThou bonie gem.\\nAlas it s no thy neebor sweet,\\nThe bonie lark, companion meet.\\nBending thee mang the dewy weet,\\nWi spreckrd breast\\nWhen upward-springing, blythe, to\\ngreet\\nThe purpling east.\\nCauld blew the bitter-biting north\\nUpon thy early, humble birth\\nYet cheerfully thou glinted forth\\nAmid the storm.\\nScarce rear d above the parent-earth\\nThy tender foiin.\\nThe flaunting flowVs our gardens\\nyield.\\nHigh sheltering woods and wa s\\nmaun shield\\nBut thou, beneath the random bield\\nO clod or stane.\\nAdorns the histie stibble-field.\\nUnseen, alane.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0093.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "46\\nTO RUIN.\\nThere, in thy scanty mantle clad.\\nThy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,\\nThou lifts thy unassuming head\\nIn humble guise\\nBut now the share uptears thy bed,\\nAnd low thou lies!\\nVI.\\nSuch is the fate of artless maid,\\nSweet flow ret of the rural shade\\nBy love s simplicity betray d.\\nAnd guileless trust\\nTill she, like thee, all soiPd, is laid\\nLow i the dust.\\nSuch is the fate of simple Bard,\\nOn Life s rough ocean luckless\\nstarr d\\nUnskilful he to note the card\\nOf prudent lore,\\nTill billows rage, and gales blow\\nhard,\\nAnd whelm him o er\\nSuch fate to suffering Worth is giv^n,\\nWho long with wants and woes has\\nstriv n.\\nBy human pride or cunning driv n\\nTo misery s brink\\nTill, wrenched of evVy stay but\\nHeav n,\\nHe. ruin d, sink!\\nEv n thou who mourn st the Daisy s\\nfate,\\nThat fate is thine no distant date\\nStern Ruin s plough-share drives\\nelate,\\nFull on thy bloom,\\nTill crush d beneath the furrow s\\nweight\\nShall be thy doom\\nTO RUIN.\\n[It would appear that this piece dates\\nfrom the close of Burns s residence at\\nIivine, in 1782, when, to crown his mis-\\nfortunes, he was, as lie relates in his Auto-\\nbiographical Letter, jilted, with peculiar\\ncircumstances of mortification, by one\\nwho had pledged her soul to marry\\nhim.\\nAll hail, inexorable lord!\\nAt whose destruction breathing\\nword.\\nThe mightiest empires fall!\\nThy cruel, woe-delighted train.\\nThe ministers of grief and pain,\\nA sullen welcome, all\\nWith stern-resolv d, despairing eye,\\nI see each aimed dart\\nFor one has cut my dearest tie,\\nAnd quivers in my heart.\\nThen low ring and pouring,\\nThe storm no more I dread\\nTho thick ning and black\\nning\\nRound my devoted head.\\nAnd thou grini Pow r, by Life ab-\\nhorr d\\nWhile Life a pleasure can afford,\\nO hear a wretch s pray r\\nNo more I shrink appall d, afraid\\nI court, I beg thy friendly aid.\\nTo close this scene of care\\nWhen shall my soul, in silent peace.\\nResign Life s joyless day?\\nMy weary heart its throbbings\\ncease,\\nCold-mould ring in the clay?\\nNo fear more, no tear more\\nTo stain my lifeless face,\\nEnclasped and grasped\\nWithin thy cold embrace", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0094.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.\\n47\\nEPISTLE TO A YOUNG\\nFRIEND.\\nAfay 1786.\\n[The young friend of this Epistle\\nwas Andrew Hunter Aiken, son of Robert\\nAiken of Ayr.]\\nI LANG hae thought, my youthfu\\nfriend,\\nA something to have sent you,\\nTho it should serve nae ither end\\nThan just a kind memento\\nBut how the subject-theme may gang,\\nLet time and chance determine\\nPerhaps it may turn out a sang\\nPerlaaps, turn out a sermon.\\nYe 11 try the world soon, my lad\\nAnd. Andrew dear, believe me,\\nYe 11 find mankind an unco squad,\\nAnd muckle they may grieve ye\\nFor care and trouble set your thought,\\nEv n when your end s attained\\nAnd a your views may come to\\nnought.\\nWhere ev ry nerve is strained.\\nI II no say, men are villains a\\nThe real, harden d wicked,\\nWha hae nae check but human law.\\nAre to a few restricked\\nBut, och mankind are unco weak\\nAn little to be trusted\\nIf Self the wavering balance shake,\\nIt s rarely right adjusted\\nYet they wha fa in Fortune s strife.\\nTheir fate we should na censure\\nFor still, th important end of life\\nThey equally may answer\\nA man may Hae an honest heart,\\nTho poortith hourly stare him\\nA man may tak a neebor s part,\\nYet hae nae cash to spare him.\\nAy free, aflf han your story tell,\\nWhen wi a bosom cronie\\nBut still keep something to yoursel\\nYe scarcely tell to onie\\nConceal yoursel as weel s ye can\\nFrae critical dissection\\nBut keek thro ev ry other man\\nWi sharpen d, sly inspection.\\nThe sacred lowe o weeJ-plac d love,\\nLuxuriantly indulge it\\nBut never tempt th illicit rove,\\nTho naething sliould divulge it\\nI waive the quantum o the sin.\\nThe hazard of concealing\\nBut, och it hardens a within,\\nAnd petrifies the feeling\\nTo catch Dame Fortune s golden\\nsmile.\\nAssiduous wait upon her\\nAnd gather gear by ev ry wile\\nThat s jastify-d by honor\\nNot for to hide it in a hedge.\\nNor for a train-attendant\\nBat for the glorious privilege\\nOf being independent.\\nThe fear o Hell s a hangman s whip\\nTo hand the wretch in order\\nBut where ye feel your honour grip,\\nLet that ay be your border\\nIts slightest touches, instant pause\\nDebar a side-pretences\\nAnd resolutely keep its laws,\\nUncaring consequences.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0095.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "48\\nON A SCOrCll I5AKD.\\nThe great Creator to revere\\nMust sure become the creature;\\nBut still the preaching cant forbear,\\nAnd ev n the rigid feature\\nYet ne er with wits profane to range\\nBe complaisance extended\\nAn atheist-laugh \\\\s a poor exchange\\nFor Deity offended\\nWhen ranting round in Pleasure s ring,\\nReligion may be blinded\\nOr if she gie a random sting.\\nIt may be little minded\\nBut when on Life we re tempest-\\ndriv n\\nA conscience but a canker\\nA correspondence fix d wi Heav n\\nIs sure a noble anchor\\nXI.\\nAdieu, dear, amiable youth\\nYour heart can ne er be wanting\\nMay prudence, fortitude, and truth,\\nErect your brow undaunting\\nIn ploughman phrase, God send you\\nspeed,\\nStill daily to grow wiser\\nAnd may ye better reck the rede,\\nThan ever did th adviser\\nON A SCOTCH BARD.\\nGONE TO THE WEST INDIES.\\n[Probably among the the latest poems\\nwritten for the Kilmarnock edition. While\\nit was in progress Burns was maturing his\\nplans for emigration.]\\nA YE wha live by sowps o drink,\\nA ye wha live by crambo-clink,\\nA ye wha live and never think,\\nCoine, mourn wi me\\nOur billie s gien us a a jink,\\nAn owre the sea\\nLament him a ye rantin core,\\nWha dearly like a random-splore\\nNae mair he II join tlie merry roar\\nIn social key\\nFor now he s taen anither shore,\\nAn owre the sea\\nThe bonie lasses weel may wiss him,\\nAnd in their dear petitions place him\\nThe widows, wives, an a may l^less\\nhim\\nWi tearfu e e.\\nFor weel I wat they ll sairly miss him\\nThat s owre the sea!\\nO Fortune, they hae room to grumble!\\nHadst thou taen alf some drowsy\\nbummle,\\nWha can do nought but fyke an\\nfumble,\\nT wad been nae plea\\nBut he was gleg as onie wumble,\\nThat s owre the sea!\\nAuld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,\\nAn stain them wi the saut, saut tear\\nT will mak her poor auld heart, I fear,\\nIn flinders flee\\nHe was her Laureat monie a year,\\nThat s owre the sea!\\nHe saw Misfortune s cauld nor-west\\nLang-mustering up a bitter blast;\\nA jillet brak his heart at last,\\n111 may she be!\\nSo, took a birth afore the mast,\\nAn owre the sea.\\nTo tremble under Fortune s cum-\\nmock.\\nOn scarce a bellyfu o drummock,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0096.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "A DEDICATION,\\n49\\nWi his proud, independent stomach,\\nCould ill agree\\nSo, row t his hurdles in a hammock,\\nAn owre the sea.\\nHe ne er was gien to great misguiding.\\nYet coin his pouches wad na bide in\\nWi him it ne er was under hiding,\\nHe dealt it free\\nThe Muse was a that he took\\npride in.\\nThat s owre the sea.\\nJamaica bodies, use him weel.\\nAn hap him in a cozie biel\\nYe 11 find him ay a dainty chiel.\\nAn fou o glee\\nHe wad na wrang d the vera Deil,\\nThat s owre the sea.\\nFareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!\\nYour native soil was right ill-willie\\nBut may ye flourish like a lily.\\nNow bonilie\\nI II toast you in my hindmost gillie,\\nTho owre the sea!\\nA DEDICATION.\\nTO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.\\n[This Dedication dirl not open the vol-\\nume pubhshed at Kihiiarnock, as might\\nhave been expected, but found a place in\\nthe body of the work.]\\nExpect na, Sir, in this narration,\\nA fleechin, fleth rin Dedication,\\nTo roose you up, an ca you guid.\\nAn sprung o great an noljle bluid.\\nBecause ye re surnam d like His\\nGrace,\\nPerhaps related to the race\\nThen, when I m tired and saeare ye,\\nWi monie a fulsome, sinfu lie\\nSet up a face how I stop short,\\nFor fear your modesty be hurt.\\nThis may do maun do. Sir, wi\\nthem wha\\nMaun please the great-folk for a\\nwamefou\\nFor me! sae laigh I need na bow.\\nFor, Lord be thankit, I can plough\\nAnd when I downa yoke a naig.\\nThen, Lord be thankit, I can beg\\nSae I shall say, an that s nae flatt rin,\\nIt s just sic poet an sic patron.\\nThe Poet, some guid angel help\\nhim.\\nOr else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him\\nHe may do weel for a he s done yet,\\nBut only he s no just begun yet.\\nThe Patron (sir, ye maun forgie\\nme;\\nI winna lie, come what will o me),\\nOn ev ry hand it will allow d be.\\nHe s just nae better than he should\\nbe.\\nI readily and freely grant.\\nHe downa see a poor man want\\nWhat s no his ain he winna tak it\\nWhat ance he says, he winna break it\\nOught he can lend he 11 no refus t.\\nTill aft his guidness is abus d\\nAnd rascals whyles that do him wrang,\\nEv n that, he does na mind it lang\\nAs master, landlord, husband, father,\\nHe does na fail his part in either.\\nBut then, nae thanks to him for a\\nthat\\nNae godly symptom ye can ca that\\nIt s naething but a milder feature\\nOf our poor, sinfu corrupt nature\\nYe 11 get the best o moral works,\\nMang black Gentoos, and pagan\\nTurks,\\nOr hunters wild on Ponotaxi,\\nWha never heard of orthodoxy.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0097.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "5\u00c2\u00b0\\nA DEDICATION.\\nThat he \\\\s the poor man s friend in\\nneed,\\nThe gentleman in word and deed,\\nIt s no thro terror of damnation\\nIt s just a carnal inclination,\\nAnd och! that s nae regeneration.\\nMorality, thou deadly banc,\\nThy tens o thousands thou hast\\nslain\\nVain is his hope, whase stay an trust\\nis\\nIn moral mercy, truth, and justice\\nNo stretch a point to catch a\\nplack\\nAbuse a brother to his back\\nSteal thro the winnock frae a whore.\\nBut point the rake that taks the door\\nBe to the poor like onie whunstane,\\nAnd baud their noses to the grun-\\nstane\\nPly ev ry art o legal thieving\\nNo matter stick to sound believing.\\nLearn three-mile pray rs an half-\\nmile graces,\\nWi weel-spread looves, an lang, wry\\nfaces\\nGrunt up a solemn, lengthen d groan,\\nAnd damn a parties but your own\\nI 11 warrant then, ye re nae deceiver,\\nA steady, sturdy, staunch believer.\\nO ye wha leave the springs o Cal-\\nvin,\\nFor gumlie dubs of your ain delvin\\nYe sons of Heresy and Error,\\nYe 11 some day squeel in quaking\\nterror.\\nWhen vengeance draws the sword in\\nwrath,\\nAnd in the fire throws the sheath\\nWhen Ruin, with his sweeping\\nbesom.\\nJust frets till Heav n commission\\ngies him\\nWhile o er the harp pale Misery\\nmoans,\\nAnd strikes the ever-deep ning tones,\\nStill louder shrieks, and heavier\\ngroans\\nYour pardon, sir, for tliis digres-\\nsion\\nI maist forgat my Dedication\\nBut when divinity comes cross me,\\nMy readers still are sure to lose me.\\nSo, Sir, you see twas nae daft\\nvapour\\nBut I maturely thought it proper,\\nWhen a my works I did review.\\nTo dedicate them, Sir, to you\\nBecause (ye need na tak it ill),\\nI thought them something like your-\\nsel.\\nThen patronize them wi your\\nfavor.\\nAnd your petitioner shall ever\\nI had amaist said, ever pray.\\nBut that s a word I need na say\\nFor prayin, I hae little skill o t\\nI m baith dead-sweer, an wretched\\nill o t\\nBut I se repeat each jDoor man s\\npray r,\\nThat kens or hears about you, Sir\\nMay ne er Misfortune s gowling\\nbark\\nHowl thro the dwelling o the clerk\\nMay ne er his gen rous, honest heart,\\nFor that same gen rous spirit smart\\nMay Kennedy s far-honor d name\\nLang beet his hymeneal flame.\\nTill Hamiltons, at least a dizzen.\\nAre frae their nuptial labors risen\\nFive bonie lasses round their table.\\nAnd sev n bravv fellows, stout an\\nable.\\nTo serve their king an country weel,\\nBy word, or pen, or pointed steel!\\nMay Health and Peace, with mutual\\nrays,\\nShine on the ev ning o his days\\nTill his wee, curlie John s ier-oe.\\nWhen ebbing life nae mair shall flow.\\nThe last, sad, mournful rites bestow!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0098.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "TO A LOUSE.\\n51\\nI will not wind a lang conclusion,\\nWith complimentary effusion\\nBut, whilst your wishes and endeav-\\nours\\nAre blest with Fortune s smiles and\\nfavours,\\nI am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent.\\nYour much indebted, humble servant.\\nBut if (which Pow rs above pre-\\nvent)\\nThat iron-hearted carl, Want,\\nAttended, in his grim advances.\\nBy sad mistakes, and black mis-\\nchances.\\nWhile hopes, and joys, and pleasures\\nfly him,\\nMake you as poor a dog as I am.\\nYour humble servant then no\\nmore\\nFor who would humbly serve the\\npoor\\nBut, by a poor man s hopes in Heav n!\\nWhile recollection s jdowY is giv n.\\nIf. in the vale of humble life,\\nThe victim sad of Fortune s strife,\\nI, thro the tender-gushing tear.\\nShould recognise my master dear;\\nIf friendless, low, we meet together,\\nThen, sir, your hand my Friend\\nand Brother!\\nTO A LOUSE.\\nON SEEING ONE ON A LADY S\\nBONNET AT CHURCH.\\nThe success of the last verse redeems\\na rather painful performance. The insect\\nwas treasured as a relic, like the flea\\nthat loupit on Prince Charlie. ANDREW\\nLang.]\\nHa! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin fer-\\nHe?\\nYour impudence protects you sairly,\\nI canna say but ye strunt rarely\\nOwre gauze and lace,\\nTho faith I fear ye dine but sparely\\nOn sic a place.\\nYe ugly, creepin, blastit wonner.\\nDetested, shunn d by saunt an\\nsinner,\\nHow daur ye set your fit upon her\\nSae fine a lady\\nGae somewhere else and seek your\\ndinner\\nOn some poor body.\\nSwith in some beggar s hauffet\\nsquattle\\nThere ye may creep, and sprawl, and\\nsprattle,\\nWi ither kindred, jumping cattle,\\nIn shoals and nations\\nWhare horn nor bane ne er daur un-\\nsettle\\nYour thick plantations.\\nrv\\nNow hand you there ye re out o\\nsight,\\nBelow the fatt rils, snug an tight\\nNa, faith ye yet ye II no be right,\\nTill ye ve got on it\\nThe vera tapmost, tovv ring height\\nO Miss s bonnet.\\nMy sooth right bauld ye set your\\nnose out.\\nAs plump an grey as onie grozet\\nfor some rank, mercurial rozet,\\nOr fell, red smeddum,\\n1 d gie ye sic a hearty dose o t,\\nWad dress your droddum.\\nI wad na been surprised to spy\\nYou on an auld wife s flainen toy\\nOr aiblins some bit duddie boy.\\nOn s wyliecoat", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0099.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "52\\nEPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.\\nBut Miss s fine Lunardi fye\\nHow daur ye do t?\\nO Jenny, dinna toss your head,\\nAn set your beauties a abread\\nYe little ken what cursed speed\\nThe blastie s makin\\nThae winks an finger-ends, I dread.\\nAre notice takii\\nVIII.\\nO wad some Power the giftie gie us\\nTo see oursels as ithers see us\\nIt wad frae monie a blunder free us,\\nAn foolish notion\\nWhat airs in dress an gait wad lea e\\nus,\\nAn ev n devotion\\nEPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.\\nAN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL I,\\n1785.\\nThe song, admired by Burns, was pil-\\nfered by Lapraik from (or contriljuti d by\\nhim to) The Weekly Magaziiv, October\\n14, 1773 (Chambers). The poem here is\\nBurns s Ars Poetica possibly his rhymes\\nhad been censured by some collegian.\\nOtherwise it is not easy to account for his\\nattack on Greek, a language of which he\\nhad no more than Scott, and perhaps less\\nthan Shakespeare. Lapraik published his\\nverses in 1788; they are collected by Burns-\\nians. ANDREW Lang.]\\nWhile briers an woodbines budding\\ngreen.\\nAnd paitricks scraichin loud at e en,\\nAn morning poussie whiddin seen.\\nInspire my Muse,\\nThis freedom, in an unknown frien\\nI pray excuse.\\nOn Fasten-e en we had a rockin.\\nTo ca the crack and weave our\\nstockin\\nAnd there was muckle fun and jokin.\\nYe need na doubt\\nAt length we had a hearty yokin,\\nAt sang about.\\nThere was ae sang, amang the rest,\\nAboon them a it pleas d me best.\\nThat some kind husband had addrest\\nTo some sweet wife\\nIt thiird the heart-strings thro the\\nbreast,\\nA to the life.\\nIV.\\nI ve scarce heard ought describ d sae\\nweel.\\nWhat gen rous, manly bosoms feel\\nThought I, Can this be Pope or\\nSteele,\\nOr Beattie s wark\\nThey tald me twas an odd kind chiel\\nAbout Muirkirk.\\nIt pat me fidgin-fain to hear t,\\nAn sae about him there I spier t;\\nThen a that kent him round declar d\\nHe had ingine\\nThat nane excell d it, few cam near t,\\nIt was sae fine\\nVI.\\nThat, set him to a pint of ale,\\nAn either douce or merry tale,\\nOr rhymes an sangs he d made him-\\nsel.\\nOr witty catches,\\nTween Inverness an Teviotdale,\\nHe had few matches.\\nVII.\\nThen up I gat, an swoor an aith,\\nTho I should pawn my pleugh an\\ngraith.\\nOr die a cadger pownie s death.\\nAt some dyke-back,\\nA pint an gill I d gie them baith,\\nTo hear your crack.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0100.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK.\\n53\\nBut, first an foremost, I should tell,\\nAmaist as soon as I could spell,\\nI to the crambo-jingle fell\\nTho rude an rough\\nYet crooning to a body s sel.\\nDoes weel eneugh.\\nIX.\\nI am nae poet, in a sense\\nBut just a rhymer like by chance,\\nAn hae to learning nae pretence\\nYet what the matter?\\nWhene er my Muse does on me\\nglance,\\nI jingle at her.\\nX.\\nYour critic-folk may cock their nose,\\nAnd say, How can you e er propose,\\nYou wha ken hardly verse frae prose,\\nTo mak a sang\\nBut, by your leaves, my learned foes.\\nYe re maybe wrang.\\nWhat s a your jargon o your\\nSchools,\\nYour Latin names for horns an\\nstools?\\nIf honest Nature made you fools,\\nWhat sairs your grammers\\nYe d better taen up spades and\\nshools,\\nOr knappin-hammers.\\nXII.\\nA set o dull, conceited hashes\\nConfuse their brains in college-classes,\\nThey gang in stirks, and come out\\nasses,\\nPlain truth to speak\\nAn syne they think to climb Par-\\nnassus\\nBy dint o Greek!\\nGie me ae spark o Nature s fire.\\nThat s a the learning I desire\\nThen, tho I drudge thro dub an\\nmire\\nAt pleugh or cart.\\nMy Muse, tho hamely in attire,\\nMay touch the heart.\\nO for a spunk o Allan s glee.\\nOr Fergusson s, the bauld an slee,\\nOr bright Lapraik s, my friend to be,\\nIf I can hit it\\nThat would be leJir eneugh for mc,\\nIf I could get it.\\nNow, sir, if ye hae friends enow,\\nTho real friends I b lieve are few\\nYet, if your catalogue be fow,\\nI se no insist\\nBut, gif ye want ae friend that s true,\\nI m on your list.\\nI winna blaw about mysel.\\nAs ill I like my fauts to tell\\nBut friends, an folks that wish me\\nwell.\\nThey sometimes roose me\\nTho I maun own, as monie still\\nAs far abuse me.\\nXVII.\\nThere s ae wee faut they whyles lay\\nto me,\\nI like the lasses Gude forgie me\\nFor monie a plack they wheedle frae\\nme\\nAt dance or fair\\nMaybe some ither thing they gie me.\\nThey weel can spare.\\nBut Mauchline Race or Mauchline\\nFair,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0101.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "54\\nSECOND EPISTLE Tt) J. LAI KAIK.\\nI should be proud to meet you there\\nWe se gie ae night s discharge to\\ncare,\\nIf we forgather;\\nAnd hac a swap o rhymin-ware\\nWi ane anither.\\nThe four-gill chap, we se gar him\\nclatter,\\nAn kirsen him \\\\vi reekin water\\nSyne we II sit down an tak out whitter.\\nTo cheer our heart\\nAn faith, we se be acquainted better\\nBefore we part.\\nAwa ye selfish, warly race,\\nWha think that havins, sense, an\\ngrace,\\nEv n love an friendship should give\\nplace\\nTo Catch-the-Plack\\nI dinna like to see your face,\\nNor hear your crack.\\nBut ye whom social pleasure charms,\\nWhose hearts the tide of kindness\\nwarms.\\nWho hold your being on the terms,\\nEach aid the others,\\nCome to my bowl, come to my arms.\\nMy friends, my brothers\\nBut, to conclude my lang epistle,\\nAs my auld pen s worn to the grissle,\\nTwa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,\\nWho am most fervent,\\nWhile I can either sing or whistle.\\nYour friend and servant.\\nSECOND\\nEPISTLE TO\\nPRAIK.\\nAPRIL 21, 1785.\\nJ. LA-\\n[Enteicd in the First Common-Place\\nBook under The First Epistle, with\\nthis explanation On receiving an answer\\nto the above, Bums wrote the follow-\\ning:\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWhile new-ca d kye rowte at the\\nstake\\nAn pownies reek in pleugh or braik,\\nThis hour on e enin s edge I take,\\nTo own I m debtor\\nTo honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,\\nFor his kind letter.\\nForjesket sair, with weary legs,\\nRattlin the corn out-owre the rigs.\\nOr dealing thro amang the naigs\\nTheir ten-hours bite,\\nMy awkart Muse sair pleads and begs,\\nI would na write.\\nThe tapetless, ramfeezl d hizzie.\\nShe s saft at best, an something\\nlazy\\nQuo she Ye ken we ve been sae\\nbusy\\nThis month an mair,\\nThat trowth, my head is grown right\\ndizzie,\\nAn something sair.\\nHer dowff excuses pat me mad\\nConscience, says I, ye thowless jad\\nI 11 write, an that a hearty blaud.\\nThis vera night\\nSo dinna ye affront your trade.\\nBut rhyme it riglit.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0102.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "SECOND EPISTLE TO J. lAPRAIK.\\n55\\nShall bauld Lapiaik, the king o\\nhearts,\\nTho mankind were a pack o cartes,\\nRoose you sae weel for your deserts,\\nIn terms sae friendly\\nYet ye 11 neglect to shaw your parts\\nAn thank him kindly?\\nSae I gat paper in a blink.\\nAn down gaed stumpie in the ink:\\nQuoth I Before I sleep a wink,\\nI vow I 11 close it\\nAn if ye winna mak it clink.\\nBy Jove, I 11 prose it\\nSae I ve begun to scrawl, but whether\\nIn rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,\\nOr some hotch-potch that s rightly\\nneither.\\nLet time mak proof;\\nBut I shall scribble down some blether\\nJust clean aff-loof.\\nMy worthy friend, ne er grudge an\\ncarp,\\nTho Fortune use you hard an sharp\\nCome, kittle up your moorland harp\\nWi gleesome touch\\nNe er mind how Fortune waft an\\nwarp\\nShe s but a bitch.\\nShe s gien me monie a jirt an fleg,\\nSin I could striddle owre a rig;\\nBut, by the Lord, tho I should beg\\nWi lyart pow,\\nI 11 laugh an sing, an shake my leg,\\nAs lang s I dow\\nNow comes the sax-an-twenticth sim-\\nmer\\nI ve seen the bud upo the timmer,\\nStill persecuted by the limmer\\nFrae year to year\\nBut yet, despite the kittle kimmer,\\nI, Rob, am here.\\nDo ye envy the city gent,\\nBehint a kist to lie an sklent\\nOr purse-proud, big wi cent, per cent.\\nAn muckle wame,\\nIn some bit brugh to represent\\nA bailie s name\\nOr is t the paughty feudal thane,\\nWi ruffl d sark an glancing cane,\\nWha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank\\nbane.\\nBut lordly stalks\\nWhile caps an bonnets atf are taen.\\nAs by he walks\\nO Thou wha gies us each guid gift!\\nGie me o wit an sense a lift,\\nThen turn me, if Thou please, adrift\\nThro Scotland wide\\nWi cits nor lairds I wadna shift.\\nIn a their pride!\\nWere this the charter of our state,\\nOn pain o hell be rich an great,\\nDamnation then would be our fate.\\nBeyond remead\\nBut, thanks to heaven, that s no the\\ngate\\nWe learn our creed.\\nFor thus the royal mandate ran.\\nWhen first the human race began\\nThe social, friendly, honest man,\\nWhate er he be,\\nT is he fulfils great Nature s plan,\\nAnd none but he.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0103.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "56\\nTO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE.\\nXVI.\\nO mandate glorious and divine!\\nThe followers o the ragged Nine\\nPoor, thoughtless devils! yet may\\nshine\\nIn glorious light\\nWhile sordid sons o Mammon s line\\nAre dark as night!\\nXVII.\\nTho here they scrape, an squeeze,\\nan growl,\\nTheir worthless neivefu of a soul\\nMay in some future carcase howl,\\nThe forest s fright\\nOr in some day-detesting owl\\nMay shun the light.\\nThen may Lapraik and Burns arise,\\nTo reach their native, kindred skies.\\nAnd sing their pleasures, hopes an\\njoys,\\nIn some mild sphere\\nStill closer knit in friendship s ties.\\nEach passing year!\\nTO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF\\nOCHILTREE.\\nMAY 1785.\\n[William Simpson was the schoolmaster\\nof Ochiltree. Ho was born Aug. 23, 1758;\\ndied July 4, 1815.]\\nI GAT your letter, winsome Willie\\nWi gratefu heart I thank you\\nbrawlie\\nTho I maun say t, I wad be silly\\nAnd unco vain,\\nShould I believe, my coaxin billie.\\nYour flatterin strain.\\nBut I s believe ye kindly meant it\\n1 sud be laitii to think ye hinted\\nIronic satire, sidelins sklented,\\nOn my poor Musie\\nTho in sic phraisin terms ye ve\\npenn d it,\\nI scarce excuse ye.\\nHI.\\nMy senses wad be in a creel.\\nShould I but dare a hope to speel,\\nWi Allan, or wi Gilbertfield,\\nThe braes o fame\\nOr Fergusson, the writer-chiel,\\nA deathless name.\\n(O Fergusson thy glorious parts\\n111 suited law s dry, musty arts\\nMy curse upon your whunstane hearts.\\nYe E nbrugh gentry!\\nThe tythe o what ye waste at cartes\\nWad stow d his pantry\\nYet when a tale comes i my head.\\nOr lasses gie my heart a screed\\nAs whylesthey re like to be my dead,\\n(O sad disease!)\\nI kittle up my rustic reed\\nIt ^ies me ease.\\nAuld Coila, now, may fidge fu fain,\\nShe s gotten bardies o her ain\\nChiels wha their chanters winna hain.\\nBut tune their lays.\\nTill echoes a resound again\\nHer weel-sung praise.\\nNae Poet thought her worth his while.\\nTo set her name in measur d style\\nShe lay like some unkend-of isle\\nBeside New Holland,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0104.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "TO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE.\\n57\\nOr whare wild-meetinsc oceans boil\\nXIII.\\nBesouth ]\\\\iagellan.\\nEv n winter bleak has charms to me,\\nWhen winds rave thro the naked\\nVIII.\\ntree\\nRamsay an famous Fergu.sson\\nOr frosts on hills of Ochiltree\\nCied Forth an Tay a lift aboon\\nAre hoary gray\\nYarrow an Tweed, to monie a tune,\\nOr blinding drifts wild-furious flee.\\nOwre Scotland rin ^s\\nDark ning the day\\nWhile Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an Doon\\nNaebody sings.\\nXIV.\\nNature a thy shews an forms\\nIX.\\nTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!\\nTh missus, Tiber, Thames, an Seine,\\nWhether the summer kindly warms,\\nGlide sweet in monie a tunefu line\\nWi life an light\\nBut, Willie, set your fit to mine.\\nOr winter howls, in gusty storms,\\nAn cock your crest\\nThe lang, dark night\\nWe 11 gar our streams and burnies\\nshine\\nXV.\\nUp wi the best.\\nThe Muse, nae poet ever fand her.\\nTill by himsel he learn d to wander.\\nX.\\nAdown some trottin burn s meander,\\nWe 11 sing auld Coila s plains an fells,\\nAn no think lang:\\nHer moors red-brown wi heather\\n0, sweet to stray, an pensive ponder\\nbells,\\nA heart-felt sang\\nHer banks an braes, her dens an\\ndells,\\nXVI.\\nWhare glorious Wallace\\nThe warly race may drudge an drive,\\nAft bure the gree, as story tells,\\nHog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an\\nFrae Suthron billies.\\nstrive\\nLet me fair Nature s face descrive,\\nXI.\\nAnd I, wi pleasure,\\nAt Wallace name, what Scottish\\nShall let the busy, grumbling hive\\nblood\\nBum owre their treasure.\\nBut boils up in a spring-tide flood?\\nOft have our fearless fathers strode\\nXVII.\\nBy Wallace side.\\nFareweel, my rhyme-composing\\nStill pressing onward, red-wat-shod,\\nbrither\\nOr glorious dy d\\nWe ve been owre lang unkend to ither\\nNow let us lay our heads thegither,\\nXII.\\nIn love fraternal\\nO. sweet are Coila s haughs an woods.\\nMay Envy wallop in a tether.\\nWhen lintwhites chant amang the\\nBlack fiend, infernal\\nbuds,\\nAnd jinkin hares, in amorous whids,\\nXVIII.\\nTheir loves enjoy\\nWhile Highlandmen hate tolls an\\nWhile thro the braes the cushat\\ntaxes\\ncroods\\nWhile moorlan herds like guid, fat\\nW ith wailfu cry\\nbraxies", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0105.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "58\\nTO WILLIAM SIMPSON OF OCHILTREE.\\nWhile Terra Firma, on her axis,\\nDiurnal turns\\nCount on a friend, in faith an practice,\\nIn Robert Burns.\\nPostscript.\\nMy memory s no worth a preen\\nI liad amaist forgotten clean,\\nYe bade me write you what they mean\\nV y this New-Light,\\nBout which our herds sae aft hae been\\nMaist like to tight.\\nIn days when mankind were but cal-\\nlans\\nAt grammar, logic, an sic talents.\\nThey took nae pains their speech to\\nbalance.\\nOr rules to gie\\nBut spak their thoughts in plain, braid\\nLallans,\\nLike you or me.\\nIn thae auld times, they thought the\\nmoon,\\nJust like a sark. or pair o shoon.\\nWore by degrees, till her last roon\\nGaed past their viewin\\nAn shortly after she was done,\\nThey gat a new ane.\\nThis past for certain, undisputed\\nIt ne er cam i their heads to doubt it.\\nTill chiels gat up an wad confute it.\\nAn ca d it wrang\\nAn muckle din there was about it,\\nBaith loud an lang.\\nSome herds,\\nBeuk,\\nweel Icarn d upo the\\nWad threap auld folk the thing mis-\\nteuk\\nFor t was the auld moon turn d a neuk\\nAn out o sight.\\nAn backlins-comin to the leuk.\\nShe ;rew mair bright.\\nThis was deny d. it was afiirm d\\nThe herds and hissels were alarm d\\nThe rev rend gray-beards rav d an\\nstorm d.\\nThat beardless laddies\\nShould think they better were in-\\nform d\\nThan their auld daddies.\\nFrae less to mair, it gaed to sticks\\nFrae words an aiths, to clours an\\nnicks\\nAn monie a fallow gat his licks,\\nWi hearty crunt\\nAn some, to learn them for their\\ntricks.\\nWere hang d an brunt.\\nXXVL\\nThis game was play d in monie lands,\\nAn Auld-Light caddies bure sic\\nhands,\\nThat fiiith, the youngsters took the\\nsands\\nWi nimble shanks\\nTill lairds forbade, by strict com-\\nmands.\\nSic bluidy pranks.\\nXXVII.\\nBut New-Light herds gat sic a cowe,\\nFolk thought them ruin d stick-an-\\nstowe\\nTill now, amaist on ev ry knowe\\nYe ll find ane placed;\\nAn some, tlieir New-Light fair avow,\\nJust quite barefac d.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0106.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.\\n59\\nNae doubt the Auld-Liglit flocks are\\nbleatiu\\nTheir zealous lierds are vex d and\\nsweatin\\nMysel, I Ve even seen them greetin\\nWP girnin spite,\\nTo hear the moon sae sadly He d on\\nBy word an write.\\nXXIX.\\nBut shortly they will cowe the louns!\\nSome Auld-Light herds in neebor\\ntouns\\nAre mind t, in things they ca bal-\\nloons,\\nTo tak a flight.\\nAn stay ae month amang the moons\\nAn see them right.\\nXXX.\\nGuid observation they will gie them\\nAn when the auld moon s gaun to\\nlea e them,\\nThe hindmost shaird, they 11 fetch it\\nwi them,\\nJust i their pouch\\nAn when the New-Light billies see\\nthem,\\nI think they ll crouch!\\nSae, ye observe that a this clatter\\nIs naething but a moonshine mat-\\nter\\nBut tho dull prose-folk Latin splatter\\nIn logic tulzie,\\nI hope we. Bardies, ken some better\\nThan mind sic bmlzie.\\nEPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.\\nENCLOSING SOME POEMS.\\n[Rankine was farmer at Adamhill, in the\\nparish of Craigie, near Lochlie. His wit,\\nhis dreams, and his practical jokes were the\\ntalk of the countiyside.]\\nO ROUGH, nide, ready-witted Ran-\\nkine,\\nThe wale o cocks for fun an drinkin\\nThere s monie godly folks are thinkin\\nYour dreams and tricks\\nWill send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin\\nStraught to Auld Nick s.\\nYe hae sae monie cracks an cants,\\nAnd in your wicked drucken rants,\\nYe mak a devil o the saunts,\\nAn fill them fou\\nAnd then their failings, flaws, an\\nwants\\nAre a seen thro\\nHypocrisy, in mercy spare it\\nThat holy robe, O, dinna tear it\\nSpare t for their sakes, wha aften\\nwear it\\nThe lads in black\\nBut your curst wit, when it comes\\nnear it.\\nRives t aff their back.\\nThink, wicked sinner, wha ye re\\nskaithing\\nIt s just the Blue-gown badge an\\nclaithing\\nO saunts tak that, ye lea e them\\nnaething\\nTo ken them by\\nFrae onie unregenerate heathen,\\nLike you or I.\\nI ve sent you here some rhyming\\nware\\nA that I bargain d for, an niair\\nSae, when ye hae an hour to spare,\\nI will expect,", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0107.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "6o\\nSONG.\\nYon sang ye 11 sen t, wi cannie care,\\nAnd no neglect.\\nTho faith, sma heart hae I to sing:\\nMy Muse dovv scarcely spread her\\nwing!\\nI e play d mysel a bonie spring,\\nAn danc d my till\\nI d better gaen an sair t the King\\nAt Bunker s Hill.\\nVII.\\nT was ae night lately, in my fun,\\nI gaed a rovin wi the gun,\\nAn brought a paitrick to the gnm\\nA bonie hen\\nAnd, as the twilight was begun.\\nThought nane wad ken.\\nhurt\\nThe poor, wee thing was littl\\nI straikit it a wee for sport.\\nNe er thinkin they wad fash\\nfor t;\\nBut, Deil-ma-care!\\nSomebody tells the Poacher-Court\\nThe hale affair.\\nSome auld, us d hands had taen a\\nnote,\\nThat sic a hen had got a shot\\nI was suspected for the plot\\nI scorn d to lie\\nSo gat the whissle o my groat,\\nAn pay t the fee.\\nBut, by my gim, o guns the wale,\\nAn b^ my pouther an my hail.\\nAn by my hen, an by her tail,\\nI vow an swear!\\nThe game shall pay owre moor an\\ndale,\\nFor this, niest year!\\nAs soon s the clockin-time is by,\\nAn the wee pouts begun to cry,\\nLord, I se hae sportin by an by\\nFor my gowd guinea\\nTho I should herd the buckskin kye\\nFor t, in Virginia\\nTrowth, they had muckle for to\\nblame\\nT was neither broken wing nor limb.\\nBut twa-threc chaps about the wame.\\nScarce thro the feathers\\nAn baith a yellow George to claim\\nAn thole their blethers\\nIt pits me ay as mad s a hare\\nSo I can rhyme nor write nae mair;\\nBut pennyworths again is fair.\\nWhen time s expedient\\nMeanwhile I am, respected Sir,\\nYour most obedient.\\nSONG.\\nTUNE Corn Rigs.\\n[In his Autobiographical Letter to Dr.\\nMoore, Burns inchides this admirable lyric\\namong the rhymes of his early days,\\ncomposed before his twenty-third year.\\nBut the early version was probaljly a mere\\nfragmentary suggestion of the later. The\\nAnnie of this song is unknown. Several\\nAnnies claimed the distinction, among\\nthem a Mrs. Merry.]\\nIt was upon a Lammas night,\\nWhen corn rigs are bonie.\\nBeneath the moon s unclouded light,\\nI held awa to Annie\\nThe time flew by, wi tentless heed\\nTill, tween the late and early,\\nWi sma persuasion she agreed\\nTo see me thro the barley.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0108.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "SONG: COMPOSED IN AUGUST.\\n6i\\nCorn rigs, an barley rigs,\\nAn corn rigs are bonie\\nI 11 ne er forget that happy\\nnight,\\nAmang the rigs \\\\vi Annie.\\nThe sky was blue, the wind was still,\\nThe moon was shining clearly\\n1 set her down, wi right good will,\\nAmang the rigs o barley\\nI ken t her heart was a my ain\\nI lov d her most sincerely\\nI kiss d her owre and owre again,\\nAmang the rigs o barley.\\nI lock d her in my fond embrace\\nHer heart was beating rarely\\nMy blessings on that hapjjy place,\\nAmang the rigs o barley\\nBut by the moon and stars so bright.\\nThat shone that hour so clearly\\nShe aye shall bless that happy night\\nAmang the rigs o barley.\\nI hae been blythe wi comrades dear\\nI hae been merry drinking;\\nI hae been joyfu gath rin gear\\nI hae been happy thinking\\nBut a the pleasures e er I saw,\\nTho three times doubl d fairly\\nThat happy night was worth them a\\nAmang the rigs o barley.\\nCorn rigs, an barley rigs,\\nAn corn rigs are bonie\\nI 11 ne er forget that happy\\nnight,\\nAmang the rigs wi Annie.\\nSONG;\\nCOMPOSED IN\\nAUGUST.\\n[Burns states, in his Autobiographical\\nLetter, that this song was the ebullition of\\nhis passion for a charming yf/\u00c2\u00ab?//6 Peggy\\nThomson, who overset his trigonometry\\nat Kirkoswald when he was in his seven-\\nteenth year.]\\nNow westlin winds and slaughtering\\nguns\\nBring Autumn s pleasant weather\\nThe gotxock springs on whirring\\nwings\\nAmang the blooming heather\\nNow waving grain, wide o er the\\nplain,\\nDelights the weary farmer\\nThe moon shines bright, as I rove by\\nnight\\nTo muse upon my charmer.\\nThe paitrick lo es the fruitfu fells.\\nThe plover lo es the mountains\\nThe woodcock haunts the lonely dells,\\nThe soaring hern the fountains\\nThro lofty groves the cushat roves,\\nThe path o man to shun it\\nThe hazel bush o erhangs the thrush,\\nThe spreading thorn the linnet.\\nThus ev ry kind their pleasure find.\\nThe savage and tlie tender\\nSome social join, and leagues com-\\nbine.\\nSome solitary wander\\nAvaunt. away, the cruel sway\\nTyrannic man s dominion!\\nThe sportsman s joy, the murd ring\\nThe llutt ring, gory pinion\\nIV.\\nBut, Peggy dear, the evening s clear.\\nThick iiies the skimming swallow,\\nThe sky is blue, the fields in view\\nAll fading-green and yellow\\nCome let us stray our gladsome way,\\nAnd view the charms of nature", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0109.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "62\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\nThe rustling corn, the fruited thorn,\\nAnd ilka happy creature.\\nWe ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,\\nWhile the silent moon shines\\nclearly\\nI 11 clasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,\\nSwear how I lo e thee dearly\\nNot vernal show rs to budding flow rs,\\nNot Autumn to the farmer,\\nSo dear can be as thou to me,\\nMy fair, my lovely charmer!\\nSONG: FROM THEE ELIZA.\\nTune: Gilderoy.\\nEliza was Elizabeth Miller, afterwards\\nMrs. Templeton, celebrated in The Mauch-\\nline Belles as the Miss Betty who s\\nbiaw.\\nFrom thee Eliza, I must go.\\nAnd from my native shore\\nThe cruel fates between us throw\\nA boundless ocean s roar\\nBut boundless oceans, roaring wide\\nBetween my Love and me.\\nThey never, never can divide\\nMy heart and soul from thee.\\nFarewell, farewell, Eliza dear.\\nThe maid that I adore\\nA boding voice is in mine ear.\\nWe part to meet no more\\nBut the latest throb that leaves my\\nheart,\\nWhile Death stands victor by.\\nThat throb, Eliza, is thy part.\\nAnd thine that latest siirh\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\nTO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES S\\nLODGE, TARBOLTON.\\nTUNE: Good-tiigkf, and joy be wi you a\\n[At this time the author intended going\\nto Jamaica. Burns was admitted an ap-\\nprentice of the St. David s Lodge, July 4,\\n1781. He was elected depute-master of\\nSt. James s Lodge (which separated from\\nSt. David s) July 22, 1784.]\\nAdieu a heart-warm, fond adieu\\nDear Brothers of the Mystic Tie!\\nYe favour d, ye enlighten d few,\\nCompanions of my social joy\\nTho I to foreign lands must hie,\\nPursuing Fortune s slidd ry ha\\nWith melting heart and brimful eye,\\nI 11 mind you still, tho far awa.\\nOft have I met your social band,\\nAnd spent the cheerful, festive\\nnight\\nOft, honour d with supreme command,\\nPresided o er tlie Sons of LigJtt\\nAnd by that Hicroi^lyphic bright,\\nWhich none but Craftsmen ever saw\\nStrong Mem ry on my heart shall\\nwrite\\nThose happy scenes, when far awa.\\nMay Freedotn, Harmony, and Love,\\nUnite you in the Grand Design,\\nBeneath th Omniscient Eye above\\nThe glorious ArcJiitect Divine\\nThat you may keep th Unerring\\nLine,\\nStill i-ising by the Plunnnefs Law,\\nTill Order hx\\\\^\\\\\\\\. completely .shine,\\nShall be my pray r, when far awa.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0110.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "EPITAPHS.\\n63\\nAnd You farewell whose merits claim\\nJustly that HigJicst Badge to wear:\\nHeav n bless your honoured, noble\\nName,\\nTo Masonry and Scotia dear\\nA 4ast request permit me here,\\nWhen yearly ye assemble a\\nOne round, I ask it with a tear,\\nTo him, the Bard, that s far awa.\\nEPITAPH ON A HENPECKED\\nSQUIRE.\\n[The subject of this epitaph was Mr.\\nCampbell of Netherplace, a mansion a\\nlittle to the west of Mauchline, on the road\\nto Mossgiel. Tiie epitaph was not reprinted\\nby Burns, nor was the following one.]\\nAs father Adam first was fooPd,\\nA case that s still too common,\\nHere lies a man a woman ruPd\\nThe Devil ruled the woman.\\nEPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION.\\nO Death, had st thou but spared his\\nlife.\\nWhom we this day lament\\nWe freely wad exchanged the wife.\\nAn a been weel content.\\nEv n as he is, cauld in his graff.\\nThe swap we yet will do t\\nTak thou the carlin s carcase aff.\\nThou se get the saul o boot.\\nANOTHER.\\nOne Queen Artemisa, as old stories\\ntell,\\nWhen depriv d of her husband she\\nloved so well.\\nIn respect for the love and affection\\nhe d sliowVl her.\\nShe reduc d him to dust and she drank\\nup the powder.\\nBut Queen Netherplace, of a difif rent\\ncomplexion.\\nWhen caird on to order the funVal\\ndirection.\\nWould have eat her dead lord, on a\\nslender pretence.\\nNot to show her respect, but to save\\nthe expense\\nEPITAPHS.\\nON A CELEBRATED RULING\\nELDER.\\n[Souter Hood was a ruling elder in Tar-\\n.bolton, named William Hood.]\\nHere Souter Hood in death does\\nsleep\\nIn hell, if he s gane thither,\\nSatan, gie him thy gear to keep\\nHe II liaud it weel thegither.\\nON A NOISY POLEMIC.\\n[James Humphry, a mason in Mauchline\\nwith no doubt of his ability to debate with\\nBurns. He died in 1844. He was wont to\\nintroduce himself to strangers as Burns s\\nblethering bitch.\\nBelow thir stanes lie Jamie s banes\\nO Death, it s my opinion.\\nThou ne er took such a bleth rin bitch\\nInto thy dark dominion.\\nON WEE JOHNIE.\\nHicjacet \\\\yte.Johiiie.\\n[Said to be the poet s Kilmarnock printer.\\nThere is another claimant, a bookseller in\\nMauchline, of diminutive stature, named\\nJohn Wilson.]\\nWhoe er thou art, O reader, know,\\nThat Death has murdered Johnie,\\nAn here his body lies fti low\\nFor said he ne er had onie.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0111.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "64\\nEPiTArns.\\nFOR THE AUTHOR S FATHER.\\n[William Burncss died at Lochlic, Feb.\\n13, 1784, and this Epitaph on my Ever\\nHonoureti Father was inserted in the\\nFirst Common-Place Book, under the\\ndate April of that year. The epitaph is\\nengraved on the tombstone in Alloway\\nChurchyard.]\\nO YE whose check the tear of pity\\nstains.\\nDraw near witii pious rev rence, and\\nattend\\nHere He the having husband s dear\\nremains.\\nThe tender father, and the gen rous\\nfriend.\\nThe pitying heart that felt for human\\nwoe,\\nThe dauntless heart that fear d no\\nhuman pride,\\nThe friend of man to vice alone a\\nfoe\\nFor ev n his failings lean d to vir-\\ntue s side.\\nFOR ROBERT An :EN, Esq.\\n[The gentleman to whom The Cotter s\\nSaturday Night was dedicated.]\\nKnow thou, O stranger to the fame\\nOf this much lov d, much honoured\\nname\\n(For none that knew him need be\\ntold),\\nA warmer heart Death ne er made\\ncold.\\nFOR GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.\\n[These lines allude to the persecution\\nwhich Hamilton endured for riding on Sun-\\nday, etc.]\\nThe poor man weeps here Gavin\\nsleeps.\\nWhom canting wretches blam d\\nBut with such as he, where er he be,\\nMay 1 be sav d or damn d.\\nA BARD S EPITAPH.\\nBurns s most sincere and touching self-\\ncriticism. Andrew Lang.]\\nIs there a whim-inspired fool,\\nOwre fast for thought, owre hot for\\nrule,\\nOwre blate to seek, owre proud to\\nsnool!\\nLet him draw near;\\nAnd owre this grassy heap sing dool,\\nAnd drap a tear.\\nIs there a Bard of rustic song,\\nWho, noteless, steals the crowds\\namong,\\nThat weekly this area throng?\\nO, pass not by!\\nBut with a frater-feeling strong.\\nHere, heave a sigh.\\nIs there a man, whose judgment clear\\nCan others teach the coast to steer.\\nYet nms, himself, life s mad career\\nWild as the wave?\\nHere pause and, thro the starting\\ntear,\\nSurvey this grave.\\nIV.\\nThe poor inhabitant below\\nWas quick to learn and wise to know.\\nAnd keenly felt tlie friendly glow\\nAnd softer flame\\nBut thoughtless follies laid him low.\\nAnd stain d his name.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0112.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK,\\n65\\nReader, attend! whether thy soul\\nSoars Fancy s flights beyond the pole,\\nOr darkling gmbs this earthly hole\\nIn low pursuit\\nKnow, prudent, cautious, self-control\\nIs wisdom s root.\\nADDED, EDINBURGH, 1787.\\nDEATH AND DOCTOR HORN-\\nBOOK.\\nA Trite Story.\\nQohn Wilson, the hero of this poem,\\nwas, at the time of its composition, scliool-\\nmaster in Tarbolton. He was, it is said,\\na fair scholar, and a very worthy man,\\nbut vain of his knowledge of medicine. It\\nwas his misfortune to encounter Burns at a\\nMasonic meeting, who, provoked by a long\\nand pedantic speech from the Dominie, ex-\\nclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon\\nhim, Sit down. Dr. Hornbook.\\nI.\\nSome books are lies frae end to end.\\nAnd some great lies were never\\npenn d\\nEv n ministers, they hae been kend,\\nIn holy rapture,\\nA rousing whid at times to vend,\\nAnd nail t wi Scripture.\\nBut this that I am gaun to tell,\\nWhich lately on a night befel,\\nIs just as true s the Deil s in hell\\nOr Dublin city\\nThat e er he nearer comes oursel\\nS a muckle pity!\\nThe clachan yiil had made me canty,\\nI was na fou, but just had plenty\\nI stacher d whyles, but yet took\\ntent ay\\nTo free the ditches\\nAn hillocks, stanes, an bushes,\\nkend ay\\nFrae ghaists an witches.\\nThe rising moon began to glowr\\nThe distant Cumnock Hills out-owre\\nTo count her horns, wi a my pow r\\nI set mysel\\nBut whether she had three or four,\\nI cou d na tell.\\nI was come round about the hill.\\nAnd todlin down on Willie s mill,\\nSetting my staff wi a my skill\\nTo keep me sicker\\nTho leeward whyles, against my will,\\nI took a bicker.\\nI there wi Something does forgather,\\nThat pat me in an eerie swither\\nAn awfu scythe, out-owre ae shouther,\\nClear-dangling, hang\\nA three-tae d leister on the ither\\nLay, large an lang.\\nVII.\\nIts stature seem d lang Scotch ells\\ntwa\\nThe queerest shape that e er I saw.\\nFor fient a wame it had ava\\nAnd then its shanks.\\nThey were as thin, as sharp an sma\\nAs cheeks 0 branks.\\nVIII.\\nGuid-een, quo I Friend, hae ye\\nbeen mawin.\\nWhen ither folk are busy sawin?\\nIt seem d to make a kind o stan\\nBut naething spak.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0113.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "66\\nDEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.\\nAt length, says I Friend, whare ye\\ngaun\\nWill ye go back?\\nIX.\\nIt spak right howe My name is\\nDeath,\\nBut be na fleyM. Quoth I Guid\\nfaith.\\nYe Ve may be come to stap my breath\\nBut tent me, billie\\nI red ye weel, take care o skaith,\\nSee, there s a gully!\\nGudeman, quo he, put up your\\nwhittle,\\nI m no design d to try its mettle\\nBut if I did, I wad be kittle\\nTo be mislear d\\nI wad na mind it, no that spittle\\nOut-ovvre my beard.\\nWeel, weel says I, a bargain be t\\nCome, gie s your hand, an say we re\\nWe 11 ease our shanks, an tak a seat\\nCome, gie s your news\\nThis while ye hae been monie a gate.\\nAt monie a house.\\nAy, ay quo he, an shook his\\n1 ead,\\nIt s en a lang, lang time indeed\\nSin 1 began to nick the thread\\nAn choke the breath\\nFolk naun do something for their\\nb ead.\\nAn sae maun Death.\\nxm.\\nSax thousand years are near-hand\\nfled\\nSin I vvas to the butching bred,\\nAn monie a scheme in vain s been\\nlaid\\nTo stap or scar me\\nTill ane Hornbook s ta en up the\\ntrade,\\nAnd faith he 11 waur me.\\nYe ken Jock Hornbook i the\\nclachan\\nDeil mak his king s-hood in a spleu-\\nchan\\nHe s grown sae weel acquaint wi\\nBuchan\\nAnd ither chaps.\\nThe weans baud out their fingers\\nlaughin,\\nAn pouk my hips.\\nSee, here s a scythe, an there s a\\ndart.\\nThey hae pierc d monie a gallant\\nheart\\nBut Doctor Hornbook wi his art\\nAn cursed skill.\\nHas made them baith no worth a fart,\\nDamn d haet they 11 kill\\nXVI.\\nT was but yestreen, nae farther gane\\nI threw a noble throw at ane\\nWi less, I m sure, I ve hundreds\\nslain\\nBut Deil-ma-care\\nIt just played dirl on the bane.\\nBut did nae mair.\\nHornbook was by wi ready art,\\nAn had sae fortify d the part,\\nThat when I looked to my dart,\\nIt was sae blunt,\\nFient haet o t wad hae pierc d the\\nheart\\nOf a kail-runt.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0114.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.\\n67\\nI drew my scythe in sic a fury,\\nI near-hand cowpit \\\\vi niy hurry,\\nBut yet the bauld Apothecary\\nWithstood the shock\\n1 miglit as weel hae try d a quarry\\nO hard whin-rock.\\nEv n them he canna get attended,\\nAltho their face he ne er had kend it,\\nJust shit in a kail-blade an send it,\\nAs soon s he smells t,\\nliaith their disease and what will\\nmend it.\\nAt once he tells t.\\nXX.\\n^And then a doctor s saws and\\nwhittles\\nOf a dimensions, shapes, an mettles,\\nA kinds o boxes, mugs, and bottles,\\nHe s sure to hae\\nTheir Latin names as fast he rattles\\nAs A B C.\\nXXI.\\nCalces o fossils, earth, and trees\\nTrue sal-inariiuun o the seas\\nThe farina of beans an pease,\\nHe has t in plenty\\nAqtia-fontis, what you please.\\nHe can content ye.\\nForbye some new, uncommon\\nweapons,\\nUrinus spiritus of capons\\nOr mite-horn shavings, filings, scrap-\\nings,\\nDistiird per se\\nSal-al/cali o midge-tail-clippings,\\nAnd monie mae.\\nXXIII.\\nWaes me for Johnie Ged s Hole now,\\nQuoth I if that thae news be true!\\nHis braw calf-ward whare gowans grew\\nSae white and bonie,\\nNae doubt they 11 rive it wi the plew\\nThey 11 ruin Johnie!\\nXXIV.\\nThe creature grain d an eldritch laugh.\\nAnd says ye nedna yoke the pleugh,\\nKirkyards will soon be till d eneugh,\\nTak ye nae fear\\nThey 11 a be trench d wi monie a\\nsheugh\\nIn twa-three year.\\nWhare I kill d ane, a fair strae death\\nBy loss o blood or want o breath,\\nThis night I m free to tak my aith,\\nThat Hornbook s skill\\nHas clad a score i their last claith\\nBy drap an pill.\\nAn honest wabster to his trade,\\nWhase wife s twa nieves were scarce\\nweel-bred.\\nGat tippence-worth to mend her head,\\nWhen it was sair\\nThe wife slade cannie to her bed,\\nBut ne er spak mair.\\nA countra laird had taen the batts,\\nOr some curmurring in his guts.\\nHis only son for Hornbook sets.\\nAn pays him well\\nThe lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,\\nWas laird himsel.\\nXXVIII.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2A bonie lass ye kend her name\\nSome ill-brewn drink had hov d her\\nwame\\nShe trusts hersel, to hide the shame,\\nIn Hornbook s care;\\nHorn sent her aft to her lang hame\\nTo hide it there.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0115.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "68\\nTHE BRIGS OF AYR.\\nThat s just a swatch o Hornbook s\\nway;\\nThus goes he on from day to day,\\nThus does he poison, kill, an slay,\\nAn s weel paid for t\\nYet stops me o my lawfu prey\\nWi his damn d dirt\\nBut, hark I 11 tell you of a plot,\\nTho dinna ye be speakin o t\\n1 11 nail the self-conceited sot.\\nAs dead s a herrin\\nNiest time we meet, I II wad a groat.\\nHe gets his fairia\\nBut just as he began to tell,\\nThe auld kirk-hammer strak the bell\\nSome wee short hour ayont the twal,\\nWhich raised us baith\\nI took the way that pleas d mysel.\\nAnd sae did Death.\\nTHE BRIGS OF AYR.\\nA Poem.\\nINSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE,\\nESQ., AYR.\\n[Probably composed in September-Oc-\\ntober, 1786 a new bridge was being built\\nat Ayr when Mr. Ballantine, a local banker,\\nwas dean of guild. The boast of the Auld\\nBrig that it would be a brig when its\\nneighbor was a shapeless cairn was jus-\\ntified in 1877, when the New Bridge was so\\ninjured by tloods that it had to be practi-\\ncally rebuilt.]\\nThe simple Bard, rough at the rustic\\nplough.\\nLearning his tuneful trade from ev ry\\nbough\\n(The chanting linnet, or the mellow\\nthrush,\\nHailing the setting sun, sweet, in the\\ngreen thorn bush\\nThe soaring lark, the perching red-\\nbreast shrill.\\nOr deep-ton d plovers grey, wild-\\nwhistling o er the hill)\\nShall he nurst in the peasant s\\nlowly shed.\\nTo hardy independence bravely bred.\\nBy early poverty to hardship stecl d,\\nAn train d to arms in stern misfor-\\ntune s field\\nShall he be guilty of their hireling\\ncrimes.\\nThe servile, mercenary Swiss of\\nrhymes?\\nOr labour hard the panegyric close.\\nWith all the venal soul of dedicating\\nprose\\nNo though his artless strains he\\nrudely sings.\\nAnd throws his hand uncouthly o er\\nthe strings.\\nHe glows with all the spirit of the\\nbard.\\nFame, honest fame, his great, his dear\\nreward.\\nStill, if some patron s gen rous care\\nhe trace,\\nSkill d in the secret to bestow with\\ngrace\\nWhen Ballantine befriends his humble\\nname.\\nAnd hands the rustic stranger up to\\nfame,\\nWith heartfelt throes his grateful\\nbosom swells\\nThe godlike bliss, to give, alone\\nexcels.\\nT was when the stacks get on their\\nwinter hap.\\nAnd thack and rape secure the toil-\\nwon crap\\nPotatoe-bings are snugged up frae\\n.skaith\\nO coming winter s biting, frosty\\nbreath\\nThe bees, rejoicing o er their summer\\ntoils\\nUnnumber d Ijuds an flowers deli-\\ncious spoils.\\ni", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0116.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "THE BRIGS OF AYR.\\n69\\nSeal d up with frugal care in massive\\nwaxen piles\\nAre dooniM by man, that tyrant o er\\nthe weak,\\nThe death o de\\\\ ils smoor d wi brim-\\nstone reek\\nThe thundering guns are heard on\\nev ry side.\\nThe wounded coveys, reeling, scatter\\nwide\\nThe feather d field-mates, bound by\\nNature s tie.\\nSires, mothers, children in one car-\\nnage lie\\n(What warm, poetic heart but inly\\nbleeds,\\nAnd execrates man s savage, ruthless\\ndeeds\\nNae mair the tiower in field or meadow\\nsprings\\nNae mair the grove with airy concert\\nrings.\\nExcept perhaps the robin s whistling\\nglee.\\nProud o the height o some bit half-\\nlang tree\\nThe hoary morns precede the sunny\\ndays\\nIVIild, calm, serene, widespreads the\\nnoontide blaze.\\nWhile thick the gossamour waves\\nwanton in the rays.\\nT was in that season, when a\\nsimple IJard,\\nUnknown and poor \u00e2\u0080\u0094simplicity s re-\\nward\\nAe night, within the ancient brugh\\nof Ayr,\\nBy whim inspir d or haply prest wi\\ncare.\\nHe left his bed, and took his wayward\\nroute,\\nAnd down by Simpson s wheel d the\\nleft about\\n(Whether impell d by all-directing\\nFate,\\nTo witness what I after shall nar-\\nrate\\nOr whether, rapt in meditation high.\\nHe wander d forth, he knew not\\nwhere nor why)\\nThe drowsy Dungeon-Clock had\\nnumber d two.\\nAnd Wallace Tower had sworn the\\nfact was true\\nThe tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-\\nsounding roar,\\nThrough the still night dash d hoarse\\nalong the shore\\nAll else was hush d as Nature s closed\\ne e\\nThe silent moon shone high o er tower\\nand tree\\nThe chilly frost, beneath the silver\\nbeam.\\nCrept, gently-crusting, o er the glitter-\\ning stream.\\nWhen, lo! on either hand the lis-\\nt ning Bard,\\nThe clanging sugh of whistling wings\\nis heard\\nTwo dusky forms dart thro the mid-\\nnight air,\\nSwift as the gos drives on the wheel-\\ning hare\\nAne on th Auld Brig his airy shape\\nuprears.\\nThe ither flutters o er the rising piers\\nOur warlock rhymer instantly descried\\nThe Sprites that owre the Brigs of\\nAyr preside.\\n(That bards are second-sighted is nae\\njoke.\\nAnd ken the lingo of the sp ritual\\nfolk\\nFays, spunkies, kelpies, a they can\\nexplain them.\\nAnd ev n the vera deils they brawly\\nken them.)\\nAuld Brig appear d of ancient Pictish\\nrace.\\nThe vera wrinkles Gothic in his face;\\nHe seem d as he wi Time had war-\\nstl d lang.\\nYet, teughly doui e, he bade an unco\\nbang.\\nNew Brig was buskit in a braw new\\ncoat.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0117.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "70\\nTHE BRIGS OF AYR.\\nThat he, at Lon on, frae ane Adams\\ngot;\\nIn s hand five taper staves as smooth s\\na bead,\\nWi virls an whirlygigums at the\\nhead.\\nThe Goth was stalking round with\\nanxious search,\\nSpying the time-worn flaws in ev ry\\narch.\\nIt chanc d his new-come neebor took\\nhis e e.\\nAnd e en a vex d and angry heart\\nhad he!\\nWi thieveless sneer to see his mod-\\nish mien,\\nHe, down the water, gies him this\\nguid-een\\nAULD BRIG.\\nI doubt na, frien ye II think ye re\\nnae sheep sliank,\\nAnce ye were streekit owre frae bank\\nto bank\\nBat gin ye be a brig as auld as me\\nTho faith, that date, I doubt, ye II\\nnever see\\nThere 11 be, if that day come, I 11 wad\\na boddle.\\nSome fewer whigmeleeries in your\\nnoddle.\\nNEW BRIG.\\nAuld Vandal! ye but show your\\nlittle mense.\\nJust much about it wi your scanty\\nsense\\nWill your poor, narrow foot-path of a\\nstreet,\\nWhere twa wheel-barrows tremble\\nwhen they meet,\\nYour ruin d, formless bulk o stane\\nan lime,\\nCompare wi bonie brigs o modern\\ntime?\\nThere s men of taste would tak the\\nDucat stream,\\nTho they should cast the vera sark\\nand swim,\\nE er they would grate their feelings\\nwi the view\\nO sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.\\nAULU BRIG.\\nConceited gowk! puff d up wi\\nwindy pride!\\nThis monie a year I ve stood the\\nflood an tide\\nAnd tho wi crazy eild I m sair for-\\nlairn,\\nI 11 be a brig when ye re a shapeless\\ncairn\\nAs yet ye little ken about the mat-\\nter.\\nBut tvva-three winters will inform ye\\nbetter.\\nWhen heavy, dark, continued, a -day\\nrains\\nWi deepening deluges o erflow the\\nplains\\nWhen from the hills where springs\\nthe brawling Coil,\\nOr stately Lugar s mossy fountains\\nboil.\\nOr where the Greenock winds his\\nmoorland course,\\nOr haunted Garpal draws his feeble\\nsource,\\nArous d by blustering winds an spot-\\nting thowes,\\nIn monie a torrent down the snaw-\\nbroo rowes\\nWhile crasliing ice, borne on the\\nroaring speat,\\nSweejjs dams, an mills, an brigs, a\\nto the gate\\nAnd from Glenbuck down to the\\nRatton-Key\\nAuld Ayr is just one lengthcn d,\\ntuml)ling sea\\nThen down ye 11 hurl (deil nor ye\\nnever rise\\nAnd dash the gumlie jaups up to the\\nl^ouring skies\\nA lesson sadly teaching, to your\\ncost,\\nThat Architecture s noble art is\\nlost!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0118.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "THE BRIGS OF AYR.\\n71\\nNEW r.RIG.\\nFine architecture, trovvth. I needs\\nmust say t o t,\\nThe Lord be thankit that we Ve tint\\nthe gate o t\\nGaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edi-\\nfices,\\nHanging with threatening jut, Hl e\\nprecipices\\nO er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring\\ncoves,\\nSupporting roofs fantastic stony\\ngroves\\nWindows and doors in nameless\\nsculptures drest.\\nWith order, symmetry, or taste un-\\nblest\\nForms like some bedlam statuary s\\ndream,\\nThe crazxl creations of misguided\\nwhim\\nForms might be worshipped on the\\nbended knee,\\nAnd still the second dread Command\\nbe free\\nTheir likeness is not found on earth,\\nin air, or sea!\\nMansions that would disgrace the\\nbuilding taste\\nOf any mason reptile, bird or beast,\\nFit only for a doited monkish race,\\nOr frosty maids forsworn the clear\\nembrace,\\nOr cuifs of later times, wha held the\\nnotion,\\nThat sullen gloom was sterling true\\ndevotion\\nFancies that our guid bnigh denies\\nprotection,\\nAnd soon may they expire, unblest\\nwith resurrection\\nAULD BRIG.\\nO ye. my dear-rememl)er\\\\l, qncient\\nyealings,\\nWere ye but here to share my wounded\\nfeelings\\nYe worthy proveses, an monie a bailie.\\nWha in the paths o righteousness did\\ntoil ay\\nYe dainty deacons, an ye douce con-\\nveeners.\\nTo whom our moderns are but causey-\\ncleaners\\nYe godly councils, wha hae blest this\\ntown\\nYe godly brethren o the sacred gown,\\nWha meekly gie your hurdles to the\\nsmiters\\nAnd (what would now be strange),\\nye godly Writers\\nA ye douce folk 1 ve born aboon the\\nbroo,\\nWere ye but here, what would ye say\\nor do\\nHow would your spirits groan in deep\\nvexation\\nTo see each melancholy alteration\\nAnd, agonising, curse the time and\\nplace\\nWhen ye begat the base degen rate\\nrace\\nNae langer rev rend men, their coun-\\ntry s glory,\\nIn plain braid Scots hold forth a plain,\\nbraid story\\nNae langer thrifty citizens, an douce,\\nMeet owre a pint or in the council-\\nhouse\\nBut staumrel, corky-headed, graceless\\ngentry.\\nThe herryment and niin of the coun-\\ntry\\nMen three-parts made by tailors and\\nby barbers,\\nWha waste your weel-hain d gear on\\ndamn d New Brigs and harbours\\nNEW BRIG.\\nNow hand you there for faith\\nye ve said enough.\\nAnd muckle mair than you can mak\\nto through.\\nAs for vour priesthood, I shall say\\nbut little.\\nCorbies and clergy are a shot right\\nkittle:", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0119.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "72\\nTHE BRIGS OF AYR.\\nBut, under favour o your langer\\nbeard,\\nAbuse o magistrates might weel be\\nspared\\nTo liken them to your auld-warld\\nsquad,\\nI must needs say, comparisons are\\nodd.\\nIn Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a\\nhandle\\nTo moutli a Citizen, a term o\\nscandal\\nNae mair the council waddles down\\nthe street.\\nIn all the pomp of ignorant conceit\\nMen wha grew wise priggin owre hops\\nan raisins.\\nOr gathered liberal views in bonds and\\nseisins\\nIf haply Knowledge, on a random\\ntramp,\\nHad shor d them with a glimmer of\\nhis lamp,\\nAnd would to common-sense for once\\nbetray d them.\\nPlain, dull stupidity stept kindly in to\\naid them.\\nWhat farther clish-ma-claver might\\nbeen said,\\nWhat bloody wars if Sprites had\\nblood to shed,\\nNo man can tell but, all before their\\nsight,\\nA fairy train appear d in order l^right\\nAdown the glittering stream they\\nfeatly danc d\\nBright to the moon their various\\ndresses glanc d\\nThey footed o er the wat ry glass so\\nneat,\\nThe infant ice scarce bent beneath\\ntheir feet\\nWhile arts of minstrelsy among them\\nrung,\\nAnd soul-ennobling Bards heroic\\nditties sung.\\nO, had M Lauchlan, thairm-inspir-\\ning sage,\\nBeen tlierc to hear tliis heavenly band\\nengage,\\nWhen thro his dear strathspeys they\\nbore with Highland rage\\nOr wlicn they struck old Scotia s\\nmelting airs.\\nThe lover s raj^tured joys or bleeding\\ncares\\nHow would his Highland lug been\\nnol:)ler fir d.\\nAnd ev n his matchless hand with\\nfiner touch inspired\\nNo guess could tell what instrument\\nappear d.\\nBut all the soul of Music s self was\\nheard\\nHarmonious concert rung in every\\npart.\\nWhile simple melody pour d moving\\non the heart.\\nThe Genius of the Stream in front\\nappears.\\nA venerable chief advanc d in\\nyears\\nHis hoary head with water-lilies\\ncrown d,\\nHis manly leg with garter-tangle\\nbound.\\nNext came the loveliest pair in all the\\nring,\\nSweet Female Beauty hand in hand\\nwith Spring\\nThen, crown d with flow ry hay, came\\nRural Joy,\\nAnd Summer, with his fervid-beaming\\neye\\nAll-cheering Plenty, with her flowing\\nhorn.\\nLed yellow Autumn wreath d with\\nnodding corn\\nThen Winter s time-bleach d locks\\ndid hoary show.\\nBy Hospitality, with cloudless brow.\\nNext follow d Courage, with his mar-\\ntial stride,\\nFrom* where the Feal wild-woody\\ncoverts hide\\nBenevolence, with mild;, benignant\\nair.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0120.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "THE ORDINATION.\\n73\\nA female form, came from the towers\\nof Stair\\nLearning and Worth in equal meas-\\nures trotle\\nFrom simple Catrine, their long-lov d\\nabode\\nLast, white-rob d Peace, crown d with\\na hazel wreath,\\nTo rustic Agriculture did bequeath\\nThe broken, iron instruments of\\ndeath\\nAt siglit of wliom our Sprites forgat\\ntheir kindlins; wrath.\\nTHE ORDINATION.\\nFor sense, they Utile aive to frugal Heavn\\nTo please the mob they hide the little givii.\\nWritten very early in 1786, but not in-\\ncluded in the Kilmarnock edition. A paper\\nbullet in thewar of Auld and New Lights,\\nCalvinism and Common Sense, which,\\nby the way, is no theological criterion.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nI.\\nKilmarnock wabsters. fidge an claw,\\nAn pour your creeshie nations\\nAn ye wha leather rax an draw.\\nOf a deno minations\\nSwith! to the Laigh Kirk, ane an a\\nAn til ere tak up your stations\\nThen aff to Begbie s in a raw,\\nAn pour divine libations\\nFor joy this day.\\nCurst Common-sense, that imp o hell.\\nCam in wi Maggie Lauder:\\nBut Oliphant aft made her yell.\\nAn I^ussell sair misca d her\\nThis day Mackinlay taks the flail.\\nAn he s the boy will bland her\\nHe 11 clap a shangan on her tail.\\nAn set the bairns to daud her\\nWi dirt this day.\\nMak haste an turn King David owre,\\nAn lilt wi holy clangor\\nO double verse come gie us four,\\nAn skirl up the Bangor\\nThis day the Kirk kicks up a stoure\\nNae mair the knaves shall wrang\\nher,\\nFor Heresy is in her pow r.\\nAnd gloriously she 11 whang her\\nWi pith this day.\\nCome, let a proper text be read.\\nAn touch it afif wi vigour.\\nHow graceless Ham leugh at his dad,\\nWhich made Canaan a nigger;\\nOr Phineas drove the murdering blade\\nWi whore-abhorring rigour;\\nOr Zipporah, the scauldin jad,\\nWas like a bluidy tiger\\nI th inn that day.\\nThere, try his mettle on the Creed,\\nAnd bind him down wi caution,\\nThat stipend is a carnal weed\\nHe taks but for the fashion\\nAnd gie him o er the flock to feed,\\nAnd punish each transgression\\nEspecial, rams that cross the breed,\\nGie them sufficient threshin\\nSpare them nae day.\\nNow auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,\\nAn toss thy horns fu canty\\nNae mair thou It rowte out-owre the\\ndale.\\nBecause thy pasture s scanty\\nFor lapfu s large o gospel kail\\nShall fill thy crib in plenty.\\nAn runts o grace, the pick an w^ale.\\nNo gien by way o dainty,\\nBut ilka day.", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0121.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "74\\nTHE ORDINATION.\\nNae mail- by Babel s streams we il\\nweep\\nTo think upon our Zion\\nAnd liing our fiddles up to sleep,\\nLike baby-clouts a-dryin.\\nCome, scre?v the pegs wi tunefu\\ncheep.\\nAnd o er the thairms be tryin\\nO, rare to see our elbucks wheep,\\nAnd a like lamb-tails flyin\\nP\\\\i fast this day\\nLang, Patronage, wi rod o airn.\\nHas shor d the Kirk s undoin\\nAs lately P enwick, sair forfairn.\\nHas proven to its ruin\\nOur patron, honest man Glencairn,\\nHe saw mischief was brewin\\nAn like a godly, elect bairn.\\nHe s waled us out a true ane,\\nAnd sound this day.\\nNow Robertson harangue nae mair,\\nBut steek your gab for ever\\nOr try the wicked town of Ayr,\\nFor there they ll think you clever;\\nOr, nae reflection on your lear.\\nYe may commence a shaver\\nOr to the Netherton repair.\\nAn turn a carpet-weaver\\nAff-hand this day.\\nMu trie and you were just a match,\\nWe never had sic twa drones\\nAuld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk\\nwatch.\\nJust like a winkin baudrons.\\nAnd ay he catch d the tither wretch,\\nTo fry them in his caudrons\\nBut now his Honor maun detach,\\nWi a his brimstone squadrons,\\nf^ast, fast this day.\\nvSee, see auld Orthodoxy s faes\\nShe s swingein thro the city\\nHark, how the nine-tail d cat she\\nplays\\nI vow it s unco pretty\\nThere, Learning, with his Greekish\\nface.\\nGrunts out some Latin ditty\\nAnd Common-Sense is gaun, she says,\\nTo mak to Jamie Beattie\\nHer plaint this day.\\nXII.\\nBut there s Morality himsel,\\nEmbracing all oi)ini()ns\\nHear, how he gies tlie tither yell\\nBetween his twa comj)anions\\nSee, how she peels the skin an fell.\\nAs ane were peelin onions\\nNow there, they re packed aff to hell.\\nAn banish d our dominions.\\nHenceforth this day.\\nO happy day! rejoice, rejoice\\nCome bouse about the porter!\\nMorality s demure decoys\\nShall here nae mair find quarter:\\nMackinlay, Russell, are the boys\\nThat Heresy can torture\\nThey 11 gie her on a rape a hoyse,\\nAnd cowe her measure shorter\\nBy th head some day.\\nCome, bring the tither mutchkin in,\\nAnd here s for a conclusion\\nTo ev ry New Light mother s son.\\nFrom this time forth, confusion!\\nIf mair they deave us wi their din\\nOr patronage intrusion.\\nWe II liglit a spunk, and ev ry skin\\nWe 11 run them aff in fusion,\\nLike oil some day.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0122.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "THE CALF. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID.\\n75\\nTHE CALF.\\nTo THii Rev. James Steven, on his\\nTEXT, Malaclil iv. 2\\nAtid yc shall go forth, and grow tip as\\ncalves of the stall.\\nThe laugh which this Httle poem raised\\nagainst Steven was a loud one. Burns com-\\nposed it during the sermon to which it re-\\nlates, and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton,\\nwith whom he happened on that day to\\ndine. Allan Cunningham.]\\nRight, sir! your text 1 11 prove it true,\\nTlio lieretics may laugh\\nFor instance, there s yoursel just now,\\nGod knows, an unco ca/f.\\nAnd should some patron be so kind\\nAs bless you wi a kirk,\\nI doubt na, sir, but then we 11 find\\nYou re still as great a stirk.\\nBut, if the lover s raptur d hour\\nShall ever be your lot,\\nForbid it, every heavenly Power,\\nYou e er should be a stot\\nIV.\\nTho when soine kind connubial dear\\nYour but-an -ben adorns.\\nThe like has been that you may wear\\nA noble head of horns.\\nAnd, in your lug, most reverend\\nJames,\\nTo hear you roar and rowte,\\nFew men o sense will doubt your\\nclaims\\nTo rank anions: the noivtc.\\nAnd when ye re nimiber d wi the\\ndead\\nBelow a grassy hillock.\\nWith justice they may mark your\\nhead\\nHere lies a famous bullock\\nADDRESS TO THE UNCO\\nGUID,\\nOR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.\\nAfy Son, these maxims make a rule.\\nAn lump them ay thegither:\\nThe Rigid Righteous is afoot.\\nThe Rigid Wise anither\\nThe cleanest corn that e er loas dight\\nA fay hae some pylcs 0 caff in;\\nSo ne er a fellow-creature slight\\nFor random fits 0 daffin.\\nSolomon {Eccles. vii. 16).\\nIt is not easy to determine the pre-\\ncise period when this master-performance\\nwas conceived and executed. Had it been\\nwritten before midsummer of 1786 it surely\\nwould not have been excluded from his\\nKilmarnock volume. There is much of\\nstern, humiliating truth in the train of\\nthought pursued in the poem, which was a\\nfavorite one with the author. WILLIAM\\nScott Douglas.]\\nO YE, wha are sae guid yoursel,\\nSae pious and sae holy.\\nYe ve nought to do but mark and tell\\nYour neebours fauts and folly\\nWhase life is like a weel-gaun mill.\\nSupplied wi store o water;\\nThe heapet happer s ebbing still.\\nAn still the clap plays clatter\\nHear me, ye venerable core.\\nAs counsel for poor mortals\\nThat frequent pass douce Wisdom s\\ndoor\\nFor glaikit Folly s portals", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0123.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "76\\nTAM SAMSON S KLLXiY.\\nI for their thoughtless, careless sakes\\nWould here propone defences\\nTheir donsie tricks, their black mis-\\ntakes,\\nTheir failings and mischances.\\nIII.\\nYe see your state wi theirs compared,\\nAnd shudder at the nitTer\\nBut cast a moment s f;iir regard,\\nWhat makes the mighty differ\\nDiscount what scant occasion gave\\nThat purity ye pride in\\nAnd (what s aft mair than a the lave)\\nYour better art o hidin.\\nThink, when your castigated pulse\\nGies now and then a wallop.\\nWhat ragings must his veins convulse,\\nThat still eternal gallop\\nWi wind and tide fair i your tail,\\nRight on ye scud your sea-way\\nBut in the teeth o baith to sail,\\nIt maks an unco lee -way.\\nV.\\nSee Social-life and Glee sit down\\nAll joyous and unthinking,\\nTill, quite transmugrify d they re\\ngrown\\nDebauchery and Drinking\\nO, would they, stay to calculate,\\nTh eternal consequences.\\nOr your more dreaded hell to\\nstate\\nDamnation of expenses\\nYe high, exalted, virtuous dames,\\nTied up in godly laces,\\nBefore ye gie poor Frailty names.\\nSuppose a change o cases\\nA dear-lov d lad, convenience snug,\\nA treach rous inclination\\nBut, let me whisper i your lug,\\nYe re aiblins nae temptation.\\nThen gently scan your brother man,\\nStill gentler sister woman\\nTho they may gang a kennin wrang,\\nTo step aside is human\\nOne point must still be greatly dark,\\nThe moving why they do it\\nAnd just as lamely can ye mark\\nHow far perhaps they rue it.\\nWho made the heart, t is He alone\\nDecidedly can try us\\nHe knows each chord, its various tone,\\nEach spring, its various bias\\nThen at the balance let s be mute,\\nWe never can adjust it\\nWhat s done we partly may compute.\\nBut know not what s resisted.\\nTAM SAMSON S ELEGY.\\nAn honest maji s the noblest work of God.\\nPope.\\nWhen this worthy old sportsman went\\nout last muir-fowi season, he supposed it\\nwas to be, in Ossian s phrase, the last of\\nliis fields, and expressed an ardent wish to\\ndie and be buried in the muirs. On this\\nhint the author composed his Elegy and\\nEpitaph. (R. B.)]\\nHas auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil?\\nOr great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?\\nOr Robertson again grown weel\\nTo preach an read?\\nNa, waur than a cries ilka chiel,\\nTam Samson s dead\\nKilmarnock lang may grunt an grane,\\nAn sigh, an sab, an greet her lane,\\nAn deed her bairns man, wife an\\nwean\\nIn mourning weed", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0124.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "TAM SAMSON S ELEGY.\\n77\\nTo Death she s dearly pay d the kain\\nTarn Samson s dead\\nThe Brethren o the mystic level\\nMay hing their head in woefu bevel,\\nWhile by their nose the tears will\\nrevel,\\nLike onie bead\\nDeath s gien the Lodge an unco devel\\nTarn Samson s dead\\nIV.\\nWhen Winter muffles up his cloak,\\nAnd binds the mire like a rock\\nWhen to the loughs the curlers flock,\\nWi gleesome speed,\\nWha will they station at the cock?\\nTam Samson s dead\\nHe was the king of a the core.\\nTo guard, or draw, or wick a bore,\\nOr up the rink like Jehu roar\\nIn time o need\\nBut now he lags on Death s hog-\\nscore\\nTam Samson s dead\\nVI.\\nNow safe the stately sawmont sail.\\nAnd trouts bedropp d wi crimson\\nhail.\\nAnd eels, weel-kend for souple tail,\\nAnd geds for greed,\\nSince, dark in Death s fish-creel, we\\nwail\\nTam Samson dead\\nRejoice, ye birring paitricks a\\nYe cootie moorcocks, crousely craw\\nYe maukins, cock your fud fu braw\\nWithouten dread\\nYour mortal fae is now awa\\nTam Samson s dead\\nThat woefu morn be ever mourn d\\nSaw him in sliootin graith adorn d.\\nWhile pointers round impatient\\nburn d,\\nFrae couples free d\\nBut och he gaed and ne er return d\\nTam Samson s dead.\\nIX.\\nIn vain auld-age his body batters.\\nIn vain the gout his ancles fetters,\\nIn vain the burns cam down like\\nwaters,\\nAn acre braid\\nNow ev ry auld wife, greetin, clatters\\nTam Samson s dead\\nOwre monie a weary hag he linipit,\\nAn ay the tither shot he thumpit,\\nTill coward Death behint him jumiDit\\nWi deadly feide\\nNow he proclaims wi tout o trumpet\\nTam Samson s dead\\nXI.\\nWhen at his heart he felt the dagger.\\nHe reel d his wonted bottle-swagger.\\nBut yet he drew the mortal trigger\\nWi weel-aim d heed\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Lord, five! he cry d, an owre did\\nstagger\\nTam Samson s dead\\nIlk hoary hunter mourn d a brither\\nIlk sportsman-youth bemoan d a\\nfather\\nYon auld gray stane, amang the\\nheather,\\nMarks out his head\\nWhare Burns has wrote, in rhyming\\nblether\\nTam Samson s dead", "height": "3074", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0125.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "78\\nA WINTER NIGHT.\\nThere low he lies in lasting rest\\nPerhaps upon his moukriing breast\\nSome spitefu moorfowl bigs her nest,\\nTo hatch an breed\\nAlas! nae mair he ll them molest:\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nXIV.\\nWhen August winds the heather wave,\\nAnd sportsmen wander bv yon grave,\\nThree volleys let his memory crave\\nO pouther an lead,\\nTill Echo answers frae her cave\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nHeav n rest his saul whare er he be!\\nIs th wish o monie mae than me\\nHe had twa fauts, or maybe three,\\nYet what remead\\nAe social, honest man want we\\nTam Samson s dead\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nTam Samson s weel-worn clay here\\nlies\\nYe canting zealots, spare him!\\nIf honest worth in Heaven rise,\\nYe 11 mend or ye win near him.\\nPER CONTRA.\\nGo, Fame, an canter like a filly\\nThro a the streets an neuks o Killie\\nTell ev ry social honest billie\\nTo cease his grievin\\nFor yet unskaith d by Death s gleg\\ngullie,\\nTam Samson s leevin!\\nA WINTER NIGHT.\\nPoor naked ivrctches, xoheyesoe er vou are,\\nThat bide the pelting of this pitvless storm\\nHow shall your houseless heads and unfed\\nsides,\\nYour loop d and ivindcuidraggedness, defend\\nyou\\nFrom seasons such as these\\nShakespeare.\\nThis poem, says my friend Thomas\\nCarlyle, is worth several lioinilies on mercy,\\nfor it is the voice of Mercy herself.\\nAllan Cunningham.]\\nWhen biting Boreas, fell and doure,\\nSharp shivers thro the leafless bow r;\\nWhen Phoebus gies a short-liv d\\nglow r,\\nFar south the lift,\\nDim-dark ning thro the tiaky show r\\nOr whirling drift\\nII.\\nAe night the storm the steeples\\nrocked\\nPoor Labour sweet in sleep was\\nlocked\\nWhile burns, wi snawy wreaths up-\\nchoked.\\nWild-eddying swirl,\\nOr, thro the mining outlet bocked,\\nDown headlonsr hurl\\nList ning the doors an winnocks\\nrattle,\\nI thought me on the ourie cattle,\\nOr silly sheep, wha bide this brattle\\nO winter war.\\nAnd thro the drift, deep-lairing,\\nsprattle\\nBeneath a scaur.\\nIV.\\nIlk happing bird wee, helpless\\nthing\\nThat in the merry months o spring\\nDelighted me to hear thee sing.\\nWhat comes o thee\\nWhare wilt thou cow r thy chittering\\nwing.\\nAn close thy e e?", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0126.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "A WINTER NIGHT.\\n79\\nEv n you, on murcriing errands toiPd,\\nLone from your savage homes exiPd,\\nThe blood-stain d roost and sheep-\\ncote spoiPd\\nMy heart forgets,\\nWhile pityless the temj^est wild\\nSore on you beats!\\nNow Phoebe, in her midnight reign,\\nDark-muffl d, viewM the dreary plain\\nStill crowding thoughts, a pensive\\ntrain.\\nRose in my soul,\\nWhen on my ear this plaintive strain,\\nSlow-solemn, stole\\nBlow, blow, ye winds, with heavier\\ngust!\\nAnd freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!\\nDescend, ye chilly, smothering snows!\\nNot all your rage, as now united,\\nshows\\nMore hard unkindness unrelenting,\\nVengeful malice, unrepenting.\\nThan heaven-illumin d Man on brother\\nMan bestows!\\nSee stern Oppression s iron grip.\\nOr mad Ambition s gory hand.\\nSending, like blood-hounds from\\nthe slip.\\nWoe, Want, and Murder o er a\\nland!\\nEv n in the peaceful rural vale.\\nTruth, weejiing, tells the mournful\\ntale\\nHow pamper d Luxury, Flatt ry by\\nher side,\\nThe parasite empoisoning her ear.\\nWith all the servile wretches in the\\nrear.\\nLooks o er proud Property, extended\\nwide\\nAnd eyes the simple, rustic hind,\\nWhose toil upholds the glitfring\\nshow\\nA creature of another kind.\\nSome coarser substance, unrefin d\\nPlac d for her lordly use, thus far, thus\\nvile, below!\\nWhere, where is Love s fond, ten-\\nder throe.\\nWith lordly Honor s lofty brow.\\nThe pow rs you proudly own?\\nIs there, beneath Love s noble\\nname.\\nCan harbour, dark, the selfish aim,\\nTo bless himself alone?\\nMark Maiden-Innocence a prey\\nTo love-pretending snares\\nThis boasted Honor turns away,\\nShunning soft Pity s rising sway.\\nRegardless of the tears and unavail-\\ning pray rs\\nPerhaps this hour, in Misery s\\nsqualid nest.\\nShe strains your infant to her joy-\\nless breast.\\nAnd with a mother s fears shrinks at\\nthe rocking blast!\\nO ye! who, sunk in beds of clown,\\nFeel not a want but what your-\\nselves create.\\nThink, for a moment, on his\\nwretched fate.\\nWhom friends and fortune quite\\ndisown\\nlU-satisfy d keen nature s clam\\nrous call,\\nStretch d on his straw, he lays him-\\nself to sleep\\nWhile through the ragged roof and\\nchinky wall.\\nChill, o er his slumbers piles the\\ndrifty heap!\\nThink on the dungeon s grim\\nconfine.\\nWhere Guilt and poor Misfortune\\npine\\nGuilt, erring man, relenting view!\\nBut shall thy legal rage pursue\\nTlie wretch, already crushed low\\nBy cruel Fortune s undeserved blow", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0127.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "8o\\nPRAYER: O THOU DREAD I OWER.\\nAffliction s sons are brothers in dis-\\ntress\\nA brother to relieve, how exquisite\\nthe bliss\\nIX.\\nI heard nae mair, for Chanticleer\\nShook off the pouthery snaw,\\nAnd haiPd the morning with a cheer,\\nA cottage-rousing craw.\\nBut deep this truth impressed my\\nmind\\nThro all His works abroad,\\nThe heart benevolent and kind\\nThe most resembles God.\\nSTANZAS WRITTEN IN PROS-\\nPECT OF DEATH.\\n[These verses the poet, in his Common-\\nPlace Book, calls Misgivings in the Hour\\nof Despondency and Prospect of Death.\\nWhy am I loth to leave this earthly\\nscene\\nHave I so found it full of pleasing\\ncharms\\nSome drops of joy with draughts of ill\\nbetween\\nSome gleams of sunshine mid re-\\nnewing storms.\\nIs it departing pangs my soul alarms?\\nOr death s unlovely, dreary, dark\\nabode\\nFor guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in\\narms\\nI tremble to approach an angry\\nGod,\\nAnd justly smart beneath his sin-\\navenging rod.\\nFain would I say Forgive my foul\\noffence,\\nFain promise never more to dis-\\nobey.\\nBut should my Author health again\\ndispense,\\nAgain I might desert fair virtue s\\nway\\nAgain in folly s path might go astray\\nAgain exalt the brute and sink the\\nman\\nThen how should I for heavenly\\nmercy pray.\\nWho act so counter heavenly\\nmercy s plan?\\nWho sin so oft have mourn d yet to\\ntemptation ran?\\nO Thou great Governor of all be-\\nlow\\nIf I may dare a lifted eye to Thee.\\nThy nod can make the tempest cease\\nto blow.\\nOr still the tumult of the raging\\nsea\\nWith that controlling pow r assist ev n\\nme\\nThose headlong furious passions to\\nconfine.\\nFor all unfit I feel my powers to be\\nTo rule their torrent in th allowed\\nline\\nO, aid me with Thy help. Omnipo-\\ntence Divine\\nPRAYER: O THOU DREAD\\nPOWER.\\nLyu g at a reverend friend s house one ttight\\nthe author left the following verses in the\\nroom where he slept.\\n[The reverend friend was Dr. Laurie,\\nthen minister of Loudoun, at whose house\\nBurns first heard the spinnet played.]\\nO Thou dread Power, who reign st\\nabove,\\nI know Thou wilt me hear.\\nWhen for this scene of peace and love\\nI make my prayer sincere.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0128.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.\\nThe hoary Sire the mortal stroke,\\nLong, long be pleas d to spare\\nTo bless his little filial ilock.\\nAnd show what good men are.\\nShe, who her lovely offspring eyes\\nWith tender hopes and fears\\nO, bless her with a mother s joys,\\nBut spare a mother s tears!\\nIV.\\nTheir hope, their stay, their darling\\nyouth,\\nIn manhood s dawning blush.\\nBless him, Thou God of love and\\ntruth,\\nUp to a parent s wish.\\nThe beauteous, seraph sister-band\\nWith earnest tears I pray\\nThou know st the snares on every\\nhand.\\nGuide Thou their steps alway.\\nVI.\\nWhen, soon or late, they reach that\\ncoast.\\nO er Life s rough ocean driven.\\nMay they rejoice, no wand rer lost,\\nA family in Heaven!\\nPARAPHRASE OF THE FIRST\\nPSALM.\\n[This is of the Irvine period, when, as\\nBurns wrote to his father, My only pleas-\\nurable enjovment is looking backwards\\nand forwards in a moral and religious\\nway.\\nI.\\nThe man, in life wherever plac d.\\nHath liappiness in store.\\nWho walks not in the wicked s way\\nNor learns their guilty lore\\nNor from the seat of scornful pride\\nCasts forth his eyes abroad,\\nBut with humility and awe\\nStill walks before his God\\nThat man shall flourish like the trees.\\nWhich by the streamlets grow\\nThe fruitful top is spread on high.\\nAnd firm the root below.\\nBut he, whose blossom buds in guilt,\\nShall to the ground be cast.\\nAnd, like the rootless stubble, tost\\nBefore the sweeping blast.\\nFor why? that God the good adore\\nHath giv n them peace and rest.\\nBut hath decreed that wicked men\\nShall ne er be truly blest.\\nPRAYER UNDER THE PRESS-\\nURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.\\n[Of this poem Burns says: There was\\na certain period of life that my spirit was\\nbroke bv repeated losses and disasters. In\\nthis wretched state I hung my harp on ihe\\nwillow-trees except in some lucid intervals,\\nin one of which I composed the loUowing.\\nO Thou Great Being! what Thou art\\nSurpasses me to know\\nYet sure I am. that known to Thee\\nAre all Thy works below.\\nThy creature here before Thee stands.\\nAll wretched and distrest\\nYet sure tliose ills tltat wring my soul\\nObey Thy high behest.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0129.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "82\\nTO MISS LOGAN.\\nSure Thou, Almighty, canst not act\\nFrom cruelty or wrath\\nO. free my weary eyes from tears,\\nOr close them fast in death!\\nBut, if I must afflicted be\\nTo suit some wise design,\\nThen man my soul with firm resolves\\nTo bear and not repine\\nTHE NINETIETH PSALM\\nVERSIFIED.\\n[This piece is of the same period as the\\npreceding.]\\nO Thou, the first, the greatest friend\\nOf all the human race\\nWhose strong right hand has ever\\nbeen\\nTheir stay and dwelling place\\nBefore the mountains heav d their\\nheads\\nBeneath Thy forming hand,\\nBefore this ponderous globe itself\\nArose at Thy command\\nThat Power, which rais d and still\\nupholds\\nThis universal frame.\\nFrom countless, unbeginning time\\nWas ever still the same.\\nIV.\\nThose mighty periods of years.\\nWhich seem to us so vast.\\nAppear no more before Thy sight\\nThan yesterday that s past.\\nThou giv st the word Thy creature,\\nman.\\nIs to existence brought\\nAgain Thou say st Ye sons of men,\\nReturn ye into nought\\nThou layest them, with all their cares,\\nIn everlasting sleep\\nAs with a fiood Thou tak\\\\st them off\\nWith overwhelming sweep.\\nThey flourish like the morning flower\\nIn beauty s pride array d.\\nBut long ere night, cut down, it lies\\nAll withe* d and decay d.\\nTO MISS LOGAN.\\nWITH BEATTIE S poems FOR A NEW\\nyear s gift, JANUARY I, 1 787.\\n[The sister of Major Logan, whom\\nBurns had ah eady celebrated.]\\nAgain the silent wheels of time\\nTheir annual round have driv n,\\nAnd you, tho scarce in maiden prime,\\nAre so much nearer Heav n.\\nNo gifts have I from Indian coasts\\nThe infant year to hail\\nI send you more than India boasts\\nIn Edwin s simple tale.\\nin.\\nOur sex with guile, and faithless love,\\nIs chargVl perhaps too true\\nBut may, dear maid, each lover prove\\nAn Edwin still to you.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0130.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.\\n83\\nADDRESS TO A HAGGIS.\\nIt has been stated that, being present\\nat a party where a haggis was on the table,\\nand being asked to say something appro-\\npriate on the occasion. Burns produced the\\nfollowing stanza by way of grace. Being\\nwell received he was induced to expand it\\ninto his address To a Haggis, retaining\\nthe verse in an altered form as a perora-\\ntion. Wallace Ciiamhers.\\nYe Powers wha gie us a that s guid,\\nStill bless auld Caledonia s brood\\nWi great John Barleycorn s heart s bluid\\nIn stoups or luggies;\\nAnd on our board the king o food,\\nA glorious haggis\\nIt is usual to have this Scotch dish at\\nthe anniversary celebrations ot the poet s\\nbirth, and a very savory viand it is, although\\nunsafe to eat much of.\\nFair fa your honest, sonsie face,\\nGreat chieftain o the puddin-race!\\nAboon them a ye tak your place,\\nPainch, tripe, or thairm\\nWeel are ye wordy of a grace\\nAs lang s my arm.\\nThe groaning trencher there ye fill,\\nYour hurdies like a distant hill,\\nYour pin wad help to mend a mill\\nIn time o need.\\nWhile thro your pores the dews distil\\nLike amber bead.\\nHis knife see rustic Labour dight,\\nAn cut ye up wi ready slight,\\nTrenching your gushing entrails\\nbright,\\nLike onie ditch\\nAnd then, O what a glorious sight,\\nWarm-reekin, rich!\\nThen, horn for horn, they stretch an\\nstrive\\nDeil tak the hindmost, on they drive,\\nTill a their weel-swall d kytes belyve\\nAre bent like drums\\nThen auld Guidman, maist like to rive,\\nBethankit! hums.\\nIs there that owre his French ragout,\\nOr olio that wad staw a sow.\\nOx fricassee wad mak her spew\\nWi perfect sconner,\\nLooks down wi sneering, scornfu view\\nOn sic a dinner?\\nPoor devil! see him owre his trash.\\nAs feckless as a wither d rash.\\nHis spindle shank a guid whip-lash.\\nHis nieve a nit\\nThro bluidy flood or field to dash,\\nO how unfit!\\nBut mark the Rustic, haggis-fed.\\nThe trembling earth resounds his\\ntread.\\nClap in his walie nieve a blade,\\nHe 11 make it whissle\\nAn legs, an arms, an heads will sned\\nLike taps o thrissle.\\nVIII.\\nYe Pow rs wha mak mankind your\\ncare,\\nAnd dish them out their bill o fare,\\nAuld Scotland wants nae skinking\\nware,\\nThat jaups in luggies\\nBut, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,\\nGie her a Haggis\\nADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.\\n[Burns enclosed this poem, with another\\npiece unnamed, to Mr. William Chalmers,\\nwriter, Ayr, as early as 27th December, 1786,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0131.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "84\\nADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.\\nthus showing the rapidity with which he had\\ncomposed it.]\\nEdixa! Scotia s darling seat!\\nAll hail thy palaces and tow rs,\\nWhere once, beneath a Monarch s feet,\\nSat Legislation s sovereign pow rs\\nFrom marking wildly-scatt red\\nflowVs,\\nAs on the banks of Ayr I stray d\\nAnd singing, lone, the lingering\\nhours,\\nI shelter in thy honor d shade.\\nHere Wealth still swells the golden\\ntide,\\nAs busy Trade his labours plies\\nThere Architecture s noble pride\\nBids elegance and splendour rise\\nHere Justice, from her native skies,\\nHigh wields her balance and her rod\\nThere Learning, with his eagle eyes,\\nSeeks Science in her coy abode.\\nThy sons, Edina, social, kind.\\nWith open arms the stranger hail\\nTheir views enlarg d, their lib ral\\nmind,\\nAbove the narrow, rural vale\\nAttentive still to Sorrow s wail,\\nOr modest Merit s silent claim\\nAnd never may their sources fail!\\nAnd never Envy blot their name!\\nIV.\\nThy daughters bright thy walks adorn.\\nGay as the gilded summer sky.\\nSweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,\\nDear as the raptur d thrill of joy\\nFair Burnet strikes th adoring eye,\\nHeav n s beauties on my fancy shine\\nI see the Sire of Love on high,\\nAnd own His work indeed divine\\nThere, watching high the least alarms,\\nThy rough, rude fortress gleams\\nafar;\\nLike some bold vet ran, grey in arms.\\nAnd mark d with many a seamy\\nscar\\nThe pond rous wall and massy bar,\\nGrim-rising o er the rugged rock.\\nHave oft witlistood assailing war,\\nAnd oft repeird th invader s shock.\\nWith awe-struck thought and pitying\\ntears.\\nI view that noble, stately dome.\\nWhere Scotia s kings of other years,\\nFam d heroes had their royal\\nhome\\nAlas, how chang d the times to\\ncome!\\nTheir royal name low in the dust!\\nTheir hapless race wild-wand ring\\nroam\\nTho rigid Law cries out T was just.\\nVII.\\nWild beats my heart to trace your\\nsteps.\\nWhose ancestors, in days of yore.\\nThro hostile ranks and ruin d gaps\\nOld Scotia s bloody lion bore\\nEv n I, who sing in rustic lore.\\nHaply my sires have left their shed,\\nAnd fac d grim Danger s loudest\\nroar.\\nBold-following where your fathers led!\\nVIII.\\nEdina Scotia s darling seat!\\nAll hail thy palaces and tow rs\\nWhere once, beneath a Monarch s feet,\\nSat Legislation s sov reign pow rs\\nFrom marking wildly-scatt red\\nflow rs.\\nAs on the banks of Ayr I stray d\\nAnd singing, lone, the iing ring\\nhours,\\nI shelter in thy honour d shade.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0132.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "JOHN BARLEYCORN.\\n85\\nSONGS.\\nJOHN BARLEYCORN.\\nA Ballad.\\n[Composed on the plan of an old song,\\nof which Daviri Laing lias given an authen-\\ntic version in his very curious volume of\\nMetrical Tales.\\nThere was three kings into the east,\\nThree kings both great and high,\\nAnd they hae sworn a solemn oath\\nJohn Barleycorn should die.\\nThey took a plough and ploughed him\\ndown.\\nPut clods upon his head,\\nAnd they hae sworn a solemn oath\\nJohn Barleycorn was dead.\\nIII.\\nBut the cheerful Spring came kindly\\non.\\nAnd show rs began to fall\\nJohn Barleycorn got up again.\\nAnd sore surpris d them all.\\nThe sultry suns of Summer came,\\nAnd he grew thick and strong\\nHis head weel arm d wi pointed\\nspears.\\nThat no one should him wrone.\\nThe sober Autumn enter d mild,\\nWhen he grew wan and pale\\nHis bending joints and drooping head\\nShow d he began to fail.\\nHis colour sicken d more and more,\\nHe faded into age\\nAnd then his enemies began\\nTo show their deadly rage.\\nThey ve taen a weapon long and\\nsharp,\\nAnd cut him by the knee\\nThen tyYl him fast upon a cart,\\nLike a roHue for forgerie.\\nThey laid him down upon his back,\\nAnd cudgelFd him full sore.\\nThey hung him up before the storm.\\nAnd turn d him o er and o er.\\nThey filled ujd a darksome pit\\nWith water to the brim,\\nThey heaved in John Barleycorn\\nThere, let him sink or swim\\nThey laid him out upon the floor,\\nTo work Jiim farther woe\\nAnd still, as signs of life appeared,\\nThey toss d him to and fro.\\nThey wasted o er a scorching flame\\nThe marrow of his bones\\nBut a miller us d him worst of all.\\nFor he crush d him between two\\nstones.\\nAnd they hae taen his very heart s\\nblood,\\nAnd drank it round and round", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0133.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "86\\nA FRAGMENT: WHEN GUILFORD GOOD.\\nAnd still the more and more they\\ndrank,\\nTheir joy did more abound.\\nJohn Barleycorn was a hero bold,\\nOf noble enterprise\\nFor if you do but taste his blood,\\nT will make your courage rise.\\nT will make a man forget his woe\\nT will heighten all his joy\\nTwill make the widow s heart to sing,\\nTho the tear were in her eye.\\nThen let us toast John Barleycorn,\\nEach man a glass in hand\\nAnd may his great posterity\\nNe er fail in old Scotland\\nA. FRAGMENT: WHEN GUIL-\\nFORD GOOD.\\nTune Gillicrankie.\\n[First published in the Edinburgh edi-\\ntion of 1787, after consulting the Earl of\\nGlencairn and Henry Erskine.]\\nWhen Guilford good our pilot stood,\\nAn did our hellim thraw, man\\nAe night, at tea, began a plea,\\nWithin America, man\\nThen up they gat the maskin-pat.\\nAnd in the sea did jaw, man\\nAn did nae less, in full Congress,\\nThan quite refuse our law, man.\\nII.\\nThen thro the lakes Montgomery\\ntakes,\\nI wat he was na slaw, man\\nDown Lowrie s Burn he took a turn,\\nAnd Carleton did ca man\\nBut yet, whatreck, he at Quebec\\nMontgomery-like did fa man,\\nWi sword in hand, before his band,\\nAmang his en mies a man.\\nPoor Tamtny Gage within a cage\\nWas kept at Boston-ha man\\nTill Willie Howe took o lgr the knowe\\nFor Philadelphia, man;\\nWi sword an gun he tliought a sin\\nGuid Cliristian bluid to draw, man\\nBut at New-York wi knife an fork\\nSir-Loin he hacked sma man.\\nIV.\\nBurgoyne gaed up, like spur an whip,\\nTill Eraser brave did fa man\\nThen lost his way, ae misty day,\\nIn Saratoga shaw, man.\\nCornwallis fought as lang s he dought.\\nAn did the buckskins claw, man\\nBut Clinton s glaive frae rust to save,\\nHe hung it to the wa man.\\nThen Montague, an Guilford too,\\nBegan to fear a fa man\\nAnd Sackville doure, wha stood the\\nstoure\\nThe German chief to thraw, man\\nFor Paddy Burke, like onie Turk,\\nNae mercy had at a man\\nAn Charlie Fox threw by the box.\\nAn lows d his tinkler jaw, man.\\nThen Rockingham took up the game,\\nTill death did on him ca man\\nWhen Slielburne meek held up his\\ncheek.\\nConform to gospel law, man\\nSaint Stephen s boys, wi jarring noise.\\nThey did liis measures thraw, man\\nFor North an Fox united stocks,\\nAu bore him to the wa man.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0134.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "MY NANIE, O.\\n87\\nThen clubs an hearts were Charlie s\\ncartes\\nHe swept the stakes awa\\\\ man.\\nTill the diamond s ace, of Indian race,\\nLed him a smy faux pas, man\\nThe Saxon lads, wi loud placads,\\nOn Chatham s boy did ca man\\nAn Scotland drew her pipe an blew\\nUp, Willie, waur them a man\\nBehind the throne then Granville s\\ngone,\\nA secret word or twa, man\\nWhile slee Dundas arous d the class\\nBe-north the Roman wa man\\nAn Chatham s wraith, in heav nly\\ngraith\\n(Inspired bardies saw, man),\\nWr kindling eyes, cry d Willie,\\nrise!\\nWould I hae fear d them a man\\nBut, word an blow. North, Fox, and\\nCo.\\nGowff d Willie like a ba man.\\nTill Suthron raise an coost their claise\\nBehind him in a raw, man\\nAn Caledon threw by the drone,\\nAn did her whittle draw, man\\nAn swoor fu rude, thro dirt an bluid,\\nTo mak it guid in law, man.\\nMY NANIE, O.\\n[According to Gilbert Burns the heroine\\nwas Agnes Fleming. On the other hand,\\nMrs. Begg asserts that it was written in\\nhonor of Peggy Thomson of Kirkoswald.]\\nI.\\nBehind yon lulls where Lugar flows\\nMang moors an mosses many, O,\\nThe wintry sun the day has clos d.\\nAnd I 11 awa to Nanie, O.\\nThe westlin wind blaws loud an shill.\\nThe night s baith mirk and rainy, O\\nBut I 11 get my plaid, an out I 11 steal,\\nAn owre the hill to Nanie, 0.\\nMy Nanie s charming, sweet, an\\nyoung\\nNae artfu wiles to win ye, O\\nMay ill befa the flattering tongue\\nThat wad beguile my Nanie, O\\nHer face is fair, her heart is true\\nAs spotless as she s bonie, O,\\nThe op ning gowan, wat wi dew,\\nNae purer is than Nanie, O.\\nA country lad is my degree,\\nAn few there be that ken me, O\\nBut what care I how few they be\\nI m welcome ay to Nanie, O.\\nMy riches a s rny penny-fee,\\nAn I maun guide it cannie, O\\nBut warl s gear ne er troubles me,\\nMy thoughts are a my Nanie, O.\\nOur auld guidman delights to view\\nHis sheep an kye thrive bonie, O\\nBut I m as blythe that hauds his\\npleugh,\\nAn has nae care but Nanie, O.\\nvni.\\nCome weel, come woe, I care na by\\nI II tak what Heav n will send me, O\\nNae ither care in life have I,\\nBut live, an love my Nanie, O.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0135.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O. COMl USED IN SPRING.\\nGREEN GROWTHS RASHES, O.\\n[This little masterpiece of wit and gayely\\nand movement was suggested either hy the\\nfragment Green grow the Rashes, O in\\nHerd s Ancient and Mtxiern Scottish\\nSongs, or by the coarse old song itself.]\\nChorus.\\nGreen grow the rashe.s, O\\nGreen grow the rashes, O\\nThe sweetest hours that e cr I spend,\\nAre spent among the lasses, O.\\nThere s nought but care on evVy\\nhan\\\\\\nIn every Iiour that passes, O\\nWhat signifies the life o man,\\nAn were na for the lasses, O.\\nThe wai ly race may riches chase.\\nAn riches still may fly them. O\\nAn tho at last they catcli them fast.\\nTheir hearts can ne er enjoy them, O.\\nBut gie me a cannie hour at e en,\\nMy arms about my dearie, O,\\nAn war ly cares an war ly men\\nMay a gae tapsalteerie, O!\\nFor you sae douce, ye sneer at this\\nYe re nought but senseless asses, O\\nThe wisest man the warP e er saw.\\nHe dearly lov d the lasses, O.\\nAuld Nature swears, the lovely dears\\nHer noblest work she classes, O\\nHer prentice han she try d on man,\\nAn then she made the lasses, O.\\nChorus.\\nGreen grow the rashes, O\\nGreen grow the rashes, O\\nThe sweetest hours that e er I spend.\\nAre spent among the lasses, O.\\nCOMPOSED IN SPRING.\\nTune: Johnny s Grey Brecks.\\nMenie is the common alibrcviation of\\nMarianne. The chorus is part of a song\\ncomposed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a\\nparticular friend of the author s. R. U.]\\nAgain rejoicing Nature sees\\nHer robe assume its vernal hues\\nHer leafy locks wave in the breeze.\\nAll freshly steep d in morning dews.\\nChorus.\\nAnd maun I still on Menie doat.\\nAnd bear the scorn that sin her e e\\nFor it s jet, jet-black, an it s like a\\nhawk.\\nAn it winna let a body be.\\n11.\\nIn vain to me the cowslips blaw.\\nIn vain to me the vi lets spring;\\nIn vain to me in glen or shaw,\\nThe mavis and the lintwhite sing.\\nThe merry ploughboy cheers his team,\\nWi joy the tentie seedsman stalks\\nBut life to me s a weary dream,\\nA dream of ane that never wauks.\\nThe wanton coot the water skims,\\nAmang the reeds the ducklings cry.\\nThe stately swan majestic swims.\\nAnd ev ry thing is blest but I.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0136.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "THE GLOOMY NIGHT.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 NO CHURCHMAN AM I.\\nThe sheep-herd steeks his faulding\\nslap,\\nAnd o er the moorlands whistles\\nshill\\nWi wild, unequal, wand ring step,\\nI meet him on the dewy hill.\\nvr.\\nAnd when the lark, Hween light and\\ndark,\\nBIythe waukens by the daisy s side.\\nAnd mounts and sings on flittering\\nwings,\\nA woe-worn ghaist I hameward\\nglide.\\nCome winter, with thine angry howl.\\nAnd raging, bend the naked tree\\nThy gloom will soothe my cheerless\\nsoul,\\nWhen nature all is sad like me!\\nChorus.\\nAnd maun I still on Menie doat,\\nAnd bear the scorn that \\\\s in her e e\\nFor it s jet, jet-black, an it s like a\\nhawk,\\nAn it winna let a body be.\\nTHE GLOOMY NIGHT IS\\nGATHERING FAST.\\nTune- Roslin Castle.\\nI composed this song as I conveyed\\nmy chest so far on my road to Greenock,\\nwhere I was to embark in a few days for\\nJamaica. I meant it as my farewell to my\\nnative land. R. B.]\\nThe gloomy night is gathering fast.\\nLoud roars the wild inconstant blast\\nYon nnu ky cloud is filled with rain,\\nI see it driving o er the plain\\nThe hunter now has left the moor.\\nThe scatt red coveys meet secure\\nWhile here I wander, prest with care,\\nAlong the lonely banks of Ayr.\\nThe Autumn mourns her rip ning corn\\nBy early Winter s ravage torn\\nAcross her placid, azure sky,\\nShe sees the scowling tempest fly;\\nChill runs my blood to hear it rave\\nI think upon the stormy wave,\\nWhere many a danger I must dare,\\nFar from the bonie banks of Ayr.\\nT is not the surging billows roar,\\nT is not that fatal, deadly shore\\nTho death in ev ry shape appear.\\nThe wretched have no more to fear\\nBut round my heart the ties are bound.\\nThat heart transpierc d with many a\\nwound\\nThese bleed afresh, those ties I tear,\\nTo leave the bonie banks of Ayr.\\nFarewell, old Coila s hills and dales.\\nHer heathy moors and winding vales\\nThe scenes where wretched Fancy\\nroves,\\nPursuing past unhappy loves\\nFarewell my friends farewell my\\nfoes\\nMy peace with these, my love with\\nthose\\nThe bursting tears my heart declare.\\nFarewell, my bonie banks of Ayr.\\nNO CHURCHMAN AM I.\\nTUNE: Prepa7-e, my dear Brethren.\\n[This is not a happy production, al-\\nthough, doubtless, it would pass very well\\namong his youthful companions at Tarbol-", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0137.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "90\\nNO CHURCHMAN AM I.\\nton, when the table was in a roar, after\\na lodge meeting. WILLIAM ScoTT\\nDouglas.]\\nNo churchman am I for to rail and to\\nwrite,\\nNo statesman nor soldier to plot or to\\nfight,\\nNo sly man of business contriving a\\nsnare,\\nFor a big-belly d bottle s the whole\\nof my care.\\nThe peer I don t env} I give him his\\nbow;\\nI scorn not the peasant, tho ever so\\nlow\\nBut a club of good fellows, like those\\nthat are here.\\nAnd a bottle like this, are my glory\\nand care.\\nHere passes the squire on his brother\\nhis horse,\\nThere centum per centum, the cit with\\nhis purse,\\nBut see you The Crown, how it waves\\nin the air?\\nThere a big-belly d bottle still eases\\nmy care.\\nThe wife of my bosom, alas she did\\ndie;\\nFor sweet consolation to church 1 did\\nfly\\n1 found that old Solomon proved it\\nfair.\\nThat a big-belly d bottle s a cure for\\nall care.\\nI once was persuaded a venture to\\nmake\\nA letter inform d me that all was to\\nwreck\\nBut the pursy old landlord just wad-\\ndled up stairs.\\nWith a glorious bottle that ended my\\ncares.\\nLife s cares they are comforts a\\nmaxim laid down\\nBy the Bard, what d ye call him that\\nwore the black gown\\nAnd faith I agree with th old prig to\\na hair\\nFor a big-belly d bottle s a heav n of\\na care.\\nA STANZA ADDED IN A MASON\\nLODGE.\\nThen fill up a bumper and make it\\no erflow.\\nAnd honours Masonic prepare for to\\nthrow\\nMay ev ry true Brother of the Com-\\npass and Square\\nHave a big-belly d bottle, when\\nharass d with care", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0138.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.\\n91\\nADDED, EDINBURGH, 179;\\nWRITTEN IN FRIARS CARSE\\nHERMITAGE, ON NITHSIDE.\\n[This is the second version of a piece\\noriginally inscribed on a window pane of\\nFriars Carse Hermitage, in June, 1788.]\\nThou whom chance may liither lead\\nBe tliou clad in russet weed,\\nBe thou deckt in sili en stole,\\nGrave tliese counsels on thy soul.\\nLife is but a day at most.\\nSprung from night,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 in darkness lost\\nHope not sunsliine ev ry hour.\\nFear not clouds will always lour.\\nAs Youth and Love with sprightly\\ndance\\nBeneath thy morning star advance,\\nPleasure with her siren air\\nMay delude the thoughtless pair\\nLet Prudence bless Enjoyment s cup,\\nThen raptured sit and sip it up.\\nAs thy day grows warm and high,\\nLife s meridian flaming nigli,\\nDost thou spurn the humble vale?\\nLife s proud summits would st thou\\nscale\\nCheck thy climbing step, elate,\\nEvils lurk in felon wait\\nDangers, eagle-pinioned, bold.\\nSoar around each cliffy hold\\nWhile cheerful Peace with linnet song\\nChants the lowly dells among.\\nAs the shades of evening close,\\nBeck ning thee to long repose\\nAs life itself becomes disease,\\nSeek the chimney-nook of ease:\\nThere ruminate with sober thought,\\nOn all thou st seen, and heard, and\\nwrought\\nAnd teach the sportive younkers\\nround,\\nSaws of experience, sage and sound\\nSay, man s true, genuine estimate.\\nThe grand criterion of his fate,\\nIs not, Art thou high or low.?\\nDid thy fortune ebb or flow?\\nDid many talents gild thy span\\nOr frugal Nature gaidge thee one?\\nTell them, and press it on their mind.\\nAs thou thyself must shortly find.\\nThe smile or frown of awful Heav n\\nTo Virtue or to Vice is giv n\\nSay, to be just, and kind, and wise\\nThere solid self-enjoyment lies\\nThat foolish, selfish, faithless ways\\nLead to be wretched, vile, and base.\\nThus resign d and quiet, creep\\nTo the bed of lasting sleep\\nSleep, whence thou s hall ne er awake.\\nNight, where dawn shall never break\\nTill future life, future no more.\\nTo light and joy the good restore,\\nTo light and joy unknown before.\\nStranger, go! Heav n be tliy guide!\\nQuod the beadsman of Nithside.\\nODE, SACRED TO THE MEM-\\nORY OF MRS. OSWALD OF\\nAUCHENCRUIVE.\\n[Tlie subject of this ode was the widow\\nof Richard Oswald, Esq., of Auchencruive.]\\nDweller in yon dungeon dark.\\nHangman of creation, mark\\nWho in widow-weeds appears,\\nLaden with unhonoured years,\\nNoosing with care a bursting purse,\\nBaited with many a deadly curse\\nSTROPHE.\\nView the wither d beldam s face\\nCan thy keen. inspection trace\\nAught of Humanity s sweet, melting\\ngrace\\nNote that eye, t is rheum o erflows", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0139.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "92\\nELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.\\nPity s flood there never rose.\\nSee those hands, ne er .stretch d to\\nsave,\\nHands tliat took, but never gave.\\nKeeper of Mammon s u^on chest,\\nLo. there she goes, unpitied and\\nunblest,\\nShe goes, but not to reahns of ever-\\nlasting rest\\nANTISTROPHE.\\nPlunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes\\n(A while forbear, ye torturing\\nfiends),\\nSeest thou whose step, unwilling,\\nhither bends?\\nNo fallen angel, hurl d from upper\\nskies\\nT is thy trusty, quond?im Mate,\\nDoom d to share tiiy fiery fate\\nShe, tardy, hell-ward plies.\\nAnd are they of no more avail.\\nTen thousand glittering pounds\\na-year\\nIn other worlds can Mammon fail.\\nOmnipotent as he is here?\\nO bitter mockery of the pompous bier!\\nWhile down the wretched vital part\\nis driven.\\nThe cave-lodg d beggar, with a con-\\nscience clear,\\nExpires in rags, unknown, and goes\\nto Heaven.\\nELEGY ON CAPTAIN MAT-\\nTHEW HENDERSON.\\nA GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PAT-\\nENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDI-\\nATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD\\nBut now his radiant course is run.\\nFor Matthnv s course -was bri^i^ht\\nHis soul was like the glorious sun\\nA matchless. Heavenly light.\\n[The name of this gentleman is found in\\nthe list of subscribers to the poet s Edin-\\nburgh edition of April, 1787. In sending a\\ncopy of it to Dr. Moore, he says, The elegy\\non Capt. Henderson is a tribute to the mem-\\nory of a man I loved much.\\nO Death! thou tyrant fell and\\nbloody!\\nThe meikle Devil wi a woodie\\nHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie\\nO er hurcheon hides.\\nAnd like stock-fish come o er his\\nstuddie\\nWi thy auld sides\\nHe s gane, he s gane! he s frae us\\ntorn,\\nThe ae best fellow e er was born\\nThee, Matthew, Nature s sel shall\\nmourn,\\nBy wood and wild.\\nWhere, haply. Pity strays forlorn,\\nFrae man e.xil d.\\nYe hills, near neebors o the starns.\\nThat proudly cock your cresting\\ncairns\\nYe cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,\\nWhere Echo slumbers\\nCome join ye, Nature s sturdiest\\nbairns,\\nMy wailing numbers\\nMourn, ilka grove the cushat kens\\nYe hazly shaws and briery dens\\nYe burnies, wimplin down your glens\\nWi toddlin din,\\nOr foaming, Strang, wi liasty stens,\\nFrae lin to lin\\nMourn, little harebells o er the lea\\nYe stately foxgloves, fair to see\\nYe woodbines, hanging bonilie\\nIn scented bowers;", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0140.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.\\n93\\nYe roses on your thorny tree,\\nThe first o flowers\\nAt dawn, wlien every grassy blade\\nDroops with a diamond at his head\\nAt ev n, when beans their fragrance\\nshed\\nr th rustling gale\\nYe maukins, whiddin through the\\nglade\\nCome join my wail\\nMourn, ye wee songsters o the wood\\nYe grouse that crap the heather bud\\nYe curlews, calling thro a clud\\nYe whistling plover;\\nAnd mourn, ye whirring paitrick\\nbrood\\nHe s gane for ever\\nMourn, sooty coots, and speckled\\nteals\\nYe fisher herons, watching eels\\nYe duck and drake, wi airy wheels\\nCircling the lake\\nYe bitterns, till the quagmire reels,\\nRair for his sake\\nMourn, clam ring craiks, at close o\\nday,\\nMang fields o flowVing clover gay\\nAnd when you wing your annual way\\nFrae our cauld shore,\\nTell thae far warkls wha lies in clay.\\nWham we deplore.\\nYe houlets, frae your ivy bower\\nIn some auld tree, or eldritch tower,\\nWhat time the moon, wr silent glowr,\\nSets up her horn.\\nWail thro the dreary midnight hour\\nTill waukrife morn\\nO rivers, forests, hills, and plains\\nOft have ye heard my canty strains\\nBut now, what else for me remains\\nBut tales of woe\\nAnd frae my een the drapping rains\\nMaun ever flow.\\nMourn, Spring, thou darling of the\\nyear\\nIlk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:\\nThou, Simmer, while each corny\\nspear\\nShoots up its head.\\nThy gay, green, flowery tresses shear\\nFor him that \\\\s dead\\nXIII.\\nThou, Autumn, wi thy yellow hair,\\nIn grief thy sallow mantle tear\\nThou, Winter, hurling thro the air\\nThe roaring blast.\\nWide o er the naked world declare\\nThe worth we ve lost\\nMourn him, thou Sun, great source\\nof light\\nMourn, Empress of the silent night\\nAnd you, ye.twinkling starnies bright.\\nMy Matthew mourn\\nFor through your orbs he s taen his\\nflight,\\nNe er to return.\\nO Henderson the man the brother\\nAnd art thou gone, and gone for\\never?\\nAnd hast thou crost that unknown\\nriver,\\nLife s dreary bound\\nLike thee, where shall I find another,\\nThe world around", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0141.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "94\\nLAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.\\nGo to your sculptur d tombs, ye Great,\\nIn a the tinsel trash o state\\nBut by thy honest turf I 11 wait,\\nTiiou man ot worth\\nAnd weep the ae best fellow s fate\\nE er lay in earth\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nI.\\nStop, passenger my story s brief,\\nAnd truth I shall relate, man\\nI tell nae common tale o grief,\\nFor Matthew was a great man.\\nIf thou uncommon merit hast,\\nYet spurn d at Fortune s door,\\nman\\nA look of pity hither cast.\\nFor Matthew was a poor man.\\nIf thou a noble sodger art,\\nThat passest by this grave, man\\nThere moulders here a gallant heart,\\nFor Matthew was a brave man.\\nIf thou on men, their works and ways.\\nCanst throw uncommon light, man\\nH ^re lies wha weel had won thy\\npraise.\\nFor Matthew was a bright man.\\nIf thou, at Friendship s sacred ca\\\\\\nWad life itself resign, man\\nThy sympathetic tear maun fa\\nFor Matthew was a kind man.\\nVI.\\nIf thou art staunch, without a stain.\\nLike the unchanging blue, man\\nThis was a kinsman o thy ain.\\nFor Matthew was a true man.\\nIf thou hast wit, and fun, and fire.\\nAnd ne er guid wine did fear, man\\nThis was tiiy billic, dam, and sire,\\nFor Matthew was a queer man.\\nVIII.\\nIf onie whiggish, whingin sot.\\nTo blame poor Matthew dare, man\\nMay dool and sorrow be his lot\\nFor Matthew was a rare man.\\nLAMENT OF MARY QUEEN\\nOF SCOTS\\nON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.\\nThe poets have ever sided with the\\nvictim of Elizabeth, of John Knox, and of\\nher own brother. IBurns had been reading\\nthe Percy Reliques, which accounts for\\nthe form of the piece. ANDREW LaNG.]\\nNow Nature hangs her mantle green,\\nOn every blooming tree.\\nAnd spreads her sheets o daisies\\nwhite\\nOut o er the grassy lea\\nNow Phoebus cheers the crystal\\nstreams,\\nAnd glads the azure skies\\nBut nought can glad the weary wight\\nThat fast in durance lies.\\nNow laverocks wake the merry morn.\\nAloft on dewy wing\\nThe merle, in his noontide bow r,\\nMakes woodland echoes ring\\nThe mavis wild wi monie a note\\nSings drowsy day to rest\\nIn love and freedom they rejoice,\\nWi care nor thrall opprest.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0142.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "TO ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRY, ESQ.\\n95\\nNow blooms the lily by the bank.\\nThe primrose down the brae\\nThe hawthorn \\\\s budding in the glen,\\nAnd milk-white is the slae\\nThe meanest hind in fair Scotland\\nMay rove their sweets amang;\\nBut I, the Queen of a Scotland\\nMaun lie in prison Strang.\\nI was the Queen o bonie France,\\nWhere happy I hae been\\nFu lightly rase I in the morn,\\nAs blythe lay down at e en\\nAnd I m the sov reign of Scotland,\\nAnd monie a traitor there\\nYet here I lie in foreign bands\\nAnd never-ending care.\\nBut as for thee, thou false woman,\\nMy sister and my fae,\\nGrim vengeance yet shall whet a\\nsword\\nThat thro thy soul shall gae\\nThe weeping blood in woman s breast\\nWas never known to thee\\nNor th balm that draps on wounds of\\nwoe\\nFrae woman s pitying e e.\\nMy son my son may kinder stars\\nUpon thy fortune shine\\nAnd may those pleasures gild thy\\nreign,\\nThat ne er wad blink on mine\\nGod keep thee frae thy mother s faes,\\nOr turn their hearts to thee\\nAnd where thou meet st thy mother s\\nfriend,\\nRemember him for me\\nO soon, to me, may summer suns\\nNae mair light up the morn!\\nNae mair to me the autumn winds\\nWave o er the yellow corn\\nAnd, in the narrow house of death,\\nLet winter round me rave\\nAnd the next flow rs that deck the\\nspring\\nBloom on my peaceful grave.\\nTO ROBERT GRAHAM OF\\nFINTRY, ESQ.\\n[Robert Graham of Fintry was one of the\\ncommissioners of excise. Of all Biuns s\\nfriends, writes Wilson, he was the most\\nefficient. When Burns was accused of\\ndisloyalty he defended him boldly and well.]\\nLate crippl d of an arm, and now\\na leg;\\nAbout to beg a pass for leave to\\nbeg;\\nDull, listless, teas d, dejected, and de-\\nprest\\nNature is adverse to a cripjDle s\\nrest)\\nWill generous Graham list to his\\nPoet s wail\\n(It soothes poor Misery, hearkening\\nto her tale).\\nAnd hear him curse the light he first\\nsurvey d.\\nAnd doubly curse the luckless rhym-\\ning trade\\nThou, Nature partial Nature I\\narraign\\nOf thy caprice maternal I complain\\nThe lion and the bull thy care have\\nfound.\\nOne shakes the forests, and one spurns\\nthe ground\\nThou giv st the ass his hide, the snail\\nhis shell\\nTh envenom d wasp, victorious,\\nguards his cell\\nThy minions kings defend, control,\\ndevour.\\nIn all th omnipotence of rule and\\npower.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0143.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "96\\nTO ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRY, ESQ.\\nFoxes and statesmen subtile wiles\\nensure\\nThe cit and polecat stink, and are\\nsecure\\nToads with their poison, doctors with\\ntheir drug,\\nThe priest and hedgehog in their\\nrobes, are snug\\nEv n silly woman has her warlike\\narts,\\nHer tongue and eyes her dreaded\\nspear and darts.\\nBut O thou bitter step-mother and\\nhard,\\nTo thy poor, fenceless, naked child\\nthe Bard\\nA thing unteachable in world s skill,\\nAnd half an idiot too, more helpless\\nstill\\nNo heels to bear him from the open-\\ning dun.\\nNo claws to dig, his hated sight to\\nshun\\nNo horns, but those by luckless Hy-\\nmen worn,\\nAnd those, alas not, Amalthea s\\nhorn\\nNo nerves olfactory. Mammon s trusty\\ncur.\\nClad in rich Dulness comfortable\\nfur;\\nIn naked feeling, and in aching\\npride,\\nHe bears th unbroken blast from ev ry\\nside\\nVampyre booksellers drain him to the\\nheart,\\nAnd scorpion critics cureless venom\\ndart.\\nCritics appaird, I venture on the\\nname\\nThose cut-throat bandits in the paths\\nof fame\\nBloody dissectors, worse than ten\\nMonroes\\nHe hacks to teach, they mangle to\\nexpose.\\nHis heart by causeless wanton mal-\\nice wrung.\\nBy blockheads daring into madness\\nstung;\\nHis well-won bays, than life itself\\nmore dear,\\nBy miscreants torn, who ne er one\\nsjjrig must wear\\nFoil d, bleeding, tortur d in th un-\\nequal strife.\\nThe hapless Poet flounders on thro\\nlife:\\nTill, fled each hope that once his\\nbosom fir d,\\nAnd fled each Muse that glorious\\nonce inspir d,\\nLow sunk in squalid, unprotected\\nage,\\nDead even resentment for his injur d\\npage.\\nHe heeds or feels no more the ruth-\\nless critic s rage\\nSo, by some hedge, the gen rous steed\\ndeceas d,\\nP or half-starv d snarling curs a dainty\\nfeast.\\nBy toil and famine wore to skin and\\nbone.\\nLies, senseless of each tugging bitch s\\nson.\\nO Dulness portion of the truly\\nblest\\nCalm shelter d haven of eternal\\nrest\\nThy sons ne er madden in the fierce\\nextremes\\nOf Fortune s polar frost, or torrid\\nbeams.\\nIf mantling high she fills the golden\\ncup.\\nWith sober, selfish ease they sip\\nit up\\nConscious the bounteous meed they\\nwell deserve.\\nThey only wonder some folks do\\nnot starve.\\nThe grave, sage hern thus easy picks\\nhis frofr,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0144.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.\\n97\\nAnd thinks the mallard a sad, worth-\\nless dog.\\nWhen Disappointment snaps the clue\\nof hope,\\nAnd thro disastrous night they dark-\\nling grope,\\nWith deaf endurance sluggishly they\\nbear,\\nAnd just conclude that fools are for-\\ntune s care.\\nSo, heavy, passive to the tempest s\\nshocks,\\nStrong on the sign-post stands the\\nstupid ox.\\nNot so the idle Muses mad-cap\\ntrain\\nNot such the workings of their moon-\\nstruck brain\\nIn equanimity they never dwell\\nBy turns in soaring heav n, or vaulted\\nhell.\\nI dread thee, Fate, relentless and\\nsevere,\\nWith all a poet s, husband s, father s\\nfear!\\nAlready one strong hold of hope is\\nlost:\\nGlencairn, the truly noble, lies in\\ndust\\n(Fled, like the sun eclips d as noon\\nappears.\\nAnd left us darkling in a world of\\ntears).\\nO, hear my ardent, grateful, selfish\\npray r\\nFintry, my other stay, long bless and\\nspare I\\nThro a long life his hopes and wishes\\ncrown,\\nAnd bright in cloudless skies his sun\\ngo down\\nMay bliss domestic smooth his pri-\\nvate path\\nGive energy to life and soothe his\\nlatest breath.\\nWith many a filial tear circling the\\nbed of death\\nLAMENT FOR JAMES. EARL\\nOF GLENCAIRN.\\n[This nobleman, for whom the poet had\\na deep respect, died at Falmouth, in his\\nforty-second year.J\\nThe wind blew hollow frae the hills\\nBy fits the sun s departing beam\\nLook d on the fading yellow woods.\\nThat wav d o er Lugar s winding\\nstream.\\nBeneath a craigy steep a Bard,\\nLaden with years and meikle pain,\\nIn loud lament bewail d his lord.\\nWhom Death had all untimely taen.\\nHe. lean d him to an ancient aik.\\nWhose trunk was mould ring down\\nwith years\\nHis locks were bleached white with\\ntime.\\nHis hoary cheek was wet wi tears\\nAnd as he touch d his trembling harp.\\nAnd as he tun d his doleful sang,\\nThe winds, lamenting thro their caves,\\nTo echo bore the notes alang\\nYe scatter d birds that faintly sing.\\nThe reliques of the vernal quire!\\nYe woods that shed on a the winds\\nThe honours of the aged year\\nA few short months, and, glad and\\ngay,\\nAgain ye 11 charm the ear and e e\\nBut nocht in all revolving time\\nCan gladness bring again to me.\\nI am a bending aged tree.\\nThat long has stood the wind and\\nrain\\nBut now has come a cruel blast.\\nAnd my last hold of earth is gane", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0145.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "98\\nLINES TO SIR, JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART.\\nNae leaf o mine shall greet the spring,\\nNae simmer sun exalt my bloom\\nBut I maun lie before the storm,\\nAnd ithers plant them in my room.\\n1 e seen sae monie changefu years,\\nOn eartli I am a stranger grown\\nI wander in the ways of men,\\nAlike unknowing and unknown:\\nUnheard, unpitied, unreliev d,\\nI bear alane my lade o care\\nFor silent, low, on beds of dust,\\nLie a that would mv sorrows share.\\n*And last (the sum of a my griefs!)\\nIVIy noble master lies in clay\\nThe flow r amang our barons bold.\\nHis country s pride, his country s\\nstay\\nIn weary being now I pine,\\nFor a the life of life is dead.\\nAnd hope has left my aged ken,\\nOn forward wing for ever fled.\\nVII.\\nAwake thy last sad voice, my harp\\nThe voice of woe and wild despair\\nAwake, resound tliy latest lay,\\nThen sleep in silence evermair\\nAnd thou, my last, best, only friend.\\nThat fillest an untimely tomb,\\nAccept this tribute from the Bard\\nThou brought from Fortune s mirk-\\nest gloom\\nIn Poverty s low barren vale.\\nThick mists obscure involved me\\nround;\\nThough oft I turn d the wistful eye,\\nNae ray of fame was to be found\\nThou found st me. like the morning\\nsun\\nThat melts the fogs in limpid air:\\nThe friendless Bard and rustic song\\nBecame alike thy fostering care.\\nO. w hy has Worth so short a date,\\nWhile villains ripen grey with time!\\nMust thou, the noble, gen rous, great,\\nFall in bold manhood s hardy prime\\nWhy did I live to see that day,\\nA day to me so full of woe\\nO, had I met tlie mortal shaft\\nWhich laid my benefactor low!\\nThe bridegroom may forget the bride\\nWas made his wedded wife yes-\\ntreen\\nThe monarch may forget the crown\\nThat on his head an hour has been\\nThe mother may forget the child\\nThat smiles sae sweetly on her knee\\nBut I 11 remember thee, Glencairn,\\nAnd a that thou hast done for me\\nLINES TO SIR JOHN WHITE-\\nFOORD, Bart.\\nSENT WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.\\n[Sir John Whitefoord was, like Glencairn,\\nthe warm friend of Burns.]\\nThou, who thy honour as thy God\\nrever st,\\nWho, save thy mind s reproach,\\nnought earthly fear st.\\nTo thee this votive ofi ring I impart.\\nThe tearful tribute of a broken heart.\\nThe Friend thou valued st, I the Patron\\nlov d\\nHis worth, his honour, all the world\\napprov d\\nWe ll mourn till we too go as he has\\ngone,\\nAnd tread the shadowy path to that\\ndark world unknown.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0146.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "TAM O SHANTER,\\n99\\nTAM O SHANTER.\\nOf Brownyis and of Dogillisfull is this Buke.\\nGawin Douglas.\\nThis immortal poem was composed in\\n1789-90. It is much to be regretted that\\nBurns, with such a gift of narrative, did not\\ncontinue to write tales which would have\\nwon for him the place of a Scott, and, in\\nhumor, not an inferior Chaucer. AN-\\nDREW Lang. See Notes.]\\nWhen chapman billies leave the street,\\nAnd drouthy neebors neebors meet\\nAs market-days are wearing late,\\nAn folk begin to tak the gate;\\nWhile we sit bousing at the nappy,\\nAn getting fou and unco happy.\\nWe think na on the lang Scots miles.\\nThe mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,\\nThat lie between us and our hanie,\\nWhare sits our sulky, sullen dame,\\nGathering her brows like gathering\\nstorm,\\nNursing her wrath to keep it warm.\\nThis tmth fand honest Tam o\\nShanter,\\nAs he frae Ayr ae night did canter\\n(Auld Ayr, wham ne er a town sur-\\npasses,\\nFor honest men and bonie lasses.)\\nO Tam, had st thou but been sae\\nwise.\\nAs taen thy ain wife Kate s advice\\nShe tauld thee weel thou was a skel-\\nlum,\\nA blethering, blustering, drunken blel-\\nlum\\nThat frae November till October,\\nAe market-day thou was nae sober\\nThat ilka melder wi the miller.\\nThou sat as lang as thou had siller\\nThat ev ry naig was ca d a shoe on.\\nThe smith and thee gat roaring fou on\\nTiiat at the Lord s house, even on\\nSunday,\\nThou drank wi Kirkton Jean till\\nMonday.\\nShe prophesied, that, late or soon.\\nThou would be found deep drown d\\nin Doon,\\nOr catch d wi warlocks in the mirk\\nBy Alloway s auld, haunted kirk.\\nAh! gentle dames, it gars me greet,\\nTo think how monie counsels sweet.\\nHow monie lengthen d, sage advices\\nThe husband frae the wife despises\\ntale\\nAe market-\\ndi-\\nBut to\\nnight,\\nTam had got planted unco right.\\nFast by an ingle, bleezing finely,\\nWi reaming swats, that drank\\nvinely\\nAnd at his elbow, Souter Johnie,\\nHis ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie\\nTam lo ed him like a very brither;\\nThey had been fou for weeks the-\\ngither.\\nThe night drave on wi sangs and\\nclatter;\\nAnd ay the ale was growing better\\nTiie landlady and Tam grew gracious\\nWi secret favours, sweet and precious\\nThe Souter tauld his queerest stories\\nThe landlord s laugh was ready\\nchorus\\nThe storm without might rair and\\nrustle,\\nTam did na mind the storm a whistle.\\nCare, mad to see a man sae happy.\\nE en drown d himsel amang the nappy.\\nAs bees flee hame wi lades o treasure.\\nThe minutes wing d their way wi\\npleasure\\nKings may be blest but Tam was\\nglorious.\\nO er a the ills o life victorious!\\nBut pleasures are like poppies\\nspread\\nYou seize the flow r, its bloom is\\nshed\\nOr like the snow falls in the river.\\ni.\u00c2\u00abrc.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0147.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "TAM O SIIANTER.\\nA moment white then melts for\\never;\\nOr like the borealis race,\\nThat flit ere you can point their\\nplace\\nOr like the rainbow s lovely form\\nEvanishinij amid the storm.\\nNae man can tether time or tide\\nThe hour approaches Tam maun ride\\nThat hour, o night s black arch the\\nkey-stane,\\nThat dreary hour Tam mounts his\\nbeast in\\nAnd sic a night he taks the road in.\\nAs ne er poor sinner was abroad in.\\nThe wind blew as H wad blawn its\\nlast\\nThe rattling showers rose on the\\nblast\\nThe speedy gleams the darkness\\nswallow d\\nLoud, deep, and lang the thunder\\nbellow d\\nThat night, a child might under-\\nstand,\\nThe Deil had business on his hand.\\nWeel mounted on his gray mare\\nMeg,\\nA better never lifted leg,\\nTam skelpit on thro dub and mire,\\nDespising wind, and rain, and fire\\nWhiles holding fast his guid blue\\nbonnet.\\nWhiles crooning o er some auld Scots\\nsonnet.\\nWhiles glow ring round wi prudent\\ncares,\\nLest bogles catch him unawares\\nKirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,\\nWhare ghaists and houlets nightly\\ncry.\\nBy this time he was cross the ford,\\nWhare in the snaw the chapman\\nsmoor d\\nAnd past the birks and meikle stanc,\\nWhare drunken Charlie brak s neck-\\nbane\\nAnd thro the whins, and by the\\ncairn,\\nWhare hunters fand the murder d\\nbairn\\nAnd near tlic thorn, aboon the well,\\nWhare Mungo s mither hang d hersel.\\nBefore him Doon pours all his flootls\\nThe doubling storm roars thro the\\nwoods\\nThe lightnings flash from pole to\\npole\\nNear and more near the tliunders\\nroll\\nWhen, glimmering thro the groaning\\ntrees,\\nKirk-Alloway scem d in a bleeze.\\nThro ilka bore the beams were glanc-\\ning.\\nAnd loud resounded mirth and danc-\\ning.\\nInspiring bold John Barleycorn,\\nWhat dangers thou canst make us\\nscorn\\nWi tippenny, we fear nae evil\\nWi usquabae, we 11 face the Devil\\nThe swats sae ream d in Tammie s\\nnoddle.\\nFair play, he car d na deils a boddle.\\nBut Maggie stood, right sair aston-\\nish d.\\nTill, by the heel and hand admon-\\nish d.\\nShe ventur d forward on the light\\nAnd, vow Tam saw an unco sight\\nWarlocks and witches in a dance\\nNae cotillion, brent new frae France.\\nBut hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and\\nreels.\\nPut life and mettle in their heels.\\nA winnock-bunker in the east,\\nThere sat Auld Nick, in shape o\\nbeast\\nA tousie tyke, black, grim, and large,\\nTo gie them music was his charge\\nHe screw d the pipes and gart them\\nskirl.\\nTill roof and rafters a did did.\\nCoflins stood round, like open presses,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0148.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "TAM O SHANTER.\\nThat shaw d the dead in their last\\ndresses\\nAnd, l)y some devilish cantraip sleight,\\nEach in its cauld hand held a light\\nBy which heroic Tarn was able\\nTo note upon the haly table,\\nA murderer s banes, in gibbet-airns\\nTwa span-lang, wee, unchristen d\\nbairns\\nA thief new-cutted frae a rape\\nWi his last gasp his gab did gape\\nFive tomahawks wi bluid red-rusted\\nFive scymitars wi murder crusted\\nA garter which a babe had strangled\\nA knife a father s throat had man-\\ngled-\\nWhom his ain son o life bereft\\nThe grey-hairs yet stack to the heft\\nWi mair of horrible and awefu\\nWhich even to name wad be unlawful\\nAs Tammie glowr d, amaz d, and\\ncurious,\\nThe mirth and fun grew fast and\\nfurious\\nThe piper loud and louder blew,\\nThe dancers quick and quicker flew.\\nThey reel d, they set, they crossxl,\\nthey cleekit.\\nTill ilka carlin swat and reekit,\\nAnd coost her duddies to the wark,\\nAnd linket at it in her sark\\nNow Tam, O Tarn had thae been\\nqueans.\\nA plump and strapping in their\\nteens!\\nTheir sarks, instead o creeshie flan-\\nnen,\\nBeen snaw-white seventeen hunder\\nlinen\\nThir breeks o mine, my only pair.\\nThat ance were plush, o guid blue\\nhair,\\nI wad hae gi en them off my hurdles\\nFor ae blink o the bonie burdies\\nBut witherYl beldams, auld and\\ndroll,\\nRigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,\\nLouping and flinging on a crummock,\\nI wonder did na turn thy stomach\\nBut Tam kend what was what fu\\nbrawlie\\nThere was ae winsome wench and\\nwawlie.\\nThat night enlisted in the core,\\nLang after kend on Carrick shore\\n(For monie a beast to dead she shot,\\nAn perish d monie a bonie boat.\\nAnd shook baith meikle corn and\\nbear,\\nAnd kept the country-side in fear).\\nHer cutty sark, o Paisley harn.\\nThat while a lassie she had worn,\\nIn longitude tho sorely scanty.\\nIt was her best, and she was\\nvauntie.\\nAh little kend thy reverend grannie,\\nThat sark she coft for her wee Nan-\\nnie,\\nWi twa pund Scots t was a her\\nriches).\\nWad ever grac d a dance of witches\\nBut here my Muse her wing maun\\ncour.\\nSic flights are far beyond her power\\nTo sing how Nannie lap and flang\\n(A souple jad she was and Strang),\\nAnd how Tam stood like ane be-\\nwitch d.\\nAnd thought his very een enrich d\\nEven Satan glowr d, and fidg d fu\\nfain.\\nAnd hotch d and blew wi might and\\nmain\\nTill first ae caper, syne anither,\\nTam tint his reason a thegither,\\nAnd roars out: Weel done, Cutty-\\nsark\\nAnd in an instant all was dark\\nAnd scarcely had he Maggie rallied,\\nWhen out the hellish legion sallied.\\nAs bees bizz out wi angry fvke.\\nWhen plundering herds assail their\\nbyke\\nAs open pussie s mortal foes,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0149.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME.\\nWhen, pop! she starts before their\\nnose\\nAs eager runs the market-crowd,\\nWhen Catch the thief. resounds\\naloud\\nSo Maggie runs, the witches follow,\\nWi monie an eldritch skriech and\\nhollo.\\nAh, Tam! Ah. Tarn! thou 11 get\\nthy fairin!\\nIn hell they 11 roast thee like a herrin!\\nIn vain thy Kate awaits thy coniin\\nKate soon will be a woefu woman\\nNow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,\\nAnd win the key-stane of the brig\\nThere, at them thou thy tail may\\ntoss,\\nA running stream they dare na cross\\nBut ere the key-stane she could make,\\nThe fient a tail she had to shake\\nFor Nannie, far before the rest.\\nHard upon noble Maggie prest,\\nAnd flew at Tam wi furious ettle\\nBut little wist she Maggie s mettle!\\nAe spring brought off her master\\nhale.\\nBut left behind her ain grey tail\\nThe carlin claught her by the rump.\\nAnd left poor Maggie scarce a stump.\\nNow, wha this tale o truth shall read.\\nIlk man, and mother s son, take heed\\nWhene er to drink you are inclin d,\\nOr cutty sarks run in your mind.\\nThink! ye may buy the joys o er dear\\nRemember Tam o Shanter s mare.\\nON SEEING A WOUNDED\\nHARE LIMP BY ME WHICH\\nA FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT\\nAT.\\n[Of this poem Burns says, April 21, 1789\\nTwo mornings ago, as 1 was at a very\\nearly hour sowing in the fields, I heard a\\nshot, and pn^sently a poor little hare limped\\nby me ajjparently very much hurt. You will\\neasily guess this set my humanity in tears\\nand my indignation in arms.\\nInhuman man! curse on thy barb rous\\nart.\\nAnd blasted be thy murder-aiming\\neye;\\nMay never pity sooth thee with a\\nsigh,\\nNor never pleasure glad thy cruel\\nheart!\\nGo live, poor wanderer of the wood\\nand field,\\nThe bitter little that of life remains!\\nNo more the thickening brakes and\\nverdant plains\\nTo thee shall home, or food, or pastime\\nyield.\\nSeek, mangled wretch, some place of\\nwonted rest.\\nNo more of rest, but now thy dying\\nbed!\\nThe sheltering rushes whistling o er\\nthy head,\\nThe cold earth with thy bloody bosom\\nprest.\\nPerhaps a mother s anguish adds its\\nwoe\\nThe playful pair crowd fondly by\\nthy side\\nAh, helpless nurslings, who will now\\nprovide\\nThat life a mother only can bestow\\nOft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait\\nThe sober eve, or hail the cheerful\\ndawn,\\nI 11 miss thee sporting o er the dewy\\nlawn.\\nAnd curse the ruffian s aim, and mourn\\nthy hapless fate.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0150.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE S PEREGRINATIONS.\\nADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF\\nTHOMSON,\\nON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM,\\nROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH A WREATH\\nOF BAYS.\\n[An imitation ot Collins. The poem was\\nwritten for Lord Buchan, on the occasion of\\ncrowning the bust of Thomson with a wreath\\nof bays.]\\nWhile virgin Spring by Eden s flood\\nUnfolds her tender mantle green,\\nOr pranks tlie sod in frolic mood,\\nOr tunes Eolian strains between\\nWhile Summer with a matron grace,\\nRetreats to Dryburgh s cooling\\nshade,\\nYet oft, delighted, stops to trace\\nThe progress ot the spikey blade\\nWhile Autumn, benefactor kind.\\nBy Tweed erects his aged head.\\nAnd sees, with self-approving mind,\\nEach creature on his bounty fed\\nWhile maniac Winter rages o er\\nThe hills whence classic Yarrow\\nflows.\\nRousing the turbid torrent s roar,\\nOr sweeping, wild, a waste of snows\\nSo long, sweet Poet of the year!\\nShall bloom that wreath thou well\\nhas won\\nWhile Scotia, with exulting tear.\\nProclaims that Thomson was her\\nson.\\nON THE LATE CAPTAIN\\nGROSE S PEREGRINATIONS\\nTHRO SCOTLAND,\\nCOLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES\\nTHAT KINGDOM.\\nOF\\n[Captain Grose was the son of Francis\\nGrose, a Swiss, who had settled in England.\\nHe was born about 1731, and was educated\\nas an artist. Cunningham says this fine,\\nfat, fodgel wight was a clever man, a skil-\\nful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine.\\nBurns first met him at the social board of\\nGlenriddell.]\\nI.\\nHear, Land o Cakes, and brither\\nScots\\nFrae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat s,\\nIf there s a hole in a your coats,\\nI rede you tent it\\nA chield s amang you takin notes.\\nAnd faith he 11 prent it\\nIf in your bounds ye chance to light\\nUpon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,\\nO stature short but genius bright,\\nThat s he, mark weel\\nAnd wow! he has an unco sleight\\nO cauk and keel.\\nIII.\\nBy some auld, houlet-haunted biggin.\\nOr kirk deserted by its riggin.\\nIt s ten to ane ye 11 find hirn snug in\\nSome eldritch part,\\nWi deils, they say. Lord safe s! col-\\nleaguin\\nAt some black art.\\nIlk ghaist that haunts auld ha or\\nchamer.\\nYe gipsy-gang that deal in glamour.\\nAnd you, deep-read in hell s black\\ngrammar,\\nWarlocks and witches", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0151.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "104\\nTO MISS CRUICKSHANK.\\nYe 11 quake at his conjuring hammer,\\nYe midnit^ht bitches!\\nIt s tauld he was a sod jer bred.\\nAnd anc wad rather la n than fled\\nBut now he s quat the spurtle-blade\\nAnd dog-skin wallet,\\nAnd taen the Anticjuarian trade,\\nI think they call it.\\nHe has a fouth o auld nick-nackets:\\nRusty airn caps and jinglin jackets\\nWad haud the Lothians three in\\ntackets\\nA towmont guid\\nAnd parritch-pats and auld saut-\\nbackets\\nBefore the Flood.\\nOf Eve s first fire he has a cinder\\nAuld Tubalcain s fire-shool and fen-\\nder\\nThat which distinguished the gender\\nO Balaam s ass\\nA broomstick o the witch of Endor,\\nWeel shod wi brass.\\nForbye, he 11 shape you afif fu gleg\\nThe cut of Adam s philibeg\\nThe knife that nicket Abel s craig\\nHe 11 prove you fully.\\nIt was a faulding jocteleg.\\nOr lang-kail gullie.\\nIX.\\nBut wad ye see him in his glee\\nFor meikle glee and fun has he\\nThen set him down, and twa or three\\nGuid fellows wi him\\nAnd port, O port shine thou a wee.\\nAnd then ye 11 see him\\nNow, by the Pow rs o verse and\\nprose\\nThou art a dainty chield, O f irose\\nWhae er o thee shall ill suppose,\\nThey sair misca thee\\nI d take the rascal by the nose.\\nWad say, Shame fa thee.\\nTO MISS CRUICKSHANK.\\nA VERY YOUNG LADY.\\nIVrittcn on the Blank Leaf of a Book, pre-\\nsetited to her by the Author-.\\n[Miss Jane Criiickshank was a daughter\\nof \\\\\\\\x. William Cruickshank, a master of\\nthe High School, Edinburgh, and was then\\nabout twelve years old.]\\nBeauteous Rosebud, young and gay,\\nBlooming on thy early May,\\nNever may st thou, lovely rlower,\\nChilly shrink in sleety shower\\nNever Boreas hoary- path.\\nNever Eurus pois nous breath.\\nNever baleful stellar lights.\\nTaint thee with untimely blights\\nNever, never reptile thief\\nRiot on thy virgin leaf!\\nNor even Sol too fiercely view\\nThy bosom blushing still with dew!\\nMay st thou long, sweet crimson\\ngem.\\nRichly deck thy native stem\\nTill some ev ning, sober, calm,\\nDropping dews and breathing balm\\nWhile all around the woodland rings,\\nAnd ev ry bird thy requiem sings.\\nThou, amid the dirgeful sound.\\nShed thy dying honours round.\\nAnd resign to parent Earth\\nThe loveliest form she e er gave birth.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0152.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "ANNA, THY CHARMS. HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 105\\nSONG: ANNA. THY CHARMS.\\n[This song referred to a sweetheart of\\nAlexander Cunningham, and was a vica-\\nrious effusion.\\nAnna, tliy charms my bosom fire,\\nAnd waste my soul with care\\nBut ah how bootless to admire\\nWhen fated to despair\\nYet in thy presence, lovely Fair,\\nTo hope may be forgiven\\nFor sure t were impious to despair\\nSo much in sight of Heaven.\\nON READING IN A NEWSPA-\\nPER THE DEATH OF JOHN\\nM LEOD, ESQ.,\\nbrother to a young lady, a\\nparticular friend of the\\nauthor s.\\n[Mr. M Leod was of the Raasay family.\\nHe died July 20, 1787.]\\nSad thy tale, thou idle page,\\nAnd rueful thy alarms\\nDeath tears the brother of her love\\nFrom Isabella s arms.\\nSweetly deckt with pearly dew\\nTlie morning rose may blow\\nBut cold successive noontide blasts\\nMay lay its beauties low.\\nFair on Isabella s morn\\nThe sun propitious smil d\\nBut, long ere noon, succeeding clouds\\nSucceeding hopes beguiPd.\\nFate oft tears the bosom-chords\\nThat Nature finest strung\\nSo Isabella s heart was form d.\\nAnd so that heart was wrung.\\nDread Omnipotence alone\\nCan heal the wound he gave\\nCan point the brimful, grief-worn eyes\\nTo scenes beyond the grave.\\nVirtue s blossoms there shall blow,\\nAnd fear nq withering blast\\nThere Isabella s spotless worth\\nShall happy be at last.\\nTHE HUMBLE PETITION OF\\nBRUAR WATER\\nTO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.\\nBruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly\\npicturesque and beautiful, but their effect is\\nmuch impaired by the want of trees and\\nshrubs. R. B.]\\nMy lord, I know, your noble ear\\nWoe ne er assails in vain\\nEmbolden d thus, I beg you 11 hear\\nYour humble slave complain.\\nHow saucy Phoebus scorching beams.\\nIn flaming summer-pride,\\nDry-withering, waste my foamy\\nstreams.\\nAnd drink my crystal tide.\\nThe lightly-jumping, glowrin trouts,\\nThat thro my waters play,\\nIf, in tlieir random, wanton spouts.\\nThey near the margin stray\\nIf, hapless chance! they linger lang,\\nI m scorching up so shallow.\\nThey re left the whitening stanes\\namang\\nIn gasping death to wallow.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0153.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "io6\\nTHE HUMBLE PETITION OF I .RUAR WATER.\\nIII.\\nLast day I iir-at vvi spite and teen,\\nAs Poet Bums came by,\\nThat, to a Bard, I should be seen\\nWi half my channel dry\\nA panegyric rhyme, I ween,\\nEv n as I was, he shor d me\\nBut had I in my glory been,\\nHe, kneeling, wad ador d me.\\nIV.\\nHere, foaming down the skeivy rocks,\\nIn twisting strength I rin\\nThere high my boiling torrent smokes,\\nWild-roaring o er a linn\\nEnjoying large each spring and well,\\nAs Nature gave them me,\\nI am, altho I say t mysel.\\nWorth gaun a mile to see.\\nWould, then, my noble master please\\nTo grant my highest wishes.\\nHe 11 shade my banks wi tow ring\\ntrees\\nAnd bonie spreading bushes.\\nDelighted doubly then, my lord,\\nYou 11 wander on my banks.\\nAnd listen monie a grateful bird\\nReturn you tuneful thanks.\\nThe sober laverock, warbling wild,\\nShall to the skies aspire\\nThe gowdspink. Music s gayest child.\\nShall sweetly join the choir\\nThe blackbird strong, the lintwhite\\nclear.\\nThe mavis mild and mellow,\\nThe robin, pensive Autumn cheer\\nIn all her locks of yellow.\\nVII.\\nThis, too, a covert shall ensure\\nTo shield tliem from tlie storm\\nAnd coward maukin sleep secure.\\nLow in her grassy form\\nHere shall the shepherd make his\\nseat\\nTo weave his crown of flow rs\\nOr find a shelt ring, safe retreat\\nFrom prone-descending show rs.\\nAnd here, by sweet, endearing stealth.\\nShall meet the loving pair.\\nDespising worlds with all their wealth.\\nAs empty idle care\\nThe flow rs shall vie, in all their\\ncharms,\\nThe hour of heav n to grace\\nAnd birks extend their fragrant arms\\nTo screen the dear embrace.\\nHere haply too, at vernal dawn.\\nSome musing Bard may stray.\\nAnd eye the smoking, dewy lawn\\nAnd misty mountain grey\\nOr, by the reaper s nightly beain,\\nIVIild-ciiequering thro the trees,\\nRave to my darkly dashing stream,\\nHoarse-swelling on the breeze.\\nLet lofty firs and ashes cool\\nMy lowly banks o ersjjread,\\nAnd view, deep-bending in the pool.\\nTheir shadows wat ry bed\\nLet fragrant birks. in woodbines drest.\\nMy craggy cliffs adorn.\\nAnd, for the little songster s nest,\\nThe close embow ring thorn\\nSo may, old Scotia s darling hope.\\nYour little angel band\\nSpring, like their fathers, up to prop\\nTheir honour d native land\\nSo may, thro Albion s farthest ken.\\nTo social-flowing glasses.\\nThe grace be Athole s honest men\\nAnd Athole s bonie lasses", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0154.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL. ADMIRING NATURE. 107\\nON SCARING SOME WATER-\\nFOWL IN LOCH TURIT,\\nA WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS\\nOF OUGHTERTYRE.\\nThis was the production of a solitary\\nforenoon s walk from Ouglitcrtyre House.\\nI lived there, the guest of Sir William\\nMurray, for two or three weeks [October,\\n1787J, and was much flattered by my hospi-\\ntable reception. R. B.]\\nWhy, ye tenants of the lake,\\nFor me your wat ry haunt forsake\\nTell me, fellow creatures, why\\nAt my presence thus you fly\\nWhy disturb your social joys,\\nParent, filial, kindred ties\\nCommon friend to you and me,\\nNature s gifts to all are free\\nPeaceful keep your dimpling wave.\\nBusy feed, or wanton lave\\nOr, beneath the sheltering rock.\\nBide the surging billow s shock.\\nConscious, blushing for our race.\\nSoon, too soon, your fears I trace.\\nMan, your proud, usurping foe,\\nWould be lord of all below\\nPlumes himself in freedom s pride.\\nTyrant stern to all beside.\\nThe eagle, from the cliffy brow\\nMarking you his prey below,\\nIn his breast no pity dwells,\\nStrong necessity compels\\nBut Man, to whom alone is giv n\\nA ray direct from pitying Heav n,\\nGlories in his heart humane\\nAnd creatures for his pleasure slain!\\nIn these savage, liquid plains.\\nOnly known to wand ring swains,\\nWhere the mossy riv let strays\\nFar from human haunts and ways.\\nAll on Nature you depend,\\nAnd life s poor season peaceful spend.\\nOr, if Man s superior might\\nDare invade your native right,\\nOn the lofty ether borne,\\nMan with all his powers you scorn\\nSwiftly seek, on clanging wings,\\nOther lakes, and other springs\\nAnd the foe you cannot brave,\\nScorn at least to be his slave.\\nVERSES WRITTEN WITH\\nA PENCIL\\nOVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE\\nPARLOUR OF THE INN AT KEN-\\nMORE, TAYMOUTH.\\n[Burns visited Taymouth Aug. 29, 1787.\\nIn regard to the poem, he says: I wrote\\nthis with a pencil over the chimney-piece in\\nthe parlor of the inn at Kenmore, at the\\noutlet of Loch Tay.\\nAdmiring Nature in her wildest grace,\\nThese northern scenes with weary feet\\nI trace\\nO er many a winding dale and painful\\nsteep,\\nTh abodes of covey d grouse and\\ntimid sheep.\\nMy savage journey, curious, I pursue.\\nTill fam d Breadalbane opens to my\\nview.\\nThe meeting cliffs each deep-sunk\\nglen divides\\nThe woods, wild-scatter d, clothe their\\nample sides\\nTh outstretching lake, imbosomed\\nmong the hills.\\nThe eye with wonder and amazement\\nfills\\nThe Tay meand ring sweet in infant\\npride.\\nThe palace rising on his verdant side,\\nThe lawns wood-fring d in Nature s\\nnative taste.\\nThe hillocks dropt in Nature s care-\\nless haste.\\nThe arches striding o er the new-born\\nstream,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0155.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "io8\\nON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CIHLD.\\nThe village glittering in the noontide\\nbeam\\nPoetic ardors in my bosom swell,\\nLone wandering by the hermit s mossy\\ncell;\\nThe sweeping theatre of hanging\\nwoods,\\nTh incessant roar of headlong tum-\\nbling floods\\nHere Poesy might wake her heav n-\\ntaught lyre.\\nAnd look through Nature with crea-\\ntive fire\\nHere, to the wrongs of Fate half\\nreconcil d,\\nMisfortune s lighten d steps might\\nwander wild\\nAnd Disappointment, in these lonely\\nbounds.\\nFind balm to soothe her bitter rank-\\nling wounds\\nHere heart-struck Grief might heav n-\\nward stretch her scan.\\nAnd injur d Worth forget and pardon\\nman.\\nLINES ON THE FALL OF\\nFYERS, NEAR LOCH NESS.\\nWRITTEN WITH A PENCIL ON THE\\nSPOT.\\nI composed these lines standing on the\\nbrink of the hideous caldron below the\\nwaterfall. (R. B.) He visited the Fall\\nof Fyers on Sept. 5, 1787.]\\nAmong the heathy hills and ragged\\nwoods\\nThe roaring Fyers pours his mossy\\nfloods\\nTill full he dashes on the rocky\\nmounds,\\nWhere, thro a shapeless breach, his\\nstream resounds.\\nAs high in air the bursting torrents\\nflow,\\nAs deep recoiling surges foam below.\\nProne down the rock the whitening\\nsheet descends,\\nAnd viewless Echo s ear, astonish d,\\nrends.\\nDim-seen through rising mists and\\nceaseless show rs,\\nThe hoary cavern, wide-surrounding,\\nlours\\nStill thro the gap the struggling river\\ntoils,\\nAnd still, below, the horrid caldron\\nboils\\nON THE BIRTH OF A POST-\\nHUMOUS CHILD,\\nBORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES\\nOF FAMILY DISTRESS.\\n[Composed in November, 1790, on re-\\nceiving a letter from Mrs. Dunlop announc-\\ning that her daughter, Mrs. Henri, whose\\nhusband had died about five months pre-\\nviously, had borne a son.]\\nSwEET flow ret, pledge o meikle love.\\nAnd ward o monie a prayer.\\nWhat heart o stane wad thou na\\nmove,\\nSae helpless, sweet, and fair\\nNovember hirples o er the lea.\\nChill, on thy lovely form\\nAnd gane, alas the shelt ring tree.\\nShould shield thee frae the storm.\\nMay He who gives the rain to pour,\\nAnd wings the blast to blaw.\\nProtect thee frae the driving show r,\\nThe bitter frost and snaw", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0156.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "THE WHISTLE.\\n109\\nMay He, the friend of Woe and Want,\\nWho heals life s various stounds.\\nProtect and guard the mother plant,\\nAnd heal her cruel wounds\\nBut late she flourished, rooted fast.\\nFair on the summer morn.\\nNow feebly bends she in the blast,\\nUnshelter d and forlorn.\\nBlest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,\\nUnscathed by ruffian hand\\nAnd from thee many a parent stem\\nArise to deck our land\\nTHE WHISTLE.\\nA Ballad.\\n[Professor Wilson says of The Whistle\\nIt is perhaps an improper poem in\\npriggish eyes, bul, in the eyes of Bacchus,\\nthe best of triumphal odes. Regarding the\\npoet s share in the transaction. Professor\\nWilson says, Burns, that evening, was\\nsitting with his eldest child on his knee,\\nteaching him to say Dad that night he\\nwas lying in his own bed, with bonie Jean\\nby his side, and yon bright god of day\\nsaluted him next morning at the scaur above\\nthe glittering Nith. For the prose history\\nof The Whistle, see NOTES.]\\nI.\\nI SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of\\nworth,\\nI sing of a Whistle, the pride of the\\nNorth,\\nWas brought to the court of our good\\nScottish King,\\nAnd long with this Whistle all Scot-\\nland shall ring.\\nII.\\nOld Loda, still rueing the arm of Fin-\\ngal,\\nThe God of the Bottle sends down\\nfrom his hall\\nThis Whistle s your challenge, to\\nScotland get o er,\\nAnd drink them to Hell, Sir or ne er\\nsee me more\\nOld poets have sung, and old chroni-\\ncles tell,\\nWhat champions ventur d, what\\nchampions fell\\nThe son of great Loda was conqueror\\nstill.\\nAnd blew on the Whistle their requiem\\nshrill.\\nTill Robert, the lord of the Cairn and\\nthe Scaur,\\nUnmatch d at the bottle, unconquer d\\nin war,\\nHe drank his poor god-ship as deep\\nas the sea\\nNo tide of the Baltic e er drunker\\nthan he.\\nThus Robert, victorious, the trophy\\nhas gain d\\nWhich now in his house has for ages\\nremain d\\nTill three noble chieftains, and all of\\nhis blood,\\nThe jovial contest again have re-\\nnew d.\\nThree joyous good fellows, with hearts\\nclear of flaw\\nCraigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth,\\nand law\\nAnd trusty Glen riddel, so skilled in\\nold coins\\nAnd gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in\\nold wines.\\nCraigdarroch began, with a tongue\\nsmooth as oil,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0157.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "no\\nTHE WHISTLE.\\nDesiring Glenriddel to yield up the\\nspoil\\nOr else he would muster the heads of\\nthe clan,\\nAnd once more, in claret, try which\\nwas the man.\\nBy the gods of the ancients Glen-\\nriddel replies,\\nBefore I surrender so glorious a prize,\\nI 11 conjure the ghost of the great\\nRorie More,\\nAnd bumper his horn with him\\ntwenty times o er.\\nSir Robert, a soldier, no speech\\nwould pretend.\\nBut he ne er turn d his back on his\\nfoe, or his friend\\nSaid Toss down the Whistle, the\\nprize of the field,\\nAnd, knee-deep in claret, he d die\\nere he d yield.\\nTo the board of Glenriddel our heroes\\nrepair,\\nSo noted for drowning of sorrow and\\ncare\\nBut for wine and for welcome not\\nmore known to fame\\nThan the sense, wit, and taste, of a\\nsweet lovely dame.\\nA Bard was selected to witness the\\nfray\\nAnd tell future ages the feats of the\\nday\\nA Bard who detested all sadness and\\nspleen\\nAnd wish d that Parnassus a vineyard\\nhad been.\\nXII.\\nThe dinner being over, the claret they\\nply.\\nAnd ev ry new cork is a new spring of\\njoy\\nIn the bands of old friendship and\\nkindred so set.\\nAnd the bands grew the tighter the\\nmore they were wet.\\nXIII.\\nGay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran\\no er;\\nBright Phoebus ne er witness d so joy-\\nous a core.\\nAnd vow d that to leave them he was\\nquite forlorn,\\nTill Cynthia hinted he d see them next\\nmorn.\\nXIV.\\nSix bottles a-piece had well wore out\\nthe night.\\nWhen gallant Sir Robert, to finish the\\nfight,\\nTurn d o er in one bumper a bottle of\\nred.\\nAnd swore twas the way that their\\nancestor did.\\nXV.\\nThen worthy Glenriddel, so cautious\\nand sage.\\nNo longer the warfare ungodly would\\nwage\\nA high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine!\\nHe left the foul business to folks less\\ndivine.\\nThe gallant Sir Robert fought hard to\\nthe end\\nIJut who can witli Fate and quart\\nbumpers contend?\\nThough Fate said, a hero should per-\\nisli in light\\nSo u]Mose bright Phoebus and down\\nfell the knisht.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0158.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nNext uprose our Bard, like a prophet\\nin drink\\nCraigdarroch, thou It soar when crea-\\ntion sliall sink\\nBut if thou would flourish immortal in\\nrhyme,\\nCome one bottle more and have\\nat the sublime\\nXVIII.\\nThy line, that have struggled for\\nfreedom with Bruce,\\nShall heroes and patriots ever pro-\\nduce\\nSo thine be the laurel, and mine be\\nthe bay\\nThe field thou hast won, by yon bright\\nGod of Day!\\nTHE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nA CANTATA.\\n[This poem was suggested to Burns by a\\nchance visit, in company with Richmond\\nand Smith, to the doss-house of Poosie\\nNansie, as Agnes Gibson was nicl named,\\nin the Cowgate, Mauchiine. The jollity of\\nthe vagrants amused the poet, and he com-\\nposed the yolly Beggars a few days after-\\nwards. Matthew Arnold calls it a puissant\\nand splendid production. See NOTES.]\\nRECITATIVO.\\nWhen lyart leaves bestrow the yird.\\nOr, wavering like the bauckie-bird,\\nBedim cauld Boreas blast\\nWhen hailstanes drive wi bitter skyte,\\nAnd infant frosts begin to bite,\\nIn hoary cranreuch drest\\nAe night at e en a merry core\\nO randie. gangrel bodies\\nIn Poosie-Nansie s held the splore,\\nTo drink their orra duddies\\nWi quaffing and laughing.\\nThey ranted an they sang,\\nWi jumping an thumping\\nThe vera girdle rang.\\nFirst, niest the fire, in auld red rags\\nAne sat, weel brac d wi mealy bags\\nAnd knapsack a in order;\\nHis doxy lay within his arm\\nWi usquebae an blankets warm,\\nShe blinket on her sodger.\\nAn ay he gies the tozie drab\\nThe tither skelpin kiss.\\nWhile she held up her greedy gab\\nJust like an aumous dish\\nIlk smack still did crack still\\nLike onie cadger s whup\\nThen, swaggering an staggering.\\nHe roarxl this ditty up\\nAIR.\\nT.UNE Soldier s Joy.\\nI am a son of Mars, who have been\\nin many wars.\\nAnd show my cuts and scars wher-\\never I come\\nThis here was for a wench, and that\\nother in a trench\\nWhen welcoming the French at the\\nsound of the drum.\\nLai de daudle, etc.\\nMy prenticeship I past, where my\\nleader breath d his last.\\nWhen the bloody die was cast on\\nthe heights of Abram\\nAnd I served out my trade when the\\ngallant game was play d.\\nAnd the Moro low was laid at the\\nsound of the drum.\\nI lastly was with Curtis among the\\nfloating batt ries.\\nAnd there I left for witness an arm\\nand a limb", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0159.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY beg(;ars.\\nYet let my country need me, with\\nNo wonder I m fond of a sodger\\nEliott to head me\\nladdie\\nI d clatter on my stumps at the\\nSing, lal de dal, etc.\\nsound of the drum.\\nII.\\nIV.\\nThe first of my loves was a swagger-\\nAnd now, tlio 1 must beg with a\\ning blade\\nwooden arm and leg\\nTo rattle the thundering dnmi was\\nAnd many a tatter d rag hanging\\nhis trade\\nover my bum,\\nHis leg was so tight, and his cheek\\nI m as happy with my wallet, my\\nwas so ruddy.\\nbottle, and my callet\\nTransported I was with my sodger\\nAs when I us d in scarlet to follow\\nladdie.\\na drum.\\nIII.\\nV.\\nBut the godly old chaplain left him\\nWhat tho with hoary locks I must\\nstand the winter shocks,\\nin tlie lurch\\nThe sword 1 forsook for the sake of\\nBeneath the woods and rocks often-\\nthe church\\ntimes for a home?\\nHe risked the soul, and I ventur d\\nWhen the tother bag I sell, and the\\nthe body\\ntother bottle tell.\\nT was then I prov d false to my\\nI could meet a troop of Hell at the\\nsodger laddie.\\nsound of a drum.\\nLai de daudle, etc.\\nIV.\\nFull soon I grew sick of my sanctified\\nRECITATIVO.\\nsot\\nThe retriment at large for a husband\\nHe ended and the kcbars sheuk\\nI got;\\nAboon the chorus roar\\nFrom the gilded spontoon to the fife\\nWhile frighted rattons backward leuk,\\nI was ready\\nAn seek the benmost bore\\nI asked no more but a sodger laddie.\\nA fairy fiddler frae the neuk,\\nHe skirPd out Encore I\\nV.\\nBut up arose the martial chuck,\\nBut the Peace it reduc d me to beg in\\nAn laid the loud uproar\\ndespair,\\nTill I met my old boy in a Cunning-\\nAIR.\\nham Fair\\nHis rags regimental they flutter d so\\nTune Sodgcr Laddie.\\ngaudy\\nMy heart it rejoic d at a sodger\\nI.\\nladdie.\\nI once was a maid, tho I cannot tell\\nVI.\\nwhen.\\nAnd still my delight is in proper\\nAnd now I have liv d I know not\\nyoung men.\\nhow long\\nSome one of a troop of dragoons was\\nBut still I can join in a cup and a\\nmy daddie\\nsong", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0160.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\n3\\nAnd whilst with both hands I can\\nhold the glass steady,\\nHere s to thee, my hero, my sodger\\nladdie\\nSing, lal de dal, etc.\\nRECITATIVO.\\nPoor Merry-Andrew in the neuk\\nSat guzzling wi a tinkler-hizzie\\nThey mind t na wha the chorus teuk,\\nBetween themselves they were sae\\nbusy.\\nAt length, wi drink an courting\\ndizzy,\\nHe stoiter d up an made a face\\nThen turn d an laid a smack on\\nGrizzle,\\nSyne tun d his pipes wi grave grim-\\nace\\nAIR.\\nTune: Auld Sir Symon.\\nI.\\nSir Wisdom s a fool when he s fou\\nSir Knave is a fool in a session\\nHe s there but a prentice I trow.\\nBut I am a fool by profession.\\nMy grannie she bought me a beuk,\\nAn I held awa to the school\\nI fear I my talent misteuk,\\nBut what will ye hae of a fool\\nIII.\\nFor drink I wad venture my neck\\nA hizzie s the half of my craft\\nBut what could ye other expect\\nOf ane that s avowedly daft\\nI ance was tyed up like a stirk\\nFor civilly swearing and quaffing\\nI ance was abus d i the kirk\\nFor tovvsing a lass i my daffin.\\nI\\nPoor Andrew that tumbles for sport\\nLet naebody name wi a jeer\\nThere s even, 1 m tauld, i the Court\\nA tumbler ca d the Premier.\\nVI.\\nObserv d ye yon reverend lad\\nMak faces to tickle the mob.^\\nHe rails at our mountebank squad\\nIt s rivalship just i the job!\\nVII.\\nAnd now my conclusion I 11 tell.\\nFor faith I m confoundedly dry\\nThe chiel that s a fool for himsel,\\nGuid Lord he s far dafter than L\\nRECITATIVO.\\nThen niest outspak a raucle carlin,\\nWha kent fu weel to cleek the sterlin,\\nFor monie a pursie she had hooked.\\nAn had in monie a well been douked.\\nHer love had been a Highland laddie.\\nBut weary fa the waefu woodie\\nWi sighs an sobs she thus began\\nTo wail her braw John Highland-\\nman\\nAIR.\\nTune O, An Ye Were Dead, Guidman.\\nA Highland lad my love was born,\\nThe lalland laws he held in scorn,\\nBut he still was faithfu to his clan,\\nMy gallant, braw John Highlandman.\\nC /writs.\\nSing hey my braw John Highlandman\\nSing ho my braw John Highlandman!\\nThere s not a lad in a the Ian\\nWas match for my John Highlandman!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0161.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "114\\nTHE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nWith his philibeg, an tartan plaid,\\nAn guid claymore down by his side,\\nThe hulies hearts he did trepan.\\nMy gallant, braw John Highlandman.\\nWe rang d a from Tweed to Spey,\\nAn liv d like lords an ladies gay,\\nFor a lalland face he feared none.\\nMy gallant, braw John Highlandman.\\nIV.\\nTliey banish d him beyond the sea,\\nBut ere the bud was on the tree,\\nAdown my cheeks the pearls ran.\\nEmbracing my John Highlandman.\\nBut, Och! they catch d him at the last,\\nAnd bound him in a dungeon fast.\\nMy curse upon them every one\\nThey ve hang d my braw John High-\\nlandman\\nVI.\\nAnd now a widow I must mourn\\nThe pleasures that will ne er return\\nNo comfort but a hearty can\\nWhen I think on John Highlandman.\\nChorus.\\nSing hey my braw John Highlandman!\\nSing ho my braw John Highlandman!\\nThere s not a lad in a the Ian\\nWas match for my John Highlandman\\nRECITATIVO.\\nI.\\nA pigmy scraper on a fiddle,\\nWha us d to trystes an fairs to drid-\\ndle.\\nHer strappin limb an gawsie middle\\n(He reach d nae higher)\\nHad hol d his heartie like a riddle.\\nAn blawn t on fire.\\nWi hand on hainch and upward e e,\\nHe croon d his gamut, one, two, three,\\nThen in an arioso key\\nThe wee Apollo\\nSet off wi alki^rctto glee\\nHis ^4 solo:\\nAIR.\\nTune: Whistle Oivre the Lave O t.\\nI.\\nLet me ryke up to dight that tear\\nAn go wi me an be my dear.\\nAn then your every care an fear\\nMay whistle owre the lave o t.\\nChorus.\\nI am a fiddler to my trade.\\nAn a the tunes that e er I play d,\\nThe sweetest still to wife or maid\\nWas Whistle Owre the Lave O\\nAt kirns an weddins we se be there,\\nAn O, sae nicely s we will fare\\nWe ll bowse about till Daddie Care\\nSing Whistle Owre the Lave O t.\\nin.\\nSae merrily the banes we 11 pyke,\\nAn sun oursels about the dyke\\nAn at our leisure, when ye like.\\nWe ll whistle owre the lave o t!\\nIV.\\nBut bless me wi your heav n o charms,\\nAn while I kittle hair on thairms.\\nHunger, cauld, an a sic harms\\nMay whistle owre the lave o t.\\nChorus.\\nI am a fiddler to my trade.\\nAn a the tunes that e er I ])lay d,\\nTlie sweetest still to wife or maid\\nWas Whist k O^vre the Lave O t.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0162.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nS\\nRECITATIVO.\\nHer charms had struck a sturdy caird\\nAs weel as poor gut-scraper\\nHe taks the fiddlei by the beard,\\nAn ch aws a roosty rapier\\nHe swoor by a was swearing worth\\nTo speet him like a pliver,\\nUnless he would from that time forth\\nRelinquish her for ever.\\nWi ghastly e e poor Tweedle-Dee\\nUpon his hunkers bended.\\nAn pray d for grace wi ruefu face,\\nAn sae the quarrel ended.\\nBut tho his little heart did grieve\\nWhen round the tinkler prest her,\\nHe feign d to snirtle in his sleeve\\nWhen thus the caird address d\\nher\\nAIR.\\nTune Clout the Cauldron.\\nMy bonie lass, I work in brass,\\nA tinkler is my station\\nI ve travelPd round all Christian\\nground\\nIn this my occupation;\\nI ve taen the gold, an been enrolled\\nIn many a noble squadron\\nBut vain they search d when off I\\nmarch d\\nTo \u00c2\u00a30 an clout the cauldron.\\nDespise that shrimp, that wither d\\nimp,\\nWitli a his noise an cap rin,\\nAn take a share wi those that bear\\nThe budget and the apron\\nAnd by that stowp, my faith an\\nhoupe\\nAnd by that dear Kill^aigie\\nIf e er ye want, or meet wi scant,\\nMay I ne er weet my craigie!\\nRECITATIVO.\\n1.\\nThe caird prevailed th unblushing\\nfair\\nIn his embraces sunk,\\nPartly wi love o ercome sae sair.\\nAn partly she was drunk.\\nSir Violino, with an air\\nThat show d a man o spunk.\\nWished unison between the pair,\\nAn made the bottle clunk\\nTo their health that night.\\nBut hurchin Cupid shot a shaft.\\nThat play d a dame a shavie\\nThe fiddler rak cl her fore and aft\\nBehint the chicken cavie\\nHer lord, a wight of Homer s craft,\\nTho limpin wi the spavie,\\nHe hirpl d up, an lap like daft.\\nAn shor d them Dainty Davie\\nO boot that night.\\nHe was a care-defying blade\\nAs ever Bacchus listed\\nTho Fortune sair upon him laid,\\nHis heart, she ever miss d it.\\nHe had no wish but to be glad,\\nNor want but when he thristed.\\nHe hated nought but to be sad\\nAn thus the Muse suggested\\nHis sang that night.\\nAIR.\\nTune: For A That An A That.\\nI am a Bard, of no regard\\nWi gentle folks an a that,\\nBut Homer-like the glowrin byke,\\nFrae town to town I draw that.\\nClun tts.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nAn twice as muckle s a that,\\nI ve lost but ane, I ve twa behin\\nI ve wife eneugh for a that.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0163.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "ii6\\nTHE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nI never drank the Muses stank,\\nCastalia s burn, an a that\\nBut there it streams, an richly reams\\nMy Helicon I ca that.\\nGreat love I bear to a the fair,\\nTheir humble slave an a that\\nBut lordly will, I hold it still\\nA mortal sin to thravv that.\\nIn raptures sweet this hour we meet\\nWi mutual love an a that\\nBut for how lang the file may stang,\\nLet inclination law that\\nTheir tricks an craft hae put me daft,\\nThey ve taen me in, an a that\\nBut clear your decks, an here s the\\nSex!\\nI like the jads for a that.\\nChorus.\\nFor a that, an a that,\\nAn twice as muckle s a that,\\nMy dearest bluid, to do them guid.\\nThey re welcome till t for a that\\nRECITATIVO.\\nSo sung the Bard, and Nansie s wa s\\nShook with a thunder of applause,\\nRe-echo d from each mouth!\\nThey toom d their jDocks, they pawn d\\ntheir duds,\\nThey scarcely left to coor their fuds,\\nTo quench their lowin drouth.\\nThen owre again the jovial thrang\\nThe Poet did request\\nTo lowse his pack, an wale a sang,\\nA ballad o the best\\nHe rising, rejoicing\\nBetween his twa Deboralis,\\nLooks round liim. an found them\\nImpatient for the chorus\\nAIR.\\nTune Jolly Mortals, Fill Your Glasses.\\nI.\\nSee the smoking bowl before us!\\nMark our jovial, ragged ring!\\nRound and round take up the chorus,\\nAnd in raptures let us sing\\nChorus.\\nA fig for those by law protected\\nLiberty s a glorious feast,\\nCourts for cowards were erected,\\nChurches built to please the priest!\\nWhat is title, what is treasure,\\nWhat is reputation s care?\\nIf we lead a life of pleasure,\\nT is no matter how or where!\\nWith the ready trick and fable\\nRound we wander all the day;\\nAnd at night in barn or stable\\nHug our doxies on the hay.\\nDoes the train-attended carriage\\nThro the country lighter rove?\\nDoes the sober bed of marriage\\nWitness brighter scenes of love?\\nLife is all a variorum.\\nWe regard not how it goes\\nLet them prate about decorum,\\nWho have character to lose.\\nHere s to budgets, bags, and wallets!\\nHere s to all the wandering train!\\nHere s our ragged brats and callets\\nOne and all, cry out. Amen\\nCliorus.\\nA fig for those by law protected!\\nLiberty s a glorious feast.\\nCourts for cowards were erected.\\nChurches built to please the priest!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0164.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "THE TWA HERDS: OR, THE HOLY TULYIE.\\n117\\nSATIRES AND VERSES.\\nTHE TWA HERDS: OR, THE\\nHOLY TULYIE.\\nAN UNCO MOURNFU TALE.\\nBlockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,\\nBut fool with fool is barbarous civil zvar.\\nPope.\\nThis is one of the earliest of Burns s\\npriest-skelping turns. The ferment of pop-\\nular hatred of John Knox (sometimes ex-\\npressed orally in his lifetime) at last informs\\na Scotch poem. Burns says, With a cer-\\ntain description of the clergy as well as\\nlaity, it met with a roar of applause. He\\ndid not publish it. The herds were\\nMr. Moodie (of Riccarton) and Mr. John\\nRussell (of Kilmarnock). The quarrel was\\nabout parish boundaries. The right of the\\nbrutes to choose their herds ought to\\nhave commended itself to a democrat but\\nBurns s politics were never consistent, and\\nthe New Lights were his personal friends.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\n~0 a ye pious godly flocks,\\nWeel fed on pastures orthodox,\\nWha now will keep you frae the fox\\nOr worrying tykes?\\nOr wha will tent the waifs an crocks\\nAbout the dykes\\nII.\\nThe twa best herds in a the wast,\\nThat e er gae gospel horn a blast\\nThese five an twenty simmers past\\nO, dool to tell\\nHae had a bitter, black out-cast\\nAtween themsel.\\nO Moodie. man, an wordy Russell,\\nHow could you raise so vile a bustle\\nYe 11 see how New Light herds will\\nwhistle,\\nAn think it fine!\\nThe Lord s cause gat na sic a twistle\\nSill 1 hae min\\nO Sirs whae er wad hae expeckit\\nYour duty ye wad sae negleckit\\nYe wha were no by lairds respeckit\\nTo wear the plaid,\\nBut by the brutes themselves eleckit\\nTo be their euide\\nWhat flock wi Moodie s flock could\\nrank,\\nSae hale an hearty every shank?\\nNae poison d, soor Arminian stank\\nHe let them taste\\nBut Calvin s fountainhead they\\ndrank\\nO, sic a feast\\nThe thummart, wilcat, brock, an tod\\nWeel ken his voice thro a the wood\\nHe smeird their ilka hole an road,\\nBaith out and in\\nAn weel he lik d to shed their bluid\\nAn sell their skin.\\nWhat herd like Russell tell d his\\ntale\\nHis voice was heard thro muir and\\ndale\\nHe kend the Lord s sheep, ilka tail.\\nO er a the height\\nAn tell d gin they were sick or hale\\nAt the first sight.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0165.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "ii8\\nTHE TWA HERDS: OR, THE IIOl.V lULYIE.\\nHe fine a mangy sheep could scrub\\nOr nobly swing the gospel club\\nOr New-Light herds could nicely\\ndrub\\nAnd pay their skin\\nOr hing them o er the burning dub\\nOr heave them in.\\nSic tvva O, do I live to see t\\nSic famous twa sud disagree t,\\nAn names like villain, hypocrite,\\nIlk ither gi en,\\nWhile New-Light herds wi laughin\\nspite\\nSay neither s liein!\\nA ye wha tent the gospel fauld,\\nThee Duncan deep, an Peebles shaul\\nBut chiefly great apostle Auld,\\nWe trust in thee,\\nThat thou wilt work them hot an\\ncauld\\nTill they agree\\nConsider, sirs, how we re beset\\nThere s scarce a new herd that we\\nget\\nBut comes frae mang that cursed set\\nI winna name\\nI hope frae heav n to see them yet\\nIn fiery flame\\nxn.\\nDalrymple has been lang our fae,\\nM Gill has wrought us nieikle wae.\\nAn that curs d rascal ca d M Ouhae,\\nAn baith the Shaws,\\nThat aft hae made us black an blae\\nWi vengefu j)a\\\\vs.\\nAuld Wodrow lang has hatch d mis-\\nchief:\\nWe thought ay death wad bring re-\\nlief,\\nBut he has gotten to our grief\\nAne to succeed him,\\nA chield wha 11 soundly buff our\\nbeef\\nI meiklc dread him.\\nXIV.\\nAn monie mae that I could tell,\\nWha fain would openly rebel,\\nForby turn-coats amang oursel\\nThere s Smith for ane\\nI doubt he s but a greyneck still,\\nAn that ye 11 fin\\nXV.\\nO a ye flocks o er a the hills,\\nBy mosses, meadows, moors, an fells,\\nCome, join your counsel and your\\nskills\\nTo cowe the lairds.\\nAn get the brutes the power themsels\\nTo chuse their herds\\nThen Orthodoxy yet may prance,\\nAn Learning in a \\\\voody dance.\\nAn that fell cur ca d Common-sense,\\nThat bites sae sair,\\nBe banish d o er the sea to France\\nLet him bark there\\nxvn.\\nThen Shaw s an D rymple s elo-\\nquence,\\nM Giirs close, nervous excellence,\\nM Ouhae s pathetic, manly sense,\\nAn guid M AIath\\nWha thro the heart can brawly glance,\\nMay a pack aff!", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0166.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "HOLY WILLIE S PRAYER.\\n119\\nHOLY WILLIE S PRAYER.\\nAnd scud the godly in a pet to pray.\\nPUl E.\\nThis attack on Calvinism dates be-\\ntween August, 1784, wlien Hamilton was\\nthreatened willi a form of excommunica-\\ntion, and July, 1785, when the case ended\\n(Scott Douglas). The Presbytery of Ayr\\nfreed him Irom ecclesiastical censure tor\\nthe time. Later he was accused of having\\npotatoes dug on Sunday. His own servants\\nwere brought as witnesses against him\\nBurns, naturally, never included the poem\\namong his works. Willie was William\\nFisher, an Elder in Mauchline. M. Angel-\\nlier discovered that he was employed as a\\nPresbyterian Inquisitor on Jean Armour s\\ncase. If he died in a ditcli, after a debauch,\\nas is said, Burns, too, is said, shortly before\\nhis death, to have fallen asleep on the\\nsnow, on his way home from a tavern\\ndinner (Lockhart). There is a similar\\nstory in the Legend of Shakspeare.\\nThe Mss. and printed copies differ in\\nmany places from each other. The com-\\nmon text is that of Stewart s editions. The\\nsixth verse first appears in that of 1802.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nO Thou that in the heavens does\\ndwell,\\nWha, as it pleases best Thysel,\\nSends ane to Heaven an ten to Hell\\nA for Thy glory,\\nAnd no for onie guid or ill\\nThey ve done before Thee!\\nI bless and praise Thy matchless\\nmight,\\nWhen thousands Thou hast left in\\nnight,\\nThat I am here before Thy sight,\\nFor gifts an grace\\nA burning and a shining light\\nTo a this place.\\nWhat was I, or my generation,\\nThat I should get sic exaltation\\nI, wha deserv d most just damnation\\nFor broken laws\\nSax thousand years ere my creation.\\nThro Adam s cause\\nWhen from iny mither s womb I fell,\\nThou might hae plung d me deep in\\nhell\\nTo gnash my gooms, and weep, and\\nwail\\nIn burning lakes,\\nWhare damned devils roar and yell,\\nChain d to their stakes.\\nYet I am here, a chosen sample,\\nTo show Thy grace is great and\\nample\\nI m here a pillar o Thy temple.\\nStrong as a rock,\\nA guide, a buckler, and example\\nTo a Thy flock!\\nBut yet, O Lord! confess I must:\\nAt times 1 m fash d wi fleshly lust\\nAn sometimes, too, in warldly trust.\\nVile self gets in\\nBut Thou remembers we are dust.\\nDefiled wi sin.\\nO Lord yestreen, Thou kens, wi\\nMeg\\nThy pardon I sincerely beg^\\nO, may t ne er be a living plague\\nTo my dishonour!\\nAn I 11 ne er lift a lawless leg\\nAgain upon her.\\nBesides, I farther maun avow\\nWi Leezie s lass, three times, I trow-", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0167.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "THE KIRK S ALARM.\\nBut, Lord, that Friday I was fou.\\nWhen I cam near her.\\nOr else, Thou kens, Thy servant true\\nWad never steer her.\\nMaybe thou lets this fleshly thorn\\nBuffet thy servant e^en and morn.\\nLest he ovvre proud and high should\\nturn\\nThat he s sae gifted\\nIf sae, Thy han maun e en be borne\\nUntil Thou lift it.\\nLord, bless Thy chosen in this place,\\nFor here Thou has a chosen race!\\nBut God confound their stubborn face\\nAn blast their name,\\nWha bring Thy elders to disgrace\\nAn open shame!\\nLord, mind Gau n Hamilton s deserts\\nHe drinks, an swears, an plays at\\ncartes,\\nYet has sae monie takin arts\\nWi great and sma\\nFrae God s ain Priest the people s\\nhearts\\nHe steals awa.\\nXII.\\nAnd when we chasten d him therefore,\\nThou kens how he bred sic a splore,\\nAnd set the warld in a roar\\nO laugh in at us\\nCurse Thou his basket and his store.\\nKail an potatoes!\\nXIII.\\nLord, hear my earnest cry and pray r\\nAgainst that Presbyt ry of Ayr!\\nThy strong right hand, Lord, mak it\\nbare\\nUpo their heads!\\nLord, visit them, an dinna spare,\\nFor their misdeeds!\\nO Lord, my God! that glib-tongu d\\nAiken,\\nMy vera heart and flesh are quakin\\nTo think how we stood sweatin,\\nshakin.\\nAn pish d wi dread,\\nWhile he, wi hingin lip an snakin,\\nHeld up his head.\\nLord, in Thy day o vengeance try him\\nLord, visit him wha did employ him!\\nAnd pass not in Thy mercy by them.\\nNor hear their pray r.\\nBut for Thy people s sake destroy them,\\nAn dinna spare\\nXVI.\\nBut, Lord, remember me and mine\\nWi mercies temporal and divine,\\nThat I for grace an gear may shine\\nExcell d by nane\\nAnd a the glory shall be Thine\\nAmen, Amen!\\nTHE KIRK S ALARM.\\n[The occasion of this satire was the pub-\\nlication of an essay on The Death of Jesus\\nChrist, by Dr. William M Gill, one of the\\nministers of Ayr. A complaint against the\\nessay, as being heterodox, was presented on\\nApril 15 to the Synod of Glasgow and Ayr.\\nTlie synod referred the case to the I res-\\nbytery of Ayr. The matter was finally\\ncompromised by M Gill s offering an ex-\\nplanation and apology, which the synod ac-\\ncepted. M Gill died March 30, 1807.]\\nOrthodox! orthodox!\\nWha believe in John Knox\\nLet me sound an alarm to your con-\\nscience\\nA heretic blast\\nHas been blawn i the Wast,", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0168.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "THE KIRK S ALARM.\\nThat what is not sense must be non-\\nsense\\nOrthodox!\\nThat what is not sense must be non-\\nsense.\\nII.\\nDr. Mac! Dr. Mac!\\nYou should stretch on a rack.\\nTo striice wicked Writers wi terror\\nTo join faith and sense,\\nUpon onie pretence,\\nWas heretic, damnable error\\nDr. Mac!\\nTwas heretic, damnable error.\\nTown of Ayr Town of Ayr\\nIt was rash, I declare,\\nTo meddle wi mischief a-brewing\\nProvost John is still deaf\\nTo the church s relief,\\nAnd Orator Bob is its ruin\\nTown of Ayr\\nAnd Orator Bob is its ruin.\\nD rymple mild Drymple mild\\nTho your heart s like a child,\\nAn your life like the new-driven\\nsnaw,\\nYet that winna save ye\\nAuld Satan must have ye,\\nFor preaching that three s ane and\\ntwa\\nD rymple mild\\nFor preaching that three s ane and\\ntwa.\\nCalvin s sons! Calvin s sons!\\nSeize your sp ritual guns.\\nAmmunition you never can need\\nYour hearts are the stuft\\nWill be powther enough.\\nAnd your skulls are store-houses o\\nlead\\nCalvin s sons!\\nYour skulls are store-houses o lead.\\nRumble John! Rumble John!\\nMount the steps with a groan,\\nCry The book is wi heresy\\ncramm d\\nThen lug out your ladle.\\nDeal brimstone like adie.\\nAnd roar every note o the damn d\\nRumble John!\\nAnd roar every note o the damn d.\\nSimper James! Simper James!\\nLeave the fair Killie dames\\nThere s a holier chase in your view:\\nI 11 lay on your head\\nThat the pack ye 11 soon lead.\\nFor puppies like you there s but\\nfew\\nSimper James!\\nFor puppies like you there s but\\nfew.\\nSinget Sawnie! Singet Sawnie!\\nAre ye herding the penny.\\nUnconscious what evils await?\\nWi a jump, yell, and howl\\nAlarm every soul,\\nFor the Foul Thief is just at your\\ngate\\nSinget Sawnie\\nThe Foul Thief is just at your gate.\\nDaddie Auld Daddie Auld\\nThere s a tod in the fauld,\\nA tod meikle waur than the clerk\\nTho ye can do little skaith,\\nYe 11 be in at the death,\\nAnd gif ye canna bite, ve may bark\\nDaddie Auld\\nFor gif ye canna bite ye may bark.\\nDavie Rant! Davie Rant!\\nIn a face like a saunt", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0169.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "122\\nTHE KIRK S ALARM.\\nAnd a heart that would poison a hog,\\nRaise an impudent roar,\\nLike a breaker lec-shore.\\nOr the Kirk will he tint in a bog\\nDavie Kant\\nOr the Kirk will be tint in a bog.\\nJamie Goose Jamie Goose\\nYe hae made but toom roose\\nIn hunting the wicked lieutenant;\\nBut the Doctor s your mark,\\nFor the Lord s haly ark.\\nHe has coopered, and ca d a wrang\\npin in t\\nJamie Goose!\\nHe has cooper d and ca d a wrang\\npin in t.\\nPoet Willie! Poet Willie\\nGie the Doctor a volley,\\nWi your Liberty s chain and your\\nwit\\nO er Pegasus side\\nYe ne er laid a stride.\\nYe but smelt, man, the place where\\nhe shit\\nPoet Willie\\nYe smelt but the place where he\\nshit.\\nAndro Gowk Andro Gowk\\nYe may slander the Book,\\nAnd the Book not the waur, let me\\ntell ye\\nYe are rich, and look big.\\nBut lay by hat and wig,\\nAnd ye 11 hae a calf s head o sma\\nvalue\\nAndro Gowk\\nYe 11 hae a calf s head o sma value.\\nBarr Steenie! Barr Steenie!\\nWhat mean ye? what mean ye?\\nIf ye 11 meddle nae mair wi the\\nmatter,\\nYe may hae some pretence\\nTo havins and sense\\nWi people wha ken ye nae better\\nBarr Steenie!\\nWi people wha ken ye nae better.\\nXV.\\nIrvine-side Irvine-side!\\nWi your tiukey-cock pride.\\nOf manhood but sma is your share\\nYe ve the figure, t is true,\\nEven your faes will allow,\\nAnd your friends daurna say ye hae\\nmair\\nIrvine-side\\nYour friends daurna say ye hae mair.\\nMuirland Jock Muirland Jock\\nWhom the Lord gave a stock\\nWad set up a tinkler in brass,\\nIf ill manners were wit.\\nThere s no mortal so fit\\nTo prove the poor Doctor an ass\\nMuirland Jock!\\nTo prove the poor Doctor an ass.\\nXVII.\\nHoly Will Holy Will\\nThere was wit i your skull.\\nWhen ye pilfer d the alms o the\\npoor:\\nThe timmer is scant,\\nWhen ye re taen for a saunt\\nWha should swing in a rape for an\\nhour\\nHoly Will!\\nYe should swing in a rape for an hour.\\nXVIII.\\nPoet Burns Poet Burns\\nWi your priest-skelping turns.\\nWhy desert ye yourauld native shire?\\nYour Muse is a gipsy,\\nYet were she ev n tipsy.\\nShe could ca us nae waur than we\\nare\\nPoet Burns\\nYe could ca us nae waur than we are.", "height": "3117", "width": "1927", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0170.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "A POET S WELCOME TO IIIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER. 123\\nPostscripts\\nAfton s Laird Afton s Laird\\nWlien your pen can be spared,\\nA copy of this I bequeath,\\nOn the same sicker score\\nAs I mentioned before,\\nTo that trusty auld worthy, Clack-\\nleith\\nAfton s Laird!\\nTo that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.\\nFactor John Factor John\\nWhom the Lord made alone.\\nAnd ne er made another thy peer.\\nThy poor servant, the Bard,\\nIn respectful regard\\nHe presents thee this token sincere\\nFactor John\\nHe presents thee this token sincere.\\nA POET S WELCOME TO HIS\\nLOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER.\\nTHE FIRST INSTANCE THAT ENTITLED\\nHIM TO THE VENERABLE APPELLA-\\nTION OF FATHER.\\n[The wean of this generous and de-\\nlightful Address was the poet s daughter\\nElizabeth, by Elizabeth Palon, for some\\ntime a servant at Lochlie. The child was\\nborn in November, 1784. She was brought\\nbv ^ler father to Mossgiel. She married\\nJohn Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, and\\ndied 8th January, 1817, leaving several\\nchildren.]\\nThou s welcome, wean! Mishanter\\nfa me.\\nIf thoughts o thee or yet thy mammie\\nShall ever daunton me or awe me,\\nMy sweet, wee lady.\\nOr if I blush when thou shalt ca me\\nTyta or daddie\\nWhat tho they ca me fornicator.\\nAn tease my name in kintra clatter?\\nThe mair they talk, I m kend the\\nbetter\\nE en let them clash\\nAn auld wife s tongue s a feckless\\nmatter\\nTo gie ane fash.\\nWelcome, my bonie. sweet, wee doch-\\nter\\nThe ye come here a wee unsought\\nfor,\\nAnd tho your comin I hae fought for\\nBaith kirk and queir\\nYet, by my faith, ye re no unwrought\\nfor\\nThat I shall swear I\\nSweet fruit o monie a merry dint,\\nMy funny toil is no a tint\\nTho thou cam to the warl asklent.\\nWhich fools may scoff at,\\nIn my last plack thy part s be in t\\nThe better half o t.\\nTho I should be the waur bestead,\\nThou s be as braw and bienly clad,\\nAnd thy young years as nicely bred\\nWi education.\\nAs onie brat o wedlock s bed\\nIn a thy station.\\nWee image o my bonie Betty,\\nAs fatherly I kiss and daut thee.\\nAs dear and near my heart I set\\nthee,\\nWi as guid will.\\nAs a the priests had seen me get\\nthee\\nThat s out o Hell.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0171.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "124\\nTHE INVENTORY.\\nGude grant that thou may ay inherit\\nThy mither s looks an gracefu merit,\\nAn thy poor, wortliless daddie s spirit\\nWithout his failins!\\nT will please me mair to see thee\\nheir it\\nThan stocket mailins.\\nAnd if thou be what I wad hae thee,\\nAn tak the counsel I shall gie thee,\\n1 11 never rue my trouble wi thee\\nThe cost nor shame o t\\nBut be a loving father to thee,\\nAnd brag the name o t.\\nTHE INVENTORY.\\nIN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE\\nSURVEYOR OF TAXES.\\n[The Inventory was addressed to Mr.\\nRobert Aiken, of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for\\nthe district.]\\nSir, as your mandate did request,\\nI send you here a faithfu list\\nO guids and gear an a my graith,\\nTo which I m clear to gie my aith.\\nIfnpri/nts, then, for carriage cat-\\ntle\\nI hae four brutes o gallant mettle\\nAs ever drew before a pettle\\nMy lan -afore s a guid auld has\\nbeen,\\nAn wight an wilfu a his days\\nbeen.\\nMy lan -ahin s a weel-gaun fiUie.\\nThat aft has borne me hame frae\\nKillie,\\nAn your auld borough monie a time\\nIn days when riding was nae crime.\\n(Hut ance, wlien in my wooing pride\\nI, like a blockhead, boost to ride,\\nThe wilfu creature sae I pat to\\nLord, pardon a my sins, an that\\ntoo!\\nI play d my fillie sic a shavie,\\nSlie s a l)edevird wi the spavie.)\\nMy fur-ahin s a wordy beast\\nAs e er in tug or tow was traced.\\nThe fourth s a Highland Donald\\nhastie,\\nA damn d red-wud Kilburnie blastie!\\nForeby, a cowte, o cowtes the wale.\\nAs ever ran afore a tail\\nIf he be spar d to be a beast.\\nHe 11 draw me fifteen pund at least.\\nWheel-carriages I hae but few\\nThree carts, an twa are feckly new\\nAn auld wheelbarrow mair for\\ntoken,\\nAe leg an baith the trams are\\nbroken\\nI made a poker o the spin le.\\nAn my auld mither brunt the trin Ie.\\nFor tnen, I ve three mischievous\\nboys,\\nRun-deils for fechtin an for noise\\nA gaudsman ane, a thrasher t other,\\nWee Davoc bauds the nowte in\\nfother.\\nI rule them, as I ought, discreetly,\\nAn aften labour them completely;\\nAn ay on Sundays duly, nightly,\\nI on the Questions tairge them\\ntightly\\nTill, faith! wee Davoc s grown sae\\ngleg,\\nTho scarcely langer than your leg,\\nHe 11 screed you aff Effectual Call-\\nAs fast as onie in the dwalling.\\nI ve nane in female servan station\\n(Lord keep me ay frae a tempta-\\ntion!)\\nI hae nae wife and that my bliss\\nis\\nAn ye hae laid nae tax on misses\\nAn then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,\\nI ken the deevils darena touch me.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0172.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "A MAUCHLINE WEDDING.\\n125\\nWi weans I m mair than weel con-\\ntented\\nHeav n sent me ane mair than I\\nwanted\\nMy sonsie, smirking, dear-bought\\nBess,\\nShe stares the daddie in her face,\\nEnougli of ought ye like but grace\\nBut her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,\\nI Ve paid enough for her already\\nAn gin ye tax her or her mither,\\nBy the Lord, ye se get them a the-\\ngither\\nBut pray, remember, Mr. Aiken,\\nNae kind of licence out I m takin\\nFrae this time forth, I do declare\\nI \\\\se ne er ride horse nor hizzie mair\\nThro dirt and dub for life I 11 paidle.\\nEre I sae dear pay for a saddle\\nI ve sturdy stumps, the Lord be\\nthankit,\\nAnd a my gates on foot I 11 shank it.\\nThe Kirk and you may tak you that.\\nIt puts but little in your pat\\nSae dinna put me in your beuk.\\nNor for my ten white shillings leuk.\\nThis list, \\\\vi my ain hand I ve\\nwrote it,\\nThe day and date as under notit\\nThen know all ye whom it concerns,\\nSiibscripsi hitic, Robert Burns.\\nA MAUCHLINE WEDDING.\\n[This good-natured squib was enclosed\\nin a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 21, 1788,\\nand was published for the first time in the\\nCentenary Burns, from the Lochrvan\\nMSS.]\\nWhen Eighty-five was seven months\\nauld\\nAnd wearing thro the aught,\\nWlien rolling rains and Boreas bauld\\nGied farmer-folks a faught\\nAe morning quondam Mason W\\nNow Merchant Master Miller,\\nGaed down to meet wi Nansie B\\nAnd her Jainaica siller\\nTo wed, that day.\\nThe rising sun o er Blacksideen\\nWas just appearing fairly.\\nWhen Nell and Bess got up to dress\\nSeven lang half-hours o er early!\\nNow presses clmk. and drawers jink.\\nFor linens and for laces\\nBut modest Muses only think\\nWhat ladies underdress is\\nOn sic a day!\\nBut we 11 suppose the stays are lac d.\\nAnd bonie bosoms steekit,\\nTho thro the lawn but guess the\\nrest\\nAn angel scarce durst keek it.\\nThen stockins fine o silken twine\\nWi cannie care are drawn up\\nAn garten d tight whare mortal\\nwight\\nAs I never wrote it down my recollection\\ndoes not entirely serve me.\\nIV.\\nBut now the gown wi mstling sound\\nIts silken pornp displays\\nSure there s nae sin in being vain\\nO siccan bonie claes!\\nSae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast\\nTrouth, they were bonie birdies!\\nO Mither Eve, ye wad been grieve\\nTo see their ample hurdles\\nSae large that day!\\nThen Sandy, wi s red jacket braw,\\nComes whip-jee-woa! about.\\nAnd in he gets the bonie twa\\nLord, send thein safely out!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0173.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "126 ADAM ARMOUR S PRAYER. THE COURT OF EQUITY.\\nAnd auld John Trot wi sober phiz,\\nAs braid and braw \\\\s a Ikiilie,\\nHis shouthers and his Sunday s jiz\\nWi powthcr and wi iilzie\\nWeelsmear d that day.\\nADAM ARMOUR S PRAYER.\\n[The interlocutor in this intercession was\\nBurns s brother-in-law, who was concerned\\nin a piece of rustic lyncli-law.]\\nI.\\nGuDE pity me, because I in little!\\nFor though I am an elf o mettle,\\nAnd can like onie wabster s shuttle\\nJink there or here,\\nYet. scarce as lang s a guid kail-whittle,\\nI m unco queer.\\nAn now Thou kens our woefu case\\nFor Geordie s jurr we re in disgrace,\\nBecause we stang d her through the\\nplace.\\nAn hurt her spleuchan\\nFor whilk we daurna show our face\\nWithin the clachan.\\nAn now we re dern d in dens and\\nhollows.\\nAnd hunted, as was William Wallace,\\nWi constables the blackguard fal-\\nlows\\nAn sodgers baith\\nBut Gude preserve us frae the gallows,\\nTliat shamefu death!\\nAuld, grim, black-bearded Geordie s\\nsel\\nO, shake him owre the mouth o Hell\\nThere let him liing, an roar, an yell\\nWi hideous din.\\nAnd if he offers to rel)el.\\nThen heave him in!\\nWhen Death comes in wi glimmerin\\nblink.\\nAn tips auld drucken Nanse the wink.\\nMay Sautan gie her doup a clink\\nVVithin his yett.\\nAn fill her up wi brimstone drink\\nRed-reekin het.\\nThough Jock an hav rel Jean are\\nmerry.\\nSome devil seize them in a hurry.\\nAn waft them in th infernal wherry\\nStraught througli the lake,\\nAn gie their hides a noble curry\\nWi oil ofaik!\\nAs for the jurr puir worthless\\nbody!\\nShe s got mischief enough already;\\nWi stanget hips and buttocks bluidy\\nShe s suffer d sair\\nBut may she wintle in a woody\\nIf she whore mair!\\nTHE COURT OF EQUITY.\\nAS PRINTED IN AITKEN s ALDINE\\nEDITION, 1893.\\nThe Court of Equity was dated\\nMauchline, 12th May, 1786, and probably\\nwritten in the previous year, in which Burns\\nchronicled certain of the doings of the\\nbachelors who weie in the habit of meeting\\nin the Whitefoord Arms. They constituted\\nthemselves into a mock Court Burns\\nbeing president. Smith fiscal, and Rich-\\nmond clerk to examine into the scan-\\ndals in Mauchline, and, in particular, to\\nbring to book marauders, or offenders\\nagainst ordinary sexual morality, who sought\\nby various means to escape the penalty of\\ntheir offences. It is full of humanity and\\ntenderness, but [parts of it are] too broad", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0174.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "THE COURT OF EQUITY.\\n127\\nfor publication. Chambers, revised by\\nWilliam Wallace.]\\nIn Truth and Honor s name. Amen.\\nKnow all men by these presents plain,\\nThis twalt o May at Mauchline\\ngiven\\nThe year tween eighty-five an seven\\nWe (all marauders) by profession,\\nAs per e.xtractum from each Session\\nIn way and manner here narrated.\\nFro bono Amor congregated\\nAnd by our Brethren constituted,\\nA Court of Equity deputed\\nWith special authoris d direction.\\nTo take beneath our strict protection\\nThe stays out-bursting, quondam\\nmaiden,\\nWith growing life and anguish laden,\\nThat by tlie rascal is deny d\\nWho led her thoughtless steps aside\\nHe who disowns the ruin d fair one.\\nAnd for her wants and woes does\\ncare none\\nThe wretch that can refuse assistance\\nTo those whom he has given exist-\\nence\\nThe knave who takes a private stroke\\nBeneath his sanctimonious cloak\\nThe coof who stan s on clishma-\\nclavers\\nWhen lasses hafflins offer favors\\nAll who in any way or manner\\nDistain the (bold marauder s) honor.\\nWe take cognizance there anent,\\nThe proper judges competent\\nFirst, Poet Burns, he takes the Chair;\\nAllow d by a his title s fair\\nAnd past iion. coti. without dissen-\\nsion,\\nHe has a duplicate pretension.\\nThe second. Smith, our worthy Fiscal,\\nTo cow each pertinacious rascal\\nIn this, as ev ry other state.\\nHis merit is conspicuous great.\\nRichmond, the third, our trusty Clerk,\\nOur minutes regular to mark\\nAnd sit dispenser of the law\\nIn absence of the former twa.\\nThe fourth our messenger-at-arms.\\nWhen failing all the milder terms.\\nHunter, a hearty, willing Brother,\\nWeel skill d in dead an living leather.\\nWithout preamble, less or more said.\\nWe body politic aforesaid,\\nWith legal, due whereas, and where-\\nfore.\\nWe are appointed here to care for\\nThe interests of our Constituents,\\nAnd punish contravening truants,\\nThen Brown an Dow above-design d\\nFor clags an clauses there subjoin d.\\nWe, Court aforesaid, cite and sum-\\nmon.\\nThat on the fourth o June in comin\\nThe hour o Cause, in our Court ha\\nAt Whitefoord s Arms, ye answer\\nLaw.\\nBut, as reluctantly we punish.\\nAn rather mildly would admonish\\nSince better punishment prevented\\nThan obstinacy sair repented\\nThen, for that ancient secret s sake\\nYou have the honor to partake\\nAn for that noble badge you wear.\\nYou, Sandie Dow, our Brother dear.\\nWe give you as a man and mason.\\nThis private, sober, friendly lesson.\\nYour crime, a manly deed we view it.\\nA man alone can only do it\\nBut, in denial persevering.\\nIs to a scoundrel s name adherinsr.\\nTo tell the truth s a manly lesson,\\nAn doubly proper in a Mason.\\nThis, owx flit uniiii est Decreet,\\nWe mean it not to keep a secret\\nBut in our summons here insert it.\\nAnd whoso dares may controvert it.\\nThis mark d before the date and\\nplace is\\nSiibsigmiin est per Burns the Preses.\\n(L. S.) B\\nTills summons and the Signet mark\\nExtractiiin est, per Richmond. Clerk,\\nR .d.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0175.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "128\\nNATURE S LAW.\\nAt IMauchline, twenty-fifth of May,\\nAbout the twalt hour o the day,\\nYou twa. in propria persona.\\nBefore design d Sandie and Johnnie,\\nThis summons legally have got,\\nAs vide Witness under-vvrote\\nWithin the house of John Dove,\\nVintner,\\nNunc facia hoc Guillelmus Hunter.\\nNATURE S LAW.\\nHUMBLY INSCRIBED TO GAVIN HAM-\\nILTON, ESQUIRE.\\nGreat Nature spoke, observant man obeyed.\\nPUI E.\\n[The day celebrated here is Sept. 3, 1786.\\nOn the 8th of that month Burns wrote:\\nYou will have heard that poor Armour\\nhas repaid my amorous mortgage double.\\nA very fine boy and a girl iiave awakened\\na thought and feelings that thrill, some with\\ntender pressure, and some with foreboding\\nanguish, through my soul.\\nLet other heroes boast their scars.\\nThe marks o sturt and strife,\\nBut other poets sing of wars,\\nThe plagues o human life!\\nShame fa the fun wi sword and\\ngun\\nTo slap mankind like lumber\\nI sing his name and nobler fame\\nWha multiplies our number.\\nGreat Nature spoke, with air be-\\nnign\\nGo on, ye human race\\nThis lower world I you resign\\nBe fruitful and increase.\\nThe liquid fire of strong desire,\\nI ve poured it in each bosom\\nHere on this hand does mankind\\nstand.\\nAnd there, is Beauty s blossom\\nThe hero of these artless strains,\\nA lowly Bard was he,\\nWho sung his rhymes in Coila s plains\\nWith meikle mirth and glee\\nKind Nature s care had given his\\nshare\\nLarge of the flaming current\\nAnd, all devout, he never sought\\nTo stem the sacred torrent.\\nHe felt the powerful, high behest\\nThrill vital thro and thro\\nAnd sought a correspondent breast\\nTo give obedience due.\\nPropitious Powers screen d the young\\nflow rs\\nFrom mildews of abortion\\nAnd lo the Bard a great reward\\nHas got a double portion\\nAuld can tie Coil may count the day.\\nAs annual it returns,\\nThe third of Libra s equal sway.\\nThat gave another Burns,\\nWith future rhymes an otiier times\\nTo emulate his sire.\\nTo sing auld Coil in nobler style\\nWith more poetic fire\\nYe Powers of peace and peaceful song.\\nLook down with gracious eyes,\\nAnd bless auld Coila large and long\\nWith multiplying joys!\\nLang may she stand to prop the land,\\nThe flow r of ancient nations,\\nAnd Burnses spring her fame to sing\\nTo endless generations!", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0176.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. TO THE TOOTHACHE. 129\\nLINES ON MEETING WITH\\nLORD DAER.\\n[Basil William, Lord Daer, son of the\\nEarl of Selkirk, whom Burns met at Profes-\\nsor Uugald Stewart s villa, at Catrine.]\\nThis wot ye all whom it concerns\\nI, Rhymer Rab, alias Burns,\\nOctober twenty-third,\\nA ne er-to-be-forgotten day,\\nSae far I sprachPd up the brae\\nI dinner d wi a Lord.\\nI ve been at drucken Writers feasts,\\nNay, been bitch-fou mang godly\\nPriests\\nWi rev rence be it spoken!\\nI ve even join d the honor d jorum.\\nWhen mighty Squireships o the Quo-\\nrum\\nTheir hydra drouth did sloken.\\nBut wi a Lord! stand out my shin!\\nA Lord, a Peer, an Earl s son!\\nUp higher yet my bonnet!\\nAn sic a Lord! lang Scotch ell tvva\\nOur Peerage he looks o er them a\\nAs I look o er my sonnet.\\nBut O, for Hogarth s magic pow r\\nTo show Sir Bardie s willyart glow r,\\nAn how he star d an stam-\\nmer d.\\nWhen, goavin s he d been led wi\\nbranks.\\nAn stumpin on his ploughman shanks.\\nHe in the parlour hammer d!\\nTo meet good Stewart little pain is,\\nOr Scotia s sacred Demosthenes\\nThinks I They are but men\\nK\\nBut Burns My Lord Good\\nGod! I doited,\\nMy knees on ane anither knoited\\nAs faultering I gaed ben.\\nI sidling shelter d in a neuk.\\nAn at his Lordship staw a leuk.\\nLike some portentous omen\\nExcept good sense and social glee\\nAn (what surpris d me) modesty,\\nI marked noujiht uncommon.\\nI watch d the symptoms o the Great\\nThe gentle pride, the lordly state.\\nThe arrogant assuming\\nThe fient a pride, nae pride had he,\\nNor sauce, nor state, that I could see,\\nMair than an honest plough-\\nman!\\nThen from his Lordship I shall learn\\nHenceforth to meet with unconcern\\nOne rank as well s another\\nNae honest, worthy man need care\\nTo meet with noble youthfu Daer,\\nFor he but meets a brother.\\nADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-\\nACHE.\\n[Burns in later letters specially refers to\\nthis Hell o a diseases, but he probably\\nsuffered from it at different periods. Pub-\\nlished, October, 1797.]\\nI.\\nMy curse upon your venom d stang,\\nThat shoots my tortur d gooms alang,\\nAn thro my lug gies monie a twang\\nWi gnawing vengeance.\\nTearing my nerves wi bitter pang.\\nLike racking engines!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0177.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "I30\\nLAMENT lOR THE ABSENCE OE WILLIAM CKEECIL\\nA down my beard the slavers trickle,\\nI throw the wee stools o er the mickle,\\nWhile round the fire the s^iglets keckle\\nTo see me loup,\\nAn\\\\ raving mad, I wish a heckle\\nWere i their doup!\\nIII.\\nWhen fevers burn, or ague freezes.\\nRheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,\\nOur neebors sympathise to ease us\\nWi pitying moan\\nBut thee thou hell o a diseases,\\nThey mock our groan!\\nOf a the numVous human dools\\nIll-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,\\nOr worthy frien s laid i the mools.\\nSad sight to see!\\nThe tricks o knaves, or fash o fools\\nThou bear st the iree!\\nWhare er that place be priests ca\\nHell,\\nWhare a the tones o misery yell,\\nAn ranked plagues their numbers\\ntell\\nIn dreadfu raw.\\nThou, Toothache, surely bear st the\\nbell\\nAmang them a\\nVI.\\nO thou grim, mischief-making chiel.\\nThat gars the notes o discord squeel,\\nTill humankind aft dance a reel\\nIn gore a shoe-thick,\\nGie a the faes o Scotland s weal\\nA towmond s toothache.\\nLAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE\\nOF WILLIAM CREECH, PUB-\\nLISHER.\\n[In enclosing these verses to Mr. Creecli,\\nBurns writes The enclosed I have just\\nwrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn\\nin Selkirk, after a miserable wet day s\\nriding.\\nAuLD chuckie Reekie s sair distrest.\\nDown droops her ance weel burnish d\\ncrest,\\nNae joy her bonie buskit nest\\nCan yield ava\\nHer darling bird that she lo es best,\\nWillie, s awa.\\nO, Willie was a witty wight,\\nAnd had o things an unco sleight!\\nAuld Reekie ay he keepit tight.\\nAnd trig an braw\\nBut now they 11 busk her like a\\nfright\\nWillie s awa!\\nThe stiffest o them a he bow d\\nThe bauldest o them a he cow d\\nThey durst nae mair than he allow d\\nThat was a law\\nWe ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd\\nWillie s awa!\\nNow gawkies, tavvpies, gowks, and\\nfools\\nFrae colleges and boarding schools\\nMay sprout like simmer puddock-\\nstools\\nIn glen or shaw\\nHe wha could brush them down to\\nmools,\\nWillie, s awa!", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0178.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "VERSES IN FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE.\\n131\\nThe brethren o the Commerce-Chau-\\nmer\\nMay mourn their loss \\\\vi doolfu\\nclamour\\nHe was a dictionar and grammar\\nAmang them a\\\\\\nI fear they 11 now mak monie a stam-\\nmer\\nWillie s awa\\nNae mair we see his levee door\\nPhilosophers and Poets pour,\\nAnd toothy Critics by the score\\nIn bloody raw\\nThe adjutant of a the core,\\nWillie, s awa!\\nNow worthy Greg ry s Latin face,\\nTytler s and Greenfield s modest\\ngrace,\\nM Kenzie, Stewart, such a brace\\nAs Rome ne er saw,\\nThey a maun meet some ither place\\nWillie s awa!\\nPoor Burns ev n Scotch Drink can-\\nna quicken\\nHe cheeps like some bewilder d\\ndiicken\\nScar d frae its minnie and the cleckin\\nBy hoodie-craw.\\nGrief s gien his heart an unco kickin\\nWillie s awa!\\nNow ev ry sour-mou d, girnin blel-\\nlum,\\nAnd Calvin s folk, are fit to fell him\\nIlk self-conceited critic-skellum\\nHis quill may draw\\nHe wha could brawlie ward their\\nbellum,\\nWillie, s awa!\\nUp wimpling, stately Tweed I ve\\nsped,\\nAnd Eden scenes on crystal Jed,\\nAnd Ettrick banks, now roaring red\\nWhile tempests blaw\\nBut every joy and pleasure s fled\\nWillie s awa!\\nMay I be Slander s common speech,\\nA text for Infamy to preach.\\nAnd, lastly, streekit out to bleach\\nIn winter snaw.\\nWhen I forget thee, Willie Creech,\\nTho far awa?\\nMay never wicked Fortune touzle\\nhim,\\nMay never wicked men bamboozle\\nhim,\\nUntil a pow as auld s Methusalem\\nHe canty claw!\\nThen to the blessed new Jerusalem\\nFleet- wing awa!\\nVERSES IN FRIARS CARSE\\nHERMITAGE.\\n[Friars Carse was the estate of Captain\\nRiddell, of Glenriddell, beautifully situated\\non the banks of the Nith, near Ellisland.\\nTlie Hermitage was a decorated cottage\\nwhich the proprietor had erected.]\\nThou whom chance may hither lead.\\nBe thou clad in russet weed,\\nBe thou deckt in silken stole,\\nGrave these maxims on thy soul\\nLife is but a day at most.\\nSprung from niglit in darkness lost\\nHope not sunshine every hour.\\nFear not clouds will always lour.\\nHappiness is but a name.\\nMake content and ease thy aim.\\nAmbition is a meteor-gleam", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0179.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "132 ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED YEAR. CASTLE GORDON.\\nFame a restless airy dream\\nPleasures, insects on the wing\\nRound Peace, th tcnd rest flow r of\\nspring;\\nThose that sip the dew alone\\nMake the ijutterflies thy own;\\nThose that would the Ijioom devour\\nCrush the locusts, save the flower.\\nFor the future be prepared\\nGuard wherever tliou can\\\\st guard\\nBut, thy utmost duly done,\\nWelcome what thou can st not shun.\\nFollies past give thou to air\\nMake their consequence thy care.\\nKeep the name of Man in mind,\\nAnd dishonour not thy kind.\\nReverence with lowly heart\\nHim, whose wondrous work thou art\\nKeep His Goodness still in view\\nThy trust, and thy example too.\\nStranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!\\nQuod the Beadsman on Nidside.\\nELEGY ON THE, DEPARTED\\nYEAR 1788.\\n[On the same day that Burns composed\\nthis, he penned a beautiful letter to Mrs.\\nDunlop, which has been much admired.\\nPrinted in The Courant, 1789.]\\nFor lords or kings I dinna mourn\\nE en let them die for that they re\\nborn\\nBut O, prodigious to reflect,\\nA Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!\\nO Eighty-Eight, in thy sma space\\nWhat dire events hae taken place!\\nOf what enjoyments thou hast reft us!\\nIn what a pickle thou hast left us!\\nThe Spanish empire s tint a head.\\nAn my auld teethless Bawtie s dead\\nThetulyie s teugh tween Pitt and Fo.x,\\nAn our guidwife s wee birdie cocks\\nThe tane is game, a bluidie devil,\\nBut to the lien-birds unco civil\\nThe tither s dour has nae sic\\nbreedin,\\nBut better stuff ne er claw d a midden.\\nYe ministers, come mount the poupit,\\nAn cry till ye be haerse an roupet,\\nFor Eighty-Eight, he wished you weel,\\nAn gied ye a baith gear an meal\\nE en monie a plack and monie a peck,\\nYe ken yoursels, for little feck!\\nYe bonie lasses, dight your een,\\nFor some o you hae tint a frien\\nIn Eighty-Eight, ye ken, was taen\\nWhat ye 11 ne er hae to gie again.\\nObserve the vera nowte an sheep,\\nHow dowff an dowilie they creep!\\nNay, even the yirth itsel does cry.\\nFor Embro wells are grutten dry!\\nO Eighty-Nine, thou s but a bairn,\\nAn no owre auld, I hope, to learn\\nThou beardless boy, I pray tak care.\\nThou now has got thy Daddie s chair\\nNae hand-cuff d, mizzl d. half-shackl d\\nRegent,\\nBut, like himsel, a full free agent,\\nBe sure ye follow out tlie plan\\nNae waur than he did, honest man!\\nAs muckle better as ye can.\\nJanuaiy 1, 1789.\\nCASTLE GORDON.\\n[Burns was introduced to the Duchess of\\nGordon in Edinburgh (1786-87); and dur-\\ning his northern tour in 1787 he called at\\nGordon Castle on Sept. 7.]\\nStreams that glide in Orient plains,\\nNever bound by Winter s chains\\nGlowing here on golden sands.\\nThere imniixed with foulest stains\\nFrom tyranny s empurpled hands;\\nThese, their richly gleaming waves.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0180.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "THE DUCHESS OF GORDON S DANCING. CAPTAIN GROSE. 133\\nI leave to tyrants and their slaves\\nGive me the stream that sweetly laves\\nThe banks by Castle Gordon.\\nSpicy forests ever gay,\\nShading from the burning ray\\nHapless wretches sold to toil\\nOr, the ruthless native s way,\\nBent on slaughter, blood and spoil\\nWoods that ever verdant wave,\\nI leave the tyrant and the slave\\nGive me the groves that lofty brave\\nThe storms of Castle Gordon.\\nWildly here without control\\nNature reigns, and rules the whole\\nIn that sober pensive mood,\\nDearest to the feeling soul,\\nShe plants the forest, pours the\\nflood.\\nLife s poor day I II, musing, rave,\\nAnd find at night a sheltering cave.\\nWhere waters flow and wilcl woods\\nwave\\nBy bonie Castle Gordon.\\nON THE DUCHESS OF GOR-\\nDON S REEL DANCING.\\n[Published in Stuart s Sfar, Mar. 31, 1789.\\nJane, Duchess of Gordon, was second\\ndaughter of Sir William Maxwell, third\\nBaronet of Monreith.]\\nShe kiltit up her kirtle weel\\nTo show her bonie cutes sae sma\\nAnd walloped about the reel,\\nThe lightest louper o them a\\nWhile some, like slav ring, doited\\nstots\\nStoit ring out thro tlie midden\\ndub,\\nFankit their heels amang their coats\\nAnd gart the floor their backsides\\nrub\\nIII.\\nGordon, the great, the gay, the gal-\\nlant,\\nSkip t like a maukin owre a dyke\\nDeil tak me, since I was a callant,\\nGif e er my een beheld the like\\nON CAPTAIN GROSE.\\nWRITTEN ON AN ENVELOPE, ENCLOS-\\nING A LETTER TO HIM.\\n[The verses were published by Currie in\\n1800. It is an amusing parody of a funny\\nold song against tale-telling travellers.]\\nKen ye ought o Captain Grose?\\nIgo and ago\\nIf he s among his friends or foes?\\nIrani, cora//i, dago\\nIs he south, or is he north\\n/go and ago\\nOr drowned in the River Forth?\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nIs he slain by Hielan bodies\\nIgo and ago\\nAnd eaten like a wether haggis\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nIV.\\nIs he to Abra m s bosom gane?\\nIgo and ago\\nOr haudin Sarah by the wame?\\nIrani, coram, dago", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0181.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "134\\nNEW YEAR S DAY, 1791.\\nWhere er he be, the Lord be near\\nhim!\\nIgo and ago\\nAs for the Deil, he daur na steer\\nhim,\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nBut please transmit th enclosed\\nletter\\nJgo and ago\\nWhich will oblige your humble\\ndebtor\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nSo may ye hae auld stanes in store,\\nIgo and ago\\nThe very stanes that Adam bore!\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nSo may ye get in glad possession,\\nIgo and ago\\nThe coins o Satan s coronation\\nIrani, coram, dago\\nNEW YEAR S DAY, 1791.\\n[Written to Mrs. Dunlop. The grand-\\nchild whose cap is referred to was prob-\\nably the child of Mrs. Henri, born in\\nNovember, 1790.]\\nThis day Time winds th exhausted\\nchain,\\nTo run the twelvemonth s length\\nagain\\nI see the old, Ijald-pated fellow.\\nWith ardent eyes, complexion sallow.\\nAdjust the unimpair d machine\\nTo wheel the equal, dull routine.\\nThe absent lover, minor heir.\\nIn vain assail him with their prayer:\\nDeaf as my friend, he sees them\\npress,\\nNor makes the hour one moment\\nless.\\nWill you (the Major s with the\\nhounds\\nThe hajijjy tenants sliare his rounds\\nCoila s fair Rachel s care to-day,\\nAnd blooming Keith s engaged with\\nGray)\\nFrom housewife cares a minute bor-\\nrow\\n(That grandchild s cap will do to-\\nmorrow).\\nAnd join with me a-moralizing?\\nThis day s propitious to be wise in\\nFirst, what did yesternight de-\\nliver?\\nAnother year has gone for ever.\\nAnd what is this day s strong sugges-\\ntion\\nThe passing moment s all we rest\\non\\nRest on for what what do we here\\nOr why regard the passing year?\\nWill Time, amus d with proverb d\\nlore,\\nAdd to our date one minute more?\\nA few days may a few years must\\nRepose us in the silent dust\\nThen, is it wise to damp our bliss\\nYes all such reasonings are amiss\\nThe voice of Nature loudly cries.\\nAnd many a message from the skies.\\nThat something in us never dies\\nThat on this frail, uncertain state\\nHang matters of eternal weight\\nThat future life in worlds unknown\\nMust take its hue from this alone.\\nWhether as heavenly glory bright\\nOr dark as Misery s woeful night.\\nSince, then, my lionor d first of\\nfriends.\\nOn this poor being all depends,\\nLet us til important Now employ.\\nAnd live as those who never die.\\nTho you, with days and honours\\ncrown d,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0182.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "FROM ESOPUS TO IMARIA.\\n135\\nWitness that filial circle round\\n(A sight life s sorrows to repulse,\\nA sight pale envy to convulse),\\nOthers now claim your chief regard\\nYourself, you wait your bright reward.\\nFROM ESOPUS TO MARIA.\\nThe Esopus of this strange epistle,\\nsays Mr. Allan Cunningham, was William-\\nson the actor, and the Maria to whom it\\nwas addressed was Mrs. Riddell. While\\nWilliamson and his brother actors were\\nperforming at Whitehaven Lord Lonsdale\\ncommitted the whole to prison.]\\nFrom those drear solitudes and\\nfrowsy cells.\\nWhere Infamy with sad Repentance\\ndwells\\nWhere turnkeys make the jealous\\nportal fast,\\nAnd deal from iron hands the spare\\nrepast\\nWhere truant prentices, yet young in\\nsin.\\nBlush at the curious stranger peeping\\nWhere strumpets, relics of the\\ndrunken roar,\\nResolve to drink, nay half to whore\\nno more\\nWhere tiny thieves not destin d yet\\nto swing.\\nBeat hemp for others riper for the\\nstring\\nFrom these dire scenes my wretched\\nlines I date.\\nTo tell Maria her Esopus fate.\\nAlas I feel I am no actor here\\nT is real hangmen real scourges bear\\nPrepare, Maria, for a horrid tale\\nWill turn thy very rouge to deadly\\npale\\nWill make thy hair, tho erst from\\ngipsy poird.\\nBy barber woven and Iiy l)arber sold,\\nThough twisted smooth with Harry s\\nnicest care,\\nLike hoary bristles to erect and stare\\nThe hero of the mimic scene, no more\\nI start in Hamlet, in Othello roar\\nOr, haughty Chieftain, mid the din of\\narms,\\nIn Highland bonnet woo Malvina s\\ncharms\\nWhile sans-culottes stoop up the\\nmountain high.\\nAnd steal me from Maria s prying\\neye.\\nBlest Highland bonnet once my\\nproudest dress,\\nNow, prouder still, Maria s temples\\npress\\nI see her wave thy towering plumes\\nafar.\\nAnd call each coxcomb to the wordy\\nwar\\nI see her face the first of Ireland s\\nsons,\\nAnd even out-Irish his Hibernian\\nbronze\\nThe crafty Colonel leaves the tartan d\\nlines\\nFor other wars, where he a hero\\nshines\\nThe hopeful youth, in Scottish senate\\nbred,\\nWho owns a Bushby s heart without\\nthe head.\\nComes mid a string of coxcombs to\\ndisplay\\nTliat Veil!, indi, inci, is his way\\nThe shrinking Bard adown the alley\\nskulks.\\nAnd dreads a meeting worse than\\nWoolwich hulks.\\nThough there his heresies in Church\\nand State\\nMight well award him Muir and\\nPalmer s fate\\nStill she, undaunted, reels and rattles\\non.\\nAnd dares the public like a noontide\\nsun.\\nhat scandal called Maria s jaunty\\nstagger\\nThe ricket reeling of a crooked", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0183.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "136\\nTO JOHN RANKINE.\\nH7iose spleen (e en worse than Burns s\\nvenom, wlien\\nHe dips in gall unmix d his eager\\npen,\\nAnd pours his vengeance in the burn-\\ning line),\\nU7io christen d thus Maria s lyre-\\ndivine.\\nThe idiot strum of Vanity bemus d\\nAnd even th abuse of Poesy abus d\\n]l ho called her verse a Parish Work-\\nhouse, made\\nFor motley foundling Fancies, stolen\\nor strayed?\\nA Workhouse Ah, that sound awakes\\nmy woes,\\nAnd pillows on the thorn my rack d\\nrepose\\nIn durance vile here must I wake and\\nweep,\\nAnd all my frowsy couch in sorrow\\nsteep\\nThat straw where many a rogue has\\nlain of yore.\\nAnd vermin d gipsies litter d hereto-\\nfore.\\nWhy, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on\\nvagrants pour?\\nMust earth no rascal save thyself\\nendure\\nMust thou alone in guilt immortal\\nswell,\\nAnd make a vast monopoly of Hell?\\nThou know st the Virtues cannot hate\\nthee worse\\nTiie Vices also, must they club their\\ncurse\\nOr must no tiny sin to others fall.\\nBecause tliy guilt s supreme enough\\nfor all?\\nMaria, send me too thy griefs and\\ncares,\\nIn all of thee sure thy Esopus\\nshares\\nAs thou at all mankind the flag un-\\nfurls\\nWho on my fair one Satire s ven-\\ngeance hurls\\nWho calls thee, pert, affected, vain\\ncoquette,\\nA wit in folly, and a fool in wit\\nWho says that fool alone is not thy\\ndue.\\nAnd quotes thy treacheries to prove\\nit true\\nOur force united on thy foes we ll\\nturn.\\nAnd dare the war with all of woman\\nborn\\nFor who can write and speak as thou\\nand I\\nMy periods that decyphering defy,\\nAnd thy still matchless tongue that\\nconquers all reply\\nNOTES AND EPISTLES.\\nTO JOHN RANKINE.\\nIN REPLY TO AN ANNOUNCEMENT.\\n[The announcement was that a girl\\nin that neighborhood was with child by\\nRobert Burns. The communication was\\naddressed to the poet alter his removal to\\nMossgiel.]\\nI AM a keeper of the law\\nIn some sma points, altho not a\\nSome people tell me, gin I fa\\nAe way or ither.\\nThe breaking of a e point, tho sma\\nBreaks a thegither.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0184.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "TO JOHN GOLDIE.\\n137\\nI hae been in for t ance or twice,\\nAnd winna say o er far for thrice,\\nYet never met wi that surprise\\nThat Ijroke my rest.\\nBut now a rumour s like to rise\\nA whaup s i the nest!\\nTO JOHN CxOLDIE.\\nAUGUST, 1785.\\n[Mr. John Goldie, or Goudie, a tradesman\\nin Kilniarnock, was given to mechanical\\nand scientific studies, and in later life ad-\\ndicted to advanced theology, upon which\\nhe published a series of essays.]\\nO Goudie, terror o the Whigs,\\nDread o black coats and rev rend\\nwigs\\nSour Bigotry on her last legs\\nGirns and looks back.\\nWishing the ten Egyptian plagues\\nMay seize you quick.\\nII.\\nPoor gapin, glowrin Superstition!\\nWae s me, she s in a sad condition\\nFye! bring Black Jock, her state phy-\\nsician.\\nTo see her water!\\nAlas! there s ground for great suspi-\\ncion\\nShe ll ne er get better.\\nEnthusiasm s past redemption\\nGane in a gallopin consumption\\nNot a her quacks wi a their gump-\\ntion\\nCan ever mend her\\nHer feeble pulse gies strong presump-\\ntion\\nShe 11 soon surrender.\\nAuld Orthodoxy lang did grapple\\nFor every hole to get a stapple\\nBut now she fetches at the thrapple,\\nAn fights for breath\\nHaste, gie her name up in tlie chapel,\\nNear unto death!\\nV.\\nT is you an Taylor are the chief\\nTo blame for a this black mischief;\\nBut, gin the Lord s ain folk gat leave,\\nA toom tar barrel\\nAn twa red peats wad bring relief,\\nAnd end the quarrel.\\nFor me, my skill s but very sma\\nAn skill in prose I ve nane ava\\nBut, quietlenswise between us twa,\\nWeel may ye speed!\\nAnd, tho they sud you sair misca\\nNe er fash your head!\\nE en swinge the dogs, and thresh\\nthem sicker!\\nThe mair they squeel ay chap the\\nthicker,\\nAnd still mang hands a hearty bicker\\nO something stout\\nIt gars an owthor s pulse beat quicker,\\nAn helps his wit.\\nThere s naething like the honest\\nnappy\\nWhare U ye e er see men sae happy,\\nOr women sonsie, saft, and sappy\\nT ween morn and morn.\\nAs them wha like to taste the drappie\\nIn glass or horn\\nI ve seen me daez t upon a time.\\nI scarce could wink or see a styme", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0185.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "138\\nTO J. LAPRAIK.\\nJust ae hauf-mutchkin does me prime\\n(Ought less is little)\\nThen back I rattle on the rhyme\\nAs gleg s a whittle.\\nTO J. LAPRAIK.\\nTHIRD EPISTLIC.\\n[Ciomek printed this poem from a copy\\npreserved by the author, and found among\\nthe svvee]5ings of his study, which Cunie\\nand his advi::eis had deemed unworthy of\\npublication.]\\nGuiD speed and furder to you. Johnie,\\nGuid health, hale ban s and weather\\nbonie\\nNow, when ye re nickin down fu\\ncannie\\nThe staff o bread.\\nMay ye ne er want a stoup o bran y\\nTo clear your head\\nMay Boreas never thresh your rigs.\\nNor kick your rickles aff their legs,\\nSendin the stuff o er muirs an haggs\\nLike drivin wrack\\nBut may the tapmost grain that wags\\nCome to the sack\\nI m bizzie, too, an skelpin at it\\nBut bitter, daudin showers hae wat\\nit;\\nSae my auld stumpie-pen, I gat it,\\nWi niuckle wark.\\nAn took my jocteleg, an whatt it\\nLike onie dark.\\nIt s now twa month that I m your\\ndebtor\\nFor your braw, nameless, dateless\\nletter,\\nAbusin me for harsh ill-nature\\nOn holy men,\\nWhile deil a hair yourscl\\nbetter,\\nBut mair profane\\nye re\\nBut let the kirk-folk ring their bells\\nLet s sing about our nolMe sel s\\nWe 11 cry nae jads frae heathen hills\\nTo help or roose us,\\nBut browster wives an whisky stills\\nThey are the Muses\\nYour friendship, sir, I winna quat it\\nAn if ye mak objections at it,\\nThen hand in nieve some day we 11\\nknot it,\\nAn witness take\\nAn when wi usquabae we ve wat it.\\nIt winna break.\\nBut if the beast and branks be spar d\\nTill kye be gaun without the herd,\\nAnd a the vittel in the yard\\nAn theckit right,\\nI mean your ingle-side to guard\\nAe winter night.\\nThen Muse-inspirin aqua-vitae\\nShall mak us baith sae blythe an\\nwitty.\\nTill ye forget ye re auld an gatty,\\nAnd be as canty\\nAs ye were nine year less than\\nthrctty\\nSweet ane an twenty\\nBut stooks are cowpet wi the blast.\\nAnd now the sinn keeks in the wast;\\nTlien I maun rin amang the rest.\\nAn quat my chanter", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0186.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "TO THE REV. JOHN M MATH.\\n139\\nSae I subscribe mysel in haste,\\nYours, Rab tlie Ranter.\\nSept. 13, 1785.\\nTO THE REV. JOHN M MATH\\nENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WIL-\\nLIE S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD\\nREQUESTED, SEPT. 1 7, 1 785.\\n(The Rev. Mr. M Math was, when Burns\\naddressed him, assistant and successor to the\\nRev. Peter Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton.)\\nWhile at the stook the shearers\\ncowV\\nTo shun the bitter blaudin show r,\\nOr, in gulravage rinnin, scowr\\nTo pass the time,\\nTo you I dedicate the hour\\nIn idle rhyme.\\nMy Musie, tir d wi monie a sonnet\\nOn gown an ban an douse black-\\nbonnet,\\nIs grown right eerie now she s done\\nit,\\nLest they should blame her,\\nAn rouse their holy thunder on it,\\nAnd anathem her.\\nI own t was rash, an rather hardy,\\nThat I, a simple, countra Bardie,\\nShould meddle wi a pack sae sturdy,\\nWha, if they ken me,\\nCan easy wi a single wordie\\nLouse Hell upon me.\\nBut I gae mad at their grimaces.\\nTheir sighin, cantin, grace-proud\\nfaces,\\nTheir three-mile i^rayers an hauf-\\nmile graces.\\nTheir raxin conscience.\\nWhase greed, revenge, an pride dis-\\ngraces\\nWaur nor their nonsense.\\nV.\\nThere s Gau n, niisca d waur than a\\nbeast,\\nWha has mair honor in his breast\\nThan monie scores as guid s the\\npriest\\nWha sae abus t him\\nAnd may a Bard no crack his jest\\nWhat way they ve use t him\\nSee him, the poor man s friend in\\nneed,\\nThe gentleman in word an deed\\nAn shall his fame an honor bleed\\nBy worthless skellums,\\nAn not a Muse erect her head\\nTo cowe the blellums?\\nVII.\\nPope, had I thy satire s darts\\nTo gie the rascals their deserts,\\n1 d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,\\nAn tell aloud\\nTheir jugglin, hocus-pocus arts\\nTo cheat the crowd!\\nGod knows, I m no the thing I\\nshould be,\\nNor am I even the thing I could\\nbe,\\nBut twenty times I rather would be\\nAn atheist clean\\nThan under gospel colors hid be\\nJust for a screen.\\nIX.\\nAn honest man may like a glass,\\nAn honest man may like a lass\\nBut mean revenge an malice fause\\nHe 11 still disdain\\nAn then cry zeal for gospel laws\\nLike some we ken.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0187.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "140\\nTO DAVIE.\\nThey take Religion in their mouth,\\nThey talk o Mercy, Grace, an Trutli\\nFor what? To gie their malice skouth\\nOn some puir wight\\nAn hunt him down, o er right an\\nruth,\\nTo ruin streight.\\nAll hail, Religion! Maid divine,\\nPardon a Muse sae mean as mine,\\nWho in her rough imperfect line\\nThus daurs to name thee\\nTo stigmatise false friends of thine\\nCan ne er defame thee.\\nTho blotch t and foul wi monie a\\nstain\\nAn far unworthy of thy train,\\nWith trembling voice 1 tune my strain\\nTo join with those\\nWho boldly dare thy cause maintain\\nIn spite of foes\\nIn spite o crowds, in spite o mobs,\\nIn spite of undermining jobs.\\nIn spite o dark banditti stabs\\nAt worth an merit.\\nBy scoundrels, even wi holy robes\\nBut hellish spirit!\\nO Ayr my dear, my native ground.\\nWithin thy presbyterial bound\\nA candid lib ral band is found\\nOf public teachers,\\nAs men, as Christians too, renown d.\\nAn manly preachers.\\nSir, in that circle you are nam d\\nSir, in that circle you are fam d\\nAn some, by whom your doctrine s\\nblam d\\n(Which gies ye honor),\\nEven, Sir, by them your heart s es-\\nteem d.\\nAn winning manner.\\nXVI.\\nPardon this freedom I have taen,\\nAn if impertinent I ve been.\\nImpute it not, good sir, in ane\\nWhase heart ne er wrang d\\nye,\\nBut to his utmost would befriend\\nOught that belang d ye.\\nTO DAVIE.\\nSECOND EPISTLE.\\n[This epistle was prefixed to the edition\\nof Sillar s poems, published in Kilmarnock\\nin 1789.]\\nAuLD Neebor,\\nI m three times doubly o er your\\ndebtor\\nFor your auld-farrant, frien ly let-\\nter\\nTho* I maun say t, I doubt ye\\nflatter,\\nYe speak sae fair\\nFor my puir. silly, rhymin clatter\\nSome less maun sair.\\nHale be your heart, hale be your\\nfiddle!\\nLang may your elbuck jink an\\ndiddle\\nTo cheer you thro the weary wid-\\ndle\\nO war ly cares,\\nTill bairns bairns kindly cuddle\\nYour auld grey hairs\\nBut Davie, lad, I m red ye re\\nglaikit", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0188.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "TO JOHN KENNEDY, DUMFRIES HOUSE.\\n141\\nI m tauld the Muse ye hae neg-\\nleckit\\nAn gif it \\\\s sae, ye sucl be lickit\\nUntil ye fyke\\nSic ban s as you sud ne er be faiket,\\nBe hain t wha like.\\nFor me, I m on Parnassus brink,\\nRivin the words to gar them clink\\nWhyles daez t wi love, whyles\\ndaez t wi drink\\nWi jads or Masons,\\nAn wliyles, but ay owre late I\\nthink,\\nBraw sober lessons.\\nOf a the thouglitless sons o man\\nCommen me to the Bardie clan\\nExcept it be some idle plan\\nC rhymin clink\\nThe devil-haet that I sud ban\\nThey never think.\\nNae thought, nae view, nae\\nscheme o livin,\\nNae cares to gie us joy or grievin,\\nBut just the pouchie put the nieve\\nin,\\nAn while ought s there,\\nThen, hiltie-skiltie, we gae\\nscrievin,\\nAn fash nae mair.\\nVII.\\nLeeze me on rhyme! It s ay a\\ntreasure,\\nMy chief, amaist my only pleasure\\nAt hame, a-fiel at wark or leisure.\\nThe Muse, poor hizzie!\\nTho rough an raploch be her\\nmeasure.\\nShe s seldom lazy.\\nVIII.\\nHand to the Muse, my dainty\\nDavie\\nThe warl may play you monie a\\nshavie.\\nBut for the Muse, she ll never\\nleave ye,\\nTho e er sae puir\\nNa, even tho limpin wi the spavie\\nFrae door to door!\\nTO JOHN KENNEDY, DUM-\\nFRIES HOUSE.\\n[These verses form the conclusion of a\\nletter written to Mr. John Kennedy from\\nMossgiel, March 3, 1786.]\\nNow, Kennedy, if foot or horse\\nE er bring you in by Mauchlin Corss\\n(Lord, man, there s lasses there wad\\nforce\\nA hermit s fancy\\nAnd down the gate, in faith! they re\\nworse\\nAn mair unchancy)\\nBut as I m sayin, please step to Dow s,\\nAn taste sic gear as Johnie brews,\\nTill some bit callan bring me news\\nThat ye are there\\nAn if we dinna hae a bowse,\\nI se ne er drink mair.\\nIt s no I like to sit an swallow.\\nThen like a swine to puke an wallow\\nBut gie me just a true guid fallow\\nWi right ingine.\\nAnd spunkie ance to mak us mellow,\\nAn then we ll shine!\\nNow if ye re ane o warl s folk,\\nWha rate the wearer by the cloak,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0189.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "142\\nTO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. TO MR. M ADAM.\\nAn sklent on poverty their joke\\nWi bitter sneer,\\nVVi you nae friendship I will troke,\\nNor cheap nor dear.\\nBut if, as I m informed weel,\\nYe hate as ill s the vera Deil\\nThe flinty heart that canna feel\\nCome, sir, here s tae you\\nHae, there s my han\\\\ I wiss you weel,\\nAn Gude be wi you\\nROBT. BURNESS.\\nMOSSGIEL, 2,rd March, 1786.\\nTO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.,\\nMAUCHLINE.\\nRECOMMENDING A BOY.\\n[Master Tootie was a cattle-dealer in\\nMauchline, who disguised the age of his\\ncattle by polishing away the markings on\\ntheir horns.]\\nM0.SSGAVILLE, May 3, 1786.\\nI HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty\\nTo warn you how that Master Tootie,\\nAlias Laird M Gaun,\\nWas here to hire yon lad away\\nBout whom ye spak the tither day,\\nAn wad hae don t aff han\\nBut lest he learn the callan tricks\\nAs faith I muckle doubt him\\nLike scrapin out auld Crummie s\\nnicks,\\nAn tellin lies about them.\\nAs lieve then, I d have then\\nYour clerkship he should sair,\\nIf sae be ye may be\\nNot fitted otherwhere.\\nAltho I say t, he s gleg enough,\\nAn bout a house that s rude an\\nrough\\nThe boy might learn to swear\\nBut then \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\vo/t he II be sae taught,\\nAn get sic fair example straught,\\n1 hae na onie fear\\nYe 11 catechise him every quirk,\\nAn shore him weel wi Hell\\nAn gar him follow to the kirk\\nAy when ye gang yoursel!\\nIf ye, then, maun be then\\nFrae hame this comin Friday,\\nThen please. Sir, to lea e. Sir,\\nThe orders wi your lady.\\nMy word of honour I hae gien,\\nIn Paisley John s that night at e en\\nTo meet the warld s worm,\\nTo try to get the twa to gree,\\nAn name the airles an the fee\\nIn legal mode an form\\nI ken he weel a snick can draw.\\nWhen simple bodies let him\\nAn if a Devil be at a\\nIn faith he s sure to get him.\\nTo phrase you an praise you.\\nYe ken, your Laureat scorns\\nThe pray r still you share still\\nOf grateful Minstrel Burns.\\nTO MR. M ADAM OF CRAIGEN-\\nGILLAN.\\nIN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER\\nHE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT\\nOF MY POETIC CAREER.\\n[Cunningham tells us that the factor to\\nCraigen-Giilan was the poet s friend Wood-\\nburn, who was an early acquaintance of\\nBurns.]\\nSir, o er a gill I gat your card,\\nI trow it made me proud.\\nSee wha taks notice o the Bard\\nI lap, and cry d fu loud.\\nNow deil-ma-care about their jaw,\\nThe senseless, gawky million\\nI II cfick my nose aboon them a\\nI m roos d by Craigen-Gillan", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0190.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "REPLY TO AN INVITATION. TO JOHN KENNEDY.\\n143\\nT was noble, sir H was like yousel,\\nTo grant your high protection\\nA great man s smile, ye ken fu well,\\nIs ay a blest infection.\\nIV.\\nTho by his banes wha in a tub\\nMatch d Macedonian Sandy!\\nOn my ain legs thro dirt and dub\\nI independent stand ay\\nAnd when those legs to guid warm\\nkail\\nWi welcome canna bear me,\\nA lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail.\\nAn barley-scone shall cheer me.\\nHeaven spare you lang to kiss the\\nbreath\\n0 monie flow ry simmers.\\nAn bless your bonie lasses baith\\n(I m tauld they re loosome kim-\\nmers)\\nAn God bless young Dunaskin s\\nlaird,\\nThe blossom of our gentry,\\nAn may he wear an auld man s\\nbeard,\\nA credit to his country!\\nREPLY TO AN INVITATION.\\n[Written doubtless in a tavern. The\\noriginal Ms. is in the possession of the\\nPaisley Burns Club.]\\nSir,\\nYours this moment I unseal.\\nAnd faith I m gay and hearty.\\nTo tell the truth and shame the\\nDeil,\\nI am as fou as Bartie.\\nBut Foorsday, Sir, my promise leal,\\nExpect me o your partie.\\nIf on a beastie I can speel\\nOr hurl in a cartie.\\nYours, Robert Burns.\\nMachlin,\\nMonday Night, 10 o clock.\\nTO DR. MACKENZIE.\\nAn Invitation to a Masonic Gathering.\\n[Dr. James Mackenzie, one of the poet s\\nwarmest friends, practised medicine at\\nMauchline. He introduced the poet to Sir\\nJames Whitefoord, Professor Dugald Stew-\\nart, and other persons of influence.]\\nFriday first s the day appointed\\nBy our Right Worshipful Anointed\\nTo hold our grand possession,\\nTo get a blaud o Johnie s morals.\\nAn taste a swatch o Manson s barrels\\nI th way of our profession.\\nOur Master and the Brotherhood\\nWad a be glad to see you.\\nFor me, I wad be mair than proud\\nTo share the mercies wi you.\\nIf Death, then, wi skaith then\\nSome mortal heart is hechtin,\\nInform him, an storm him,\\nThat Saturday ye 11 fecht him.\\nRobert Burns, D.M.\\nMOSSGIEL, 14/A June, A.M. 5790.\\nTO JOHN KENNEDY.\\nA Farewell.\\n[These lines form the conclusion of a\\nletter written by Burns to Mr. John Ken-\\nnedy in August, 1786, while his intention\\nyet held of emigrating to America.]\\nFarewell, dear friend! may guid\\nluck hit you,\\nAnd mong her favourites admit you", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0191.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "144\\nTO AN OLD SWEETHEART.\\nIf e er Detraction shore to smit you,\\nMay nane believe him!\\nAnd onie deil that thinks to get you.\\nGood Lord, deceive him\\nTO\\nWILLIE CHALMERS\\nSWEETHEART.\\n[Mr. Chalmers was a writer in Ayr, and\\nin love. He desired Burns to address the\\nlady in his behalf.]\\nWi braw new branks in mickle pride,\\nAnd eke a braw new brechen,\\nMy Pegasus I m got astride.\\nAnd up Parnassus pechin\\nWhyles owre a bush wi downward\\ncrush\\nThe doited beastie stammers\\nThen up he gets, and off he sets\\nFor sake o Willie Chalmers.\\nI doubt na, lass, that weel kend name\\nMay cost a pair o blushes\\nI am nae stranger to your fame,\\nNor his warm-urged wishes\\nVour bonie face, sae mild and sweet,\\nHis honest heart enamours\\nAnd faith ye 11 no be lost a whit,\\nTho vvair d on Willie Chalmers.\\nAuld Truth hersel might swear ye re\\nfair,\\nAnd Honor safely back her\\nAnd Modesty assume your air,\\nAnd ne er a ane mistak her;\\nAnd sic twa love-inspiring een\\nMight fire even Iioly palmers\\nNae wonder then they ve fatal been\\nTo honest Willie Chalmers!\\nI doubt na Fortune may you shore\\nSome mim-mou d, pouther d pries-\\ntie,\\nFu lifted up wi Hebrew lore\\nAnd band upon his breastie\\nBut O, what signifies to you\\nHis lexicons and grammars?\\nThe feeling heart s the royal blue,\\nAnd that s wi Willie Chalmers.\\nSome gapin, glowrin countra laird\\nMay warsle for your favour:\\nMay claw his lug, and straik his\\nbeard,\\nAnd hoast up some palaver.\\nMy bonie maid, before ye wed\\nSic clumsy-witted hammers,\\nSeek Heaven for help, and barefit\\nskelp\\nAvva wi Willie Chalmers.\\nForgive the Bard! My fond regard\\nFor ane that shares my bosom\\nInspires my Muse to gie m his dues,\\nFor deil a hair I roose him.\\nMay Powers aboon unite you soon.\\nAnd fructify your dmours,\\nAnd every year come in mair dear\\nTo you and Willie Chalmers\\nTO AN OLD SWEETHEART.\\nWRITTEN ON A COPY OF HIS POEMS.\\n[The sweetheart was Peggy Thomson of\\nKirkoswald.]\\nOnce fondly lov d and still remeni-\\nber d dear.\\nSweet early object of my youthful\\nvows,\\nAccei:)t this mark of friendship, warm,\\nsincere\\n(Friendship t is all cold duty now\\nallows)", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0192.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "EXTEMPORE TO GAVIN HAMILTON.\\n145\\nAnd when you read the simple art-\\nless rhymes,\\nOne friendly sigh for him he asks\\nno more\\nWho. distant, burns in flaming torrid\\nclimes.\\nOr haply lies beneath th Atlantic\\nroar.\\nEXTEMPORE TO GAVIN\\nHAMILTON.\\nSTANZAS ON NAETHING.\\n[Published for the first time in Alexander\\nSmith s edition, and extracted, it is sup-\\nposed, from the copy of his Common-\\nPlace Book which Burns presented to his\\nfriend Mrs. Dunlop.]\\nTo you. Sir, this summons 1 Ve sent\\n(Pray, whip till the pownie is\\nfraething!)\\nBut if you demand what I want,\\nI honestly answer you naething.\\nNe er scorn a poor Poet like me\\nFor idly just living and breathing.\\nWhile people of every degree\\nAre busy employed about nae-\\nthing.\\nPoor Centum-per-Centum may fast,\\nAnd grumble his hurdles their\\nclaithing\\nHe ll find, when the balance is cast,\\nHe sgane to the Devil for nae-\\nthing;.\\nThe courtier cringes and bows\\nAmbition has likewise its play-\\nthing\\nA coronet beams on his brows\\nAnd what is a coronet Nae-\\nthing.\\nSome quarrel the Presbyter gown.\\nSome quarrel Episcopal graithing\\nBut every good fellow will own\\nThe quarrel is a about nae-\\nthing.\\nVI.\\nThe lover may sparkle and glow,\\nApproaching his bonie bit gay\\nthing\\nBut marriage will soon let him know\\nHe s gotten a buskit-up nae-\\nthing.\\nVII.\\nThe Poet may jingle and rhyme\\nIn hopes of a laureate wreathing.\\nAnd when he has wasted his time.\\nHe s kindly rewarded with nae-\\nthing.\\nThe thundering bully may rage,\\nAnd swagger and swear like\\nheathen\\nBut collar him fast, I 11 engage,\\nYou 11 find that his courage is\\nnaething.\\nLast night with a feminine Whig\\nA poet she couldna put faith in!\\nBut soon we grew lovingly big,\\nI taught her, her terrors were-\\nnaething.\\nHer Whigship was wonderful pleased.\\nBut charmingly tickled wi ae thing\\nHer fingers I lovingly squeezed,\\nAnd kissed her, and promised her\\nnaething.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0193.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "146\\nREPLY TO A TRIMMINCi EPISILK FROM A TAILOR.\\nXI.\\nThe priest anathc^mas may threat\\nPredicament, sir, that we re baith\\nin\\nBut when Honor s reveille is beat,\\nThe holy artillery s naething.\\nXII.\\nAnd now I must mount on the wave\\nMy voyage perhaps there is death\\nin;\\nBut what is a watery grave\\nThe drowning a Poet is nae-\\nthine:.\\nAnd now, as grim Death s in my\\nthought.\\nTo you, Sir, I make this bequeath-\\ning:\\nMy service as long as ye ve ought,\\nAnd my friendship, by God, when\\nye ve naething.\\nREPLY TO A TRLMMING EPIS-\\nTLE RECEIVED FROM A\\nTAILOR.\\n[The tailor was one Thomas Walker,\\nwho resided at Pool, near Ochiltree. The\\nreply voices the ribald disdain entertained\\nby the Scots peasantry for the disciplinary\\nprocesses of the Kirk.]\\nWhat ails ye now, ye lousie bitch.\\nTo thresh my back at sic a pitch\\nLosh, man, hae mercy wi your natch!\\nYour bodkin s bauld\\nI didna suffer half sae much\\nFrae Daddie Auld.\\nWhat tho at times, when I grow\\ncrouse,\\nI gie their wames a random pouse,\\nIs that enough for you to souse\\nYour servant sae\\nGae mind your seam, ye prick-the-\\nlouse\\nAn jag-the-flae!\\nKing David o poetic brief\\nWrocht mang the lasses sic mischief\\ny\\\\s fill d his after-life with grief\\nAn bloody rants\\nAn yet he s rank d amang the chief\\n0 lang-syne saunts.\\nIV.\\nAnd maybe, Tam, for a my cants.\\nMy wicked rhymes an drucken rants,\\nI 11 gie auld Cloven-Clootie s haunts\\nAn unco slip yet,\\nAn snugly sit amang the saunts\\nAt Davie s hip yet!\\nBut. fegs! the Session says I maun\\nGae fa upo anither plan\\nThan garrin lasses coup the cran,\\nClean heels owre body,\\nAn sairly thole their mither s ban\\nAfore the howdy.\\nThis leads me on to tell for sport\\nHow I did wi the Session sort\\nAuld Clinkum at the inner port\\nCried three times Robin\\nCome hither lad, and answer for t.\\nYe re blam d for jobbin!\\nVII.\\nWi pinch I put a Sunday s face on.\\nAn snoov d awa before the Session\\nI made an open, fair confession\\nI scorn d to lie\\nAn syne Mess John, beyond expres-\\nsion.\\nFell foul o me.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0194.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "TO MAJOR LOGAN.\\n147\\nA fornicator-loun he calFd me,\\nAn said my faut frae bliss expellVI me.\\nI owii d the tale was true he tell d me,\\nBut, what the matter\\n(Quo I) 1 fear unless ye geld me,\\nI 11 ne er be better!\\nGeld you (quo lie) an what for no\\nIf that your right hand, leg, or toe\\nShould ever prove your spiritual foe,\\nYou should remember\\nTo cut it aff an what for no\\nYour dearest member?\\nNa, na (quo I), I m no for that,\\nGelding s nae better than t is ca t\\nI d rather suffer for my faut\\nA hearty flewit.\\nAs sair owre hip as ye can draw t,\\nTho I should rue it.\\nOr, gin ye like to end the bother,\\nTo please us a I ve just ae ither\\nWhen next wi yon lass I forgather,\\nWhate er betide it,\\nI 11 frankly gie her t a tiiegither,\\nAn let her guide it.\\nBut, Sir, this pleas d them warst of a\\nAn therefore, Tarn, when that I saw,\\nI said Guid-night, an cam awa,\\nAn left the Session\\nI saw they were resolved a\\nOn my oppression.\\nTO MAJOR LOGAN.\\n[Major Logan, a retired military officer,\\nfond of wit, violin playing, and conviviality,\\nwlio lived at Park Villa, near Ayr.]\\nHail, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie\\nTho Fortune s road be rough an hilly\\nTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,\\nWe never heed.\\nBut take it like the unbrack d filly\\nProud o her speed.\\nWhen, idly goavin, whyles we saunter,\\nYirr! Fancy barks, awa we canter.\\nUp hill, down brae, till some mishanter,\\nSome black bog-hole,\\nArrests us then the scathe an banter\\nWe re forced to thole.\\nHale be your heart hale be your fiddle\\nLang may your elbuck jink an diddle.\\nTo cheer you through the weary widdle\\nO this vile warl\\nUntil you on a cummock driddle,\\nA grey-hair d carl.\\nCome wealth, come poortith, late or\\nsoon,\\nHeaven send your heart-strings ay in\\ntune,\\nAnd screw your temper-pins aboon\\n(A fifth or mair)\\nThe melancholious, sairie croon\\nO cankrie Care.\\nMay still your life from day to day,\\nNae leiite largo in the play\\nBut allegretto forte gay.\\nHarmonious flow,\\nA sweeping, kindling, bauld strath-\\nspey\\nEncore I Bravo I\\nA blessings on the cheery gang,\\nWha dearly like a jig or sang.\\nAn never think o right an wrang\\nBy square an rule.\\nBut as the clegs o feeling stang\\nAre wise or fool.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0195.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "I4S\\nTO THE GUIDWTFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE.\\nMy hand-ward curse keep hard in\\nchase\\nThe harpy, hoodock, purse-proud\\nrace,\\nWha count on poortith as disgrace!\\nTheir tuneless hearts.\\nMay fireside discords jar a bass\\nTo a their parts\\nBut come, your hand, my careless\\nbrither\\nr th ither warP, if there s anither\\nAn that there is, Tve Httle swither\\nAbout the matter\\nWe, cheek for chow, shall jog the-\\ngither\\nI se ne er bid better\\nWe ve faults and failins granted\\nclearly\\nWe re frail, backsliding mortals\\nmerely\\nEve s bonie squad, priests wyte them\\nsheerly\\nFor our grand fa\\nBut still, but still I like them\\ndearly\\nGod bless them a\\nOchon for poor Castalian drinkers,\\nWhen they fa foul o earthly jinkers\\nThe witching, curs d, delicious blink-\\ners\\nHae put me hyte,\\nAn gart me weet my waukrife wink-\\ners\\nWi girnin spite.\\nXI.\\nBut bv yon moon and that s high\\nswearin\\nAn every star within my hearin,\\nAn by her een wha was a dear ane\\nI 11 ne er forget,\\nI hope to gie the jads a clearin\\nIn fair play yet\\nMy loss I mourn, but not repent it\\nI 11 seek my pursie whare I tint it\\nAnce to the Indies I were wonted.\\nSome cantraip hour\\nBy some sweet elf I 11 yet be dinted\\nThen vive rainotir I\\nFaites iiies baissemains respcctueiisi\\nTo sentimental sister Susie\\nAnd honest Lucky: no to roose you.\\nYe may be proud,\\nThat sic a couple Fate allows ye\\nTo grace your blood.\\nNae mair at present can I measure.\\nAn trowth my rhymin ware nae\\ntreasure\\nBut when in Ayr, some half-hour s\\nleisure.\\nBe t light, be t dark,\\nSir Bard will do himself the pleasure\\nTo call at Park.\\nRobert Burns.\\nMOSSGIEL, 30/// October, 1786.\\nTO THE GUIDWIFE OF\\nWAUCHOPE HOUSE.\\n(MRS. SCOTT.)\\n[Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, Roxburgh-\\nshire, had sent a rhymed epistle to Burns,\\ndis]5laying considerable vigor of thought\\nand neatness of expression.]\\nI.\\nGum Wife,\\nI mind it weel, in early date.\\nWhen I was beardless, young, and\\nblate,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0196.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "TO WILLIAM TYTLER, ESQ.\\n149\\nAn first could thresh the barn,\\nOr haud a yokin at the pleiigh,\\nAn tho forfoughten sair eneugh,\\nYet unco proud to learn\\nWhen first amang the yellow corn\\nA man I reckoned was,\\nAn wi the lave ilk merry morn\\nCould rank my rig and lass\\nStill shearing, and clearing\\nThe tither stooked raw,\\nWi clavers an havers\\nWearing the day awa.\\nE en then, a wish (I mind its pow r),\\nA wish that to my latest hour\\nShall strongly heave my breast,\\nThat I for poor auld Scotland s sake\\nSome usefu plan or book could make.\\nOr sing a sang at least.\\nThe rough burr-thistle spreading wide\\nAmang the bearded bear,\\nI turn d the weeder-clips aside,\\nAn spar d the symbol dear.\\nNo nation, no station\\nMy envy e er could raise\\nA Scot still, but blot still,\\nI knew nae higher praise.\\nBut still the elements 0 sang\\nIn formless jumble, right an wrang,\\nWild floated in my brain\\nTill on that hairst I said before,\\nMy partner in the merry core.\\nShe rousVl the forming strain.\\nI see her yet, the sonsie quean\\nThat lighted up my jingle.\\nHer witching smile, her pauky een\\nThat gart my heart-strings tingle!\\nI fired, inspired.\\nAt ev ry kindling keek.\\nBut, bashing and dashing,\\nI feared ay to speak.\\nHale to the sex! (ilk guid chiel says)\\nWi merry dance on winter days.\\nAn we to share in common!\\nThe gust o joy, the balm of woe.\\nThe saul o life, the heav n below\\nIs rapture-giving Woman.\\nYe surly sumphs, who hate the name,\\nBe mindfu o your mither:\\nShe, honest woman, may think shame\\nThat ye re connected with her!\\nYe re wae men, ye re nae men\\nThat slight the lovely dears\\nTo shame ye, disclaim ye.\\nIlk honest birkie swears.\\nFor you, no bred to barn and byre,\\nWha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,\\nThanks to you for your line!\\nThe marl d plaid ye kindly spare.\\nBy me should gratefully be ware\\nTwad please me to the nine.\\nI d be mair vauntie o my hap,\\nDouce hingin owre my curple,\\nThan onie ermine ever lap.\\nOr proud imperial purple.\\nFarewell, then! lang hale, then,\\nAn plenty be your fa\\nMay losses and crosses\\nNe er at your hallan ca\\nR. Burns.\\nMarch, 1787.\\nTO WM. TYTLER, ESQ., OF\\nWOODHOUSELEE,\\nwith an impression of the\\nauthor s portrait.\\n[Mr. Tytler had published an Inquiry,\\nHistorical and Critical, into the evidence\\nagainst Mary Queen of Scots.\\nRevered defender of beauteous Stu-\\nart,\\nOf Stuart a name once respected,\\nA name which to love was once mark\\nof a true heart,\\nBut now tis despis d and neglected!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0197.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "ISO TO MR. RENTON. TO MISS ISABELLA MACLEOD,\\nTho something like moisture con-\\nglobes in my eye\\nLet no one misdeem me disloyal!\\nA poor friendless wand rer may well\\nclaim a sigh\\nStill more, if that wand rer were\\nroyal.\\nMy Fathers that name have rever d\\non a throne\\nMy Fathers have fallen to right it\\nThose Fathers would spurn their de-\\ngenerate son,\\nThat name, should he scoffingly\\nslight it.\\nIV.\\nStill in prayers for King George I\\nmost heartily join,\\nThe Queen, and the rest of the\\ngentry\\nBe they wise, be they foolish, is noth-\\ning of mine\\nTheir title s avow d by my country.\\nBut why of that epocha make such a\\nfuss\\nThat gave us the Hanover stem?\\nIf bringing them over was lucky for\\nus,\\nI m sure t was as lucky for them.\\nBut loyalty truce! we re on dan-\\ngerous ground\\nWho knows how the fashions may\\nalter\\nThe doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty\\nsound.\\nTo-morrow may bring us a halter!\\nVII.\\nI send you a trifle, a head of a Bard,\\nA trifle scarce worthy your care\\nBut accept it, good Sir, as a mark of\\nregard.\\nSincere as a saint s dying prayer.\\nVIII.\\nNow Life s chilly evening dim-shades\\non your eye.\\nAnd usiiers the long dreary niglit\\nBut you, like the star that athwart\\ngilds the sky.\\nYour course to the latest is brijrht.\\nTO MR. RENTON OF LAMER-\\nTON.\\n[Sent to Mr. Renton, Mordington House,\\nBerwickshire, probably during the poet s\\nBorder tour, thougli Ronton is not men-\\ntioned in his journal. Published in Cham-\\nbers, 1851.]\\nYour billet, Sir, I grant receipt\\nWi you I 11 canter onie gate,\\nTho twere a trip to yon blue warl\\nWhere birkies march on burning\\nmarl\\nThen, Sir, God willing, I 11 attend\\nye,\\nAnd to His goodness I commend ye.\\nR. Burns.\\nTO MISS ISABELLA MACLEOD.\\n[Published in a Dumfries newspaper\\nand again in The Bums Chronicle (1895)\\nfrom the manuscript in the possession of\\nMrs. Vincent Burns Scott, Adelaide.]\\nEdinburgh, March 16, 1787.\\nThe crimson blossom charms the bee,\\nThe summer sun the swallow\\nSo dear this tuneful gift to me\\nFrom lovely Isabella.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0198.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "TO SYMON GRAY. TO MISS FERRIER.\\n151\\nHer portrait fair upon my mind\\nRevolving time shall mellow,\\nAnd mem ry s latest effort find\\nThe lovely Isabella.\\nNo Bard nor lover s rapture this\\nIn fancies vain and shallow\\nShe is, so come my soul to bliss,\\nThe Lovely Isabella\\nTO SYMON GRAY.\\n[Symon Gray lived near Duns, and while\\nBurns was on his Border tour sent him\\nsome verses for his opinion.]\\nSymon Gray, you re dull to-day\\nDullness with redoubled sway\\nHas seized the wits of Symon Gray.\\nDear Symon Gray, the other day\\nWlien you sent me some rhyme,\\nI could not then just ascertain\\nIts worth for want of time\\nBut now to-day, good Mr. Gray,\\nI ve read it o er and o er:\\nTried all my skill, but find I m still\\nJust where I was before.\\nIV.\\nWe auld wives minions gie our opin-\\nions,\\nSolicited or no\\nThen of its fauts my honest thoughts\\nI 11 give and here they go\\nSuch damn d bombast no age that s\\npast\\nCan show, nor time to come\\nSo, Symon dear, your song I 11 tear,\\nAnd with it wipe my bum.\\nTO MISS FERRIER.\\n[Eldest daughter of James Ferrier, writer\\nto the Signet, and sister of Miss Ferrier the\\nnovelist.]\\nNae heathen naine shall I prefix\\nFrae Pindus or Parnassus\\nAuld Reekie dings them a to sticks\\nFor rhyme-inspiring lasses.\\nJove s tunefu dochters three times\\nthree\\nMade Homer deep their debtor;\\nBut gien the body half an e e.\\nNine Ferriers wad done better!\\nLast day iny mind was in a bog\\nDown George s Street I stoited\\nA creeping, cauld, prosaic fog\\nMy very senses doited\\nDo what I dought to set her free.\\nMy saul lay in the mire\\nYe turned a neuk, I saw your e e,\\nShe took the wing like fire\\nThe mournfu sang I here enclose,\\nIn gratitude I send you.\\nAnd pray, in rh)-me as weel as prose,\\nA guid things may attend you", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0199.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "152\\nSYLVANDER TO CLARINDA.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 TO CLARIXDA.\\nSYLVANDER TO CLARINDA.\\n[Clarinda was Mrs. Agnes Maclehose,\\ndaughter of Andrew Craig, surgeon, Glas-\\ngow. See Notes.]\\nWhen dear Clarinda, matchless fair.\\nFirst struck Sylvander s raptur d\\nview,\\nHe gaz d, he listened to despair\\nAlas t was all he dared to do.\\nLove from Clarinda s heavenly eyes\\nTransfix d his bosom thro and\\nthro.\\nBut still in Friendship s guarded\\nguise\\nFor more the demon fear d to do.\\nThat heart, already more than lost,\\nThe imp beleaguered all perdu\\nFor frowning Honor kept his post\\nTo meet that frown he shrunk to\\ndo.\\nHis pangs the Bard refus d to own,\\nTho half he wished Clarinda knew\\nBut Anguish wrung the unweeting\\ngroan\\nWho blames what frantic Pain\\nmust do.\\nThat heart, where motley follies\\nblend,\\nW^as sternly still to Honor true\\nTo prove Clarinda s fondest friend\\nVVas what a lover, sure, might do!\\nThe Muse his ready quill employed\\nNo nearer bliss he could pursue\\nThat bliss Clarinda cold deny d\\nSend word by Charles how you\\ndo!\\nThe chill behest disarmed his Muse.\\nTill Passion all impatient grew\\nHe wrote, and hinted for excuse,\\nT was cause he d nothing else to\\ndo.\\nBut by those hopes I have above\\nAnd by those faults I dearly rue\\nThe deed, the boldest mark of love.\\nFor thee that deed I dare to do\\nO, could the Fates but name the\\nprice\\nWould bless me with your charms\\nand you,\\nWith frantic joy I d pay it thrice,\\nIf human art or power could do\\nThen take, Clarinda, friendship s\\nhand\\n(Friendship, at least, I may avow),\\nAnd lay no more your chill com-\\nmand\\nI 11 write, whatever I ve to do.\\nSYLVANDER.\\nWednesday flight.\\nTO CLARINDA.\\nWITH A PAIR OF WINE-GLASSES.\\n[The glasses were sent as a parting\\ngift when Burns left Edinburgh, March 24,\\n1788.]\\nFair Empress of the Poet s soul\\nAnd Queen of Poetesses,\\nClarindaT take this little boon.\\nThis humble pair of glasses", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0200.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "TO HUGH PARKER. TO ALEX. CUNNINGHAM.\\n153\\nII.\\nAnd fill them up with generous juice,\\nAs generous as your mind\\nAnd pledge them to the generous\\ntoast\\nTlie whole of human kind\\nTo those who love us second fill\\nBut not to those whom ive love,\\nLest we love those who love not us\\nA third To thee and me, love!\\nTO HUGH PARKER.\\n[Written from Ellisland to his friend\\nMr. Hugh Parker of Kihnarnock. Pub-\\nlished by Cunningham in 1834.]\\nIn this strange land, this uncouth\\nclime,\\nA land unknown to prose or rhyme\\nWhere words ne er cros t the IVIuse s\\nheckles,\\nNor limpit in poetic shackles\\nA land that Prose did never view it,\\nExcept when drunk he stacher t thro\\nit:\\nHere, ambush d by the chimla cheek,\\nHid in an atmosphere of reek,\\n1 hear a wheel thrum i the neuk,\\nI hear it for in vain I leuk\\nThe red peat glearns, a fiery kernel\\nEnhusked by a fog infernal.\\nHere, for my wonted rhyming rap-\\ntures,\\nI si4: and count my sins by chapters\\nFor life and spunk like ither Chris-\\ntians,\\nI in dwindled down to mere exist-\\nence\\nWi na converse but Gallowa bodies,\\nVVi nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.\\nJenny, my Pegasean pride,\\nDowie she saunters down Nithside,\\nAnd ay a westlin leuk she throws.\\nWhile tears hap o er her auld brown\\nnose\\nWas it for this wi cannie care\\nThou bure the Bard through many a\\nshire?\\nAt howes or hillocks never stumbled,\\nAnd late or early never grumbled?\\nO, had I power like inclination,\\nI d heeze thee up a constellation!\\nTo canter with the Sagitarre,\\nOr loup the Ecliptic like a bar,\\nOr turn the Pole like any arrow\\nOr, when auld Phoebus bids good-\\nmorrow,\\nDown the Zodiac urge the race,\\nAnd cast dirt on his godship s face\\nFor I could lay my bread and kail\\nHe d ne er cast saut upo thy tail!\\nWi a this care and a this grief.\\nAnd sma sma prospect of relief,\\nAnd nought but peat reek i my head,\\nHow can I write what ye can read?\\nTarbolton, twenty-fourth o June,\\nYe 11 find me in a better tune\\nBut till we meet and weet our whistle,\\nTak this excuse for nae epistle.\\nRobert Burns.\\nTO ALEX. CUNNINGHAM.\\nEllisland in Nithsdale,\\nJuly i-jth, 1788.\\n[Burns and Cunningham were on the\\nfriendliest terms until the poet s death. It\\nwas Cunningham who originated both the\\nsuljsciiption on behalf oi Mrs. Burns and\\nthe scheme for a collected edition, and to\\nhim the success of both enterprises is chiefly\\ndue.]\\nI.\\nMy godlike friend nay, do not\\nstare\\nYou think the praise is odd-like?\\nBut God is Love, the saints declare\\nThen surely thou art god-like\\nAnd is thy ardour still the same,\\nAnd kindled still in Anna?\\nOthers may boast a partial flame,\\nBut thou art a volcano!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0201.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "154\\nTO KOISERr GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY.\\nEven Wedlock asks not love beyond\\nDeath s tie-dissolving portal\\nBut thou, omnipotently fond,\\nMay st promise love immortal!\\nThy wounds such healing powers\\ndefy,\\nSuch symptoms dire attend them,\\nThat last great antihectic try\\nMarriage perhaps may mend them.\\nSweet Anna has an air a grace,\\nDivine, magnetic, touching\\nShe takes, she charms but who can\\ntrace\\nThe process of bewitching\\nTO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,\\nOF FINTRY,\\nREQUESTING A FAVOUR.\\n[Robert Graham of Fintry was one of\\nthe Commissioners of Excise. The Epis-\\ntle was the poet s earliest attempt in the\\nmanner of Pope.]\\nWhen Nature her great master-piece\\ndesigned,\\nAnd framed her last, best work, the\\nhuman mind,\\nHer eye intent on all the wondrous\\nplan.\\nShe formVI of various stuff the various\\nMan.\\nThe useful many first, she calls them\\nforth\\nPlain plodding Industry and sober\\nWorth\\nThence peasants, farmers, native sons\\nof earth.\\nAnd merchandise whole genus take\\ntheir birth\\nEach prudent cit a warm existence\\nfinds,\\nAnd all mechanics many-apron d\\nkinds.\\nSome other rarer sorts are wanted\\nyet\\nThe lead and buoy are needful to tlie\\nnet\\nThe caput mortiiiiiit of gross desires\\nMakes a material for mere knights\\nand squires\\nThe martial phosphorus is taught to\\nflow\\nShe kneads the lumpish philosophic\\ndough.\\nThen marks th unyielding mass with\\ngrave designs\\nLaw, physic, politics, and deep di-\\nvines\\nLast, she sublimes th Aurora of the\\npoles.\\nThe flashing elements of female souls.\\nThe order d system fair before her\\nstood\\nNature, well pleas d, pronounc d it\\nvery good\\nYet ere she gave creating labour o er.\\nHalf-jest, she tried one curious labour\\nmore.\\nSome spumy, fiery, ignis faiiius mat-\\nter.\\nSuch as the slightest breath of air\\nmight scatter\\nWith arch-alacrity and conscious glee\\n(Nature may have her whim as well\\nas we\\nHer Hogarth-art, perhaps she meant\\nto show it).\\nShe forms the thing, and christens it\\na Poet\\nCreature, tho oft the prey of care and\\nsorrow.\\nWhen blest to-day, unmindful of to-\\nmorrow\\nA being form d t amuse his graver\\nfriends\\nAdmir d and prais d and there the\\nwages ends\\nA mortal quite unfit for Fortune s strife", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0202.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY.\\n155\\nYet oft the sport of all the ills of life\\nProne to enjoy each pleasure riches\\ngive.\\nYet haply wanting wherewithal to live\\nLonging to wipe each tear, to heal\\neach groan,\\nYet frequent all unheeded in his own.\\nBut honest Nature is not quite a\\nTurk\\nShe laughed at first, then felt for her\\npoor work.\\nViewing the propless climber of man-\\nkind,\\nShe cast about a standard tree to\\nfind\\nIn pity for his helpless woodbine\\nstate.\\nShe clasp d his tendrils round the\\ntruly great\\nA title, and the only one I claim.\\nTo lay strong hold for help on\\nbounteous Graham.\\nPity the hapless Muses tuneful\\ntrain\\nWeak, timid landsmen on life s stormy\\nmain,\\nTheir hearts no selfish, stern, absor-\\nbent stuff.\\nThat never gives tho humbly takes\\nenough\\nThe little Fate allows, they share as\\nsoon.\\nUnlike sage, proverb d Wisdom s\\nhard-wrung boon.\\nThe world were blest did bliss on\\nthem depend\\nAh, that the friendly e er should\\nwant a friend\\nLet Prudence number o er each\\nsturdy son\\nWho life and wisdom at one race\\nbegim,\\nWho feel by reason, and who give\\nby rule\\n(Instinct s a brute, and Sentiment a\\nfool\\nWho make poor will do wait upon\\nI should\\nWe own they re prudent, but who\\nowns they re good\\nYe wise ones, hence! ye hurt the\\nsocial eye,\\nGod s image rudely etch d on base\\nalloy\\nBut come ye who the godlike pleasure\\nknow,\\nHeaven s attribute distinguish d to\\nbestow\\nWhose arms of love would grasp all\\nhuman race\\nCome thou who giv st with all a\\ncourtier s grace\\nFriend pi my life, true patron of my\\nrhymes,\\nProp of my dearest hopes for future\\ntimes\\nWhy shrinks my soul, half blush-\\ning, half afraid,\\nBackward, abash d to ask thy friendly\\naid?\\nI know my need, I know thy giving\\nhand,\\nI tax thy friendship at thy kind com-\\nmand.\\nBut there are such who court the\\ntuneful Nine\\n(Heavens! should the branded char-\\nacter be mine\\nWhose verse in manhood s pride sub-\\nlimely flows.\\nYet vilest reptiles in their begging\\nprose.\\nMark, how their lofty independent\\nspirit\\nSoars on the spurning wing of injur d\\nmerit I\\nSeek you the proofs in private life to\\nfind\\nPity the best of words should be but\\nwind!\\nSo to Heaven s gates the lark s shrill\\nsong ascends.\\nBut grovelling on the earth the carol\\nends.\\nIn all the clam rous cry of starving\\nwant,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0203.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "156 IMPROMPrU TO CAPTAIN RIUDELL, TO JAMES TENNANT.\\nThey dun Benevolence with shame-\\nless front\\nOblige them, patronise their tinsel\\nlays\\nThey persecute you all your future\\ndays\\nEre my poor soul such deep dam-\\nnation stain,\\nMy horny fist assume the plough\\nagain\\nThe pie-bald jacket let me patch once\\nmore\\nOn eighteenpence a week I Ve liv^d\\nbefore.\\nTlio thanks to Heaven, I dare even\\nthat last shift.\\nI trust, meantime, my boon is in thy\\ngift\\nThat, plac d by thee upon the wish d-\\nfor height.\\nWith man and nature fairer in her\\nsight.\\nMy Muse may imp her wing for\\nsome sublimer flight.\\nIMPROMPTU TO CAPTAIN\\nRIDDELL,\\nON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.\\n[Burns s near neighbor at Friars Carse,\\nwho showed him great courtesy, and gave\\nhim a key to his private grounds and\\ntlie Hermitage on Nithside. The news-\\npaper contained some strictures on Burns s\\npoetry.]\\nEllisland, Monday Evening.\\nYour News and Review, Sir,\\nI Ve read through and through,\\nSir,\\nWith little admiring or blaming\\nThe Papers are barren\\nOf home-news or foreign\\nNo murders or rapes worth the nam-\\ninsr.\\nOur friends, the Reviewers,\\nThose chippers and hewers.\\nAre judges of mortar and stone, Sir\\nBut of meet or unmeet\\nIn a fabric complete\\nI 11 ]x)ldly pronounce they are none,\\nSir.\\nIII.\\nMy goose-quill too rude is\\nTo tell all your goodness\\nBestow d on your servant, the Poet\\nWould to God I had one\\nLike a beam of the sun.\\nAnd then all the world, Sir, should\\nknow it\\nREPLY TO A NOTE FROM\\nCAPTAIN RIDDELL.\\n[This trifle was written on the back of a\\nrhyming note from Glenriddell himself.]\\nEllisland.\\nDear Sir, at onie time or tide\\nI d rather sit wi you than ride,\\nTlio H were wi royal Geordie\\nAnd trowth! your kindness soon and\\nlate\\nAft gars me to mj sel look blate\\nThe Lord in Heaven reward ye!\\nR. Burns.\\nTO JAMES TENNANT OF\\nGLENCONNER.\\n[Mr. James Tennant of Glenconner was\\nan old friend of the Poet, and was consulted\\nby him respecting the taking of the farm of\\nEllisland.]\\nAuLD comrade dear and brither\\nsinner.\\nHow s a the folk about Glencon-\\nner", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0204.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "TO JOHN M MURDO.\\n157\\nHow do you this blae eastlin wind,\\nThat s like to bhiw a body blind\\nFor me, my faculties are frozen.\\nMy dearest member nearly dozen d.\\nI ve sent you here, by Johnie Sim-\\nson,\\nTwa sage philosophers to glimpse\\non\\nSmith \\\\vi his sympathetic feeling,\\n_An Reid to common sense appeal-\\ning-\\nPhilosophers have fought and wran-\\ngled,\\nAn meikle Greek an Latin mangled,\\nTill, wi their logic-jargon tir d\\nAnd in the depth of science mir d,\\nTo common sense they now appeal\\nWhat wives and wabsters see and\\nfeel!\\nBut, hark ye, friend I charge you\\nstrictly.\\nPeruse them, an return them quickly\\nFor now 1 m grown sae cursed douse\\nI pray and ponder butt the house\\nMy shins my lane I there sit roastin.\\nPerusing Bunyan, Brown, an Boston\\nTill by an by, if I hand on,\\nI 11 grunt a real gospel groan.\\nAlready I begin to try it,\\nTo cast my een up like a pyet,\\nWhen by the gim she tumbles o er,\\nFlutt ring an gasping in her gore\\nSae shortly you shall see me bright,\\nA burning an a shining light.\\nMy heart-warm love to guid auld\\nGlen,\\nThe ace an wale of honest men\\nWhen bending down wi auld grey\\nhairs\\nBeneath the load of years and cares.\\nMay He who made him still support\\nhim.\\nAn views beyond the grave comfort\\nhim\\nHis worthy fam ly far and near,\\nGod bless them a wi grace and gear\\nMv auld schoolfellow, preacher\\nWillie,\\nThe manly tar, my Mason-billie,\\nAnd Auchenbay, I wish him joy\\nIt he s a parent, lass or boy,\\nMay he be dad and Meg the mither\\nJust five-and-forty years thegither\\nAnd no forgetting wabster Charlie,\\nI m tauld he offers very fairly\\nAn Lord, remember singing Sannock\\nWi hale breeks, saxpence. an a ban-\\nnock\\nAnd next my auld acquaintance,\\nNancy,\\nSince she is fitted to her fancy.\\nAn her kind stars hae airted till her\\nA guid chiel wi a pickle siller\\nMy kindest, best respects, I sen it,\\nTo cousin Kate, an sister Janet\\nTell them, frae me, wi chiels be\\ncautious.\\nFor. faith! they ll aiblins fin them\\nfashions\\nTo grant a heart is fairly civil,\\nBut to grant a maidenhead s the\\ndevil\\nAn lastly, Jamie, for yoursel.\\nMay guardian angels tak a spell.\\nAn steer you seven miles south o\\nHell!\\nBut first, before you see Heaven s\\nglory,\\nMay ye get monie a merry story,\\nMonie a laugh and monie a drink,\\nAnd ay eneugh o needfu clink\\nNow fare ye weel, an joy be wi you\\nFor my sake, this I beg it o you\\nAssist poor Simson a ye can\\nYe 11 fin him just an honest man.\\nSae I conclude, and quat my chanter.\\nYours, saint or sinner,\\nRab the Ranter.\\nTO JOHN M MURDO.\\nWITH SOME OF THE AUTHOR S POEMS.\\n[The note was probably sent after a letter\\nof the poet in which he says he is indebted", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0205.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "158 SONNET TO ROBERT GRAHAM.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK\\nto M Murrlo for a chap containing Five\\nExcellent Songs.\\nO, COULD I give thee India s wealtli,\\nAs I this trifle send\\nBecause thy Joy in both would be\\nTo share them with a friend\\nBut golden sands did never grace\\nThe Heliconian stream\\nThen take what gold could never\\nbuy\\nAn honest Bard s esteem.\\nSONNET TO ROBERT GRA-\\nHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY,\\nON RECEIVING A FAVOUR, I9TH\\nAUGUST, 1789.\\n[The favor was the appointment to an\\nexcise district on which the writer s farm was\\nsituated.]\\nI CALL no Goddess to inspire my\\nstrains\\nA fabled Muse may suit a Bard that\\nfeigns.\\nFriend of my life my ardent spirit\\nburns,\\nAnd all the tribute of my heart re-\\nturns.\\nFor boons accorded, goodness ever\\nnew.\\nThe gift still dearer, as the giver you.\\nThou orb of day thou other paler\\nlight\\nAnd all ye many sparkling stars of\\nnight\\nIf aught that giver from my mind\\nefface.\\nIf I that giver s bounty e er disgrace,\\nThen roll to me along your wand ring\\nspheres\\nOnly to number out a villain s years\\nI lay my hand upon my swelling\\nbreast.\\nAnd grateful would, i)ut cannot, speak\\nthe rest.\\nEPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK.\\n[Thomas Blacklock, a blind poet, prot6g6\\nof David Hume. It was owing to Blacklock\\nthat Burns resolved upon an Edinburgh\\nedition.]\\nEllisland, 21st Oct., 1789.\\nWow, but your letter made me\\nvauntie\\nAnd are ye hale, and weel, and\\ncantie?\\nI kend it still, your wee bit jauntie\\nWad bring ye to\\nLord send you ay as weel s I want ye,\\nAnd then ye 11 do\\nThe Ill-Thief blaw the Heron south.\\nAnd never drink be near his drouth\\nHe tauld mysel by word o mouth.\\nHe d tak my letter:\\nI lippen d to the chiel in trowth.\\nAnd bade nae better.\\nBut aiblins honest Master Heron\\nHad at the time some dainty fair one\\nTo ware his theologic care on\\nAnd holy study,\\nAnd, tired o sauls to waste his lear on,\\nE en tried the body.\\nBut what d ye think, my trusty fier?\\nI m turned a ganger Peace be here!\\nParnassian queires, I fear, I fear.\\nYe 11 now disdain me.\\nAnd then my fifty pounds a year\\nWill little eain me!", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0206.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "TO A GENTLEMAN.\\n159\\nYe glaikit, glcesome, dainty daniies,\\nWha by Castalia s wimplin streamies\\nLowp, sing, and lave your pretty\\nlimbies,\\nYe ken, ye ken,\\nThat Strang necessity supreme is\\nMang sons o men.\\nI hae a wife and twa wee laddies\\nTliey maun hae brose and brats o\\nduddies\\nYe ken yoursels my heart riglit proud\\nis\\nI need na vaunt\\nBut I 11 sned besoms, thraw saugh\\nwoodies,\\nBefore they want.\\nVII.\\nLord help me thro this warld o care!\\nI m weary sick o t late and air!\\nNot but I hae a richer share\\nThan monie ithers\\nBut why should ae man better fare,\\nAnd a men brithers\\nVIII.\\nCome, firm Resolve, take thou the van,\\nThou stalk o carl-hemp in man!\\nAnd let us mind, faint heart ne er wan\\nA lady fair\\nWha does the utmost that he can\\nWill whyles do mair.\\nBut to conclude my silly rhyme\\nI m scant o verse and scant o time)\\nTo make a happy fireside clime\\nTo weans and wife,\\nThat s the true pathos and sublime\\nOf human life.\\nMy compliments to sister Beckie.\\nAnd eke the same to honest Lucky\\nI wat she is a daintie chuckle\\nAs e er tread clay\\nAnd gratefully, my guid auid cockle,\\nI m yours for ay.\\nRobert Burns.\\nTO A GENTLEMAN\\nWHO HAD SENT A NEWSPAPER, AND\\nOFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE\\nOF EXPENSE.\\n[Probably Peter Stuart of the London\\nStar. The hnes were pubUshed in Cur-\\nrie, 1800.]\\nKind Sir, I ve read your paper\\nthrough,\\nAnd faith, to me t was really new!\\nHow guessed ye, Sir, what maist I\\nwanted\\nThis monie a day I ve grain d and\\ngaunted,\\nTo ken what French mischief was\\nbrewin\\nOr what the drumlie Dutch were doin\\nThat vile doup-skelper. Emperor Jo-\\nseph,\\nIf Venus yet had got his nose oif\\nOr how the collieshangie works\\nAtween the Russians and the Turks\\nOr if the Swede, before he halt,\\nWould play anitlier Charles the Twalt\\nIf Denmark, any body spak o t\\nOr Poland, wha had now tlie tack o t\\nHow cut-throat Prussian blades were\\nhingin\\nHow libbet Italy was singing\\nIf Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss\\nWere sayin or takin aught amiss\\nOr how our merry lads at hame\\nIn Britain s court kept up the game\\nHow royal George the Lord leuk\\no er him\\nWas managing St. Stephen s quorum\\nIf sleekit Chatham Will was livin,\\nOr glaikit Charlie got his nieve in\\nHow Daddie Burke the plea was\\ncookin\\nIf Warren Hastings neck was vcukin", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0207.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "i6o\\nTO PETER STUART.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ.\\nHow cesses, stents, and fees were\\nrax d,\\nOr if bare arses yet were tax d\\nThe news o princes, dukes, and earls,\\nPimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-\\ngirls\\nIt that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,\\nWas threshin still at hizzies tails\\nOr if he was grown oughtlins douser,\\nAnd no a perfect kintra cooser\\nA this and inair I never heard of.\\nAnd, but for you, I might despair d of.\\nSo, gratefu back your news I send\\nyou,\\nAnd pray a guid things may attend\\nyou!\\nELLISLAND, Monday Morning.\\nTO PETER STUART.\\n[The post-office authorities were evi-\\ndently remiss in tlieir duties, and the poet\\nmissed his paper.]\\nDear Peter, dear Peter,\\nWe poor sons of metre\\nAre often negleckit, ye ken\\nFor instance yt)ur sheet, man\\n(Tho glad 1 m to see man),\\nI get it no ae day in ten.\\nTO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ.,\\nOF TERRAUGHTIE,\\nON HIS BIRTH-DAY.\\n[John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughty\\nand Munches. He died in 1814, aged 94.]\\nHealth to the Maxwells vet Van\\nChief\\nHealth ay unsourM by care or grief\\n1 nspirVl, I turn d Fate s sibyl leaf\\nThis natal morn\\n1 see thy life is stuff o pricf.\\nScarce quite half-worn.\\nII.\\nThis day thou metes threescore\\neleven,\\nAnd I can tell that bounteous Heaven\\n(The second sight, ye ken, is given\\nTo ilka Poet)\\nOn thee a tack o seven times seven,\\nWill yet bestow it.\\nm.\\nIf envious buckles view wi sorrow\\nThy lengthened days on thy blest\\nmorrow.\\nMay Desolation s lang-teeth d har-\\nrow,\\nNine miles aiV hour.\\nRake them, like Sodom and Go-\\nmorrah,\\nIn brunstane stoure\\nIV.\\nBut for thy friends, and they are\\nmonie,\\nBaith honest men and lasses bonie.\\nMay couthie Fortune, kind and can-\\nnie\\nIn social glee,\\nWi mornings blythe and e enings\\nfunny\\nBless them and thee\\nFareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near\\nye,\\nAnd then the Deil, he daurna steer\\nye!\\nYour friends ay love, your foes ay\\nfear ye\\nFor me, shame fa me,\\nIf neist my heart I dinna wear ye.\\nWhile Burns they ca me 1", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0208.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "TO WILLIAM STEWART. TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL.\\ni6i\\nTO WILLIAM STEWART.\\nHonest Bacon was landlord of the\\ninn at BrownhiJl, and a relative of Stewart,\\nwho was factor at Closeburn, hard by.]\\nIn honest Bacon s ingle-netik\\nHere maun I sit and think,\\nSick o the warld and warld s folk,\\nAn sick, damn d sick, o drink!\\nI see, I see there is nae help.\\nBut still doun I maun sink,\\nTill some day laigh enough I yelp\\nWae worth that cursed drink\\nYestreen, alas I was sae fu\\nI could but yisk and wink\\nAnd now, this day, sair, sair I rue\\nThe weary, weary drink.\\nSatan, I fear thy sooty claws,\\nI hate thy brunstane stink,\\nAnd ay I curse the luckless cause\\nThe wicked soup o drink.\\nIn vain I would forget my woes\\nIn idle rhyming clink,\\nFor, past redemption damn d in\\nprose,\\nI can do nought but drink.\\nTo you my trusty, well-tried friend.\\nMay heaven still on you blink\\nAnd may your life flow to the end.\\nSweet as a dry man s drink\\nINSCRIPTION TO MISS GRA-\\nHAM OF FINTRY.\\n[Daughter of Burns s patron in the de-\\npartment of the Customs. Published by\\nCurrie, 1800.]\\nHere, where the Scottish Muse im-\\nmortal lives\\nIn sacred strains and tuneful num-\\nbers join d.\\nAccept the gift Though humble he\\nwho gives.\\nRich is tha tribute of the grateful\\nmind.\\nSo may no ruffian feeling in thy\\nbreast.\\nDiscordant, jar thy bosom-chords\\namong\\nBut peace attune thy gentle soul to\\nrest.\\nOr Love ecstatic wake his seraph-\\nsong\\nIII.\\nOr Pity s notes in luxury of tears.\\nAs modest Want the tale of woe\\nreveals\\nWhile conscious Virtue all the strain\\nendears,\\nAnd heaven-born Piety her sanc-\\ntion seals\\nRobert Burns.\\nDumfries, -^i^st January 1794.\\nREMORSEFUL APOLOGY.\\n[Probably Mrs. Walter Riddell is the\\nlady addressed.]\\nThe friend whom, wild from Wis-\\ndom s way.\\nThe fumes of wine infuriate send\\n(Not moony madness more astray).\\nWho but deplores that hapless\\nfriend\\nII.\\nMine was th insensate, frenzied part\\nAh why should I such scenes\\noutlive?\\nScenes so abhorrent to my heart\\nT is thine to pity and forgive.\\nTO COLLECTOR MITCHELL.\\n[Burns was on very friendly terms with\\nMitchell, and often sent him first drafts for\\ncriticism.]\\nFriend of the Poet, tried and leal,\\nWha wanting thee might beg or\\nsteal", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0209.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "l62\\nTO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,\\nAlake. alnkc, the meikle Deil\\n\\\\Vi a his witches\\nAre at it, skelpin jig an reel\\nIn my poor pouches\\nI modestly fu fain wad hint it,\\nThat One-pound-one, I sairly want it\\nIf wi the hizzie down ye sent it.\\nIt wad be kind\\nAnd while my heart wi life-blood\\ndunted,\\nd bear H in mind\\nIII.\\nSo may the old year gang out moanin\\nTo see the New come laden, groanin\\nWi double plenty o er the loanin\\nTo thee and thine\\nDomestic peace and comforts crownin\\nThe hale design\\nPostscript.\\nIV.\\nYe *ve heard this while how I Ve been\\nlicket,\\nAnd by fell Death was nearly nicket\\nGrim loon He got me by the\\nfecket,\\nAnd sair me sheuk\\nBut by guid luck I lap a wicket,\\nAnd turn d a neuk.\\nBut by that health, I ve got a share\\no t,\\nAnd by that life, I m promised mair\\no t.\\nMy hale and week I 11 tak a care o t,\\nA tentier way\\nThen farewell Folly, hide and hair o t,\\nFor ance and ay\\nTO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.\\n[Colonel Arentz Schuyler de Peyster was\\ndescended from a Huguenot family settled\\nin America, and .served with distinction in\\nthe American war. He was colonel of the\\nDumfiies Volunteers.]\\nI.\\nMv honor d Colonel, deep I feel\\nYour interest in the Poet s weal\\nAh now sma heart hae I to speel\\nThe steep Parnassus,\\nSurrounded thus by bolus pill\\nAnd potion glasses.\\nO. what a canty world were it,\\nWould pain and care and sickness\\nspare it.\\nAnd Fortune favor worth and merit\\nAs they deserve.\\nAnd ay a rowth roast-beef and\\nclaret\\nSyne, wha wad starve\\nDame Life, tho fiction out may trick\\nher.\\nAnd in paste gems and frippery deck\\nher.\\nOh flickering, feeble, and unsicker\\nI ve found her still\\nAy wavering, like the willow-wicker,\\nT ween good and ill\\nThen that curst carmagnole, Auld\\nSatan,\\nWatches, like baudrons by a ration,\\nOur sinfu sauI to get a claut on\\nWi felon ire\\nSyne, whip his tail ye 11 ne er cast\\nsaut on\\nHe s aff like fire.\\nAll Nick Ah Nick it is na fair.\\nFirst showing us tlie tempting ware.\\nBright wines and bonic lasses rare.\\nTo put us daft", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0210.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "TO MISS JESSIE LEWARS. INSCRIPTION.\\n163\\nSyne weave, unseen, thy spider snare\\nO Hell s damned waft\\nPoor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,\\nAnd aft, as chance he comes thee\\nnigh,\\nThy damn d auld elbow yeuks wi\\njoy\\nAnd hellish pleasure,\\nAlready in thy fancy s eye\\nThy sicker treasure\\nSoon, heels o er gowdie, in he gangs.\\nAnd, like a sheep-head on a tangs,\\nThy girnin laugh enjoys his pangs\\nAnd murdering wrestle,\\nAs, dangling in the wind, he hangs\\nA gibbet s tassle.\\nVIII.\\nBut lest you think I am uncivil\\nTo plague you with this draunting\\ndrivel.\\nAbjuring a intentions evil,\\nI quat my pen\\nThe Lord preserve us frae the Devil\\nAmen! Amen!\\nTO MISS JESSIE LEWARS.\\n[On a copy of the Scots Musical Mu-\\nseum, in four volumes, presented to her\\nby Burns.]\\nThine be the volumes, Jessie fair.\\nAnd with them take the Poet s\\nprayer\\nThat Fate may in her fairest page.\\nWith ev ry kindliest, best presage\\nOf future bliss enrol thy name\\nWith native worth, and spotless\\nfame.\\nAnd wakeful caution, still aware\\nOf ill but chief Man s felon snare!\\nAll blameless joys on earth we find,\\nAnd all the treasures of the mind\\nThese be thy guardian and reward\\nSo prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.\\nRobert Burns.\\nJune 26th, 1796.\\nINSCRIPTION\\nWRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A\\nCOPY OF THE LAST EDITION OF MY\\nPOEMS, PRESENTED TO THE LADY\\nWHOM, IN SO MANY FICTITIOUS REV-\\nERIES OF PASSION, BUT WITH THE\\nMOST ARDENT SENTIMENTS OF REAL\\nFRIENDSHIP, I HAVE SO OFTEN SUNG\\nUNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS.\\n[The lady was Miss Jean Lorimer, daugh-\\nter of a farmer residing a little distance from\\nDumfries.]\\nT IS Friendship s pledge, my young,\\nfair Friend,\\nNor thou the gift refuse\\nNor with unwilling ear attend\\nThe moralising Muse.\\nII.\\nall\\nthy youth and\\nSince thou\\ncharms\\nMust bid the world adieu\\n(A world gainst peace in constant\\narms).\\nTo join the friendly few\\nSince, thy gay morn of life o ercast.\\nChill came the tempest s lour\\n(And ne er Misfortune s eastern blast\\nDid nip a f^iirer flower)\\nSince life s gay scenes must charm no\\nmore\\nStill much is left behind,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0211.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "164\\nPROLOGUE FOR MR. WOODS.\\nStill nobler wealth hast thou in store\\nThe comforts of the mind!\\nThine is the self-approving glow\\nOf conscious honor s part\\nAnd (dearest gift of Heaven below)\\nThine Friendship s truest heart\\nThe joys refin d of sense and taste,\\nWitli every Muse to rove\\nAnd doubly were the Poet blest,\\nThese joys could he improve.\\nUne Bagatelle de VAmitU.\\nCOILA.\\nTHEATRICAL PIECES.\\nPROLOGUE\\nSPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENE-\\nFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, i6th APRIL,\\n1787.\\n[Burns s interest in Woods was probably\\nquickened by the player s friendship with\\nP ergusson, who in his Last Will bequeatiis\\nhim his Shakespeare.]\\nWhen by a generous Public s kind\\nacclaim\\nThat dearest need is granted\\nhonest fame\\nWhen here your favour is the actor s\\nlot,\\nNor even the man in private life for-\\ngot\\nWhat breast so dead to heavenly\\nVirtue s glow\\nBut heaves impassion d with the\\ngrateful throe\\nPoor is the task to please a barb rous\\nthrong:\\nIt needs no Siddons s powers in\\nSouthern s song.\\nBut here an ancient nation, fam d\\nafar\\nFor genius, learning high, as great in\\nwar.\\nHail, Caledonia, name for ever dear\\nBefore whose sons I m honor d to\\nappear\\nWhere every science, every nobler\\nart,\\nThat can inform the mind or mend\\nthe heart.\\nIs known (as grateful nations oft\\nhave found),\\nFar as the rude barbarian marks the\\nbound\\nPhilosoph} no idle pedant dream,\\nHere holds her search by heaven-\\ntaught Reason s beam\\nHere History paints with elegance\\nand force\\nThe tide of Empire s fluctuating\\ncourse\\nHere Douglas forms wild Shakspeare\\ninto plan,\\nAnd Harley rouses all the God in\\nman.\\nWhen well-form d taste and sparkling\\nwit unite\\nWith manly lore, or female beauty\\nbright\\n(Beauty, where faultless symmetry\\nand grace\\nCan only charm us in the second\\nplace).\\nWitness my heart, how oft with pant-\\ning fear,\\nAs on this night, I ve met these\\njudges here\\nBut still the hope Experience taught\\nto live\\nEqual to judge, you re candid to for-\\ngive.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0212.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "PROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE OF DUMFRIES.\\n165\\nNo hundred-headed Riot here we\\nmeet,\\nWith Decency and Law beneath his\\nfeet;\\nNor Insolence assumes fair Freedom s\\nname\\nLike Caledonians you applaud or\\nblame\\nO Thou, dread Power, Whose empire-\\ngiving hand\\nHas oft been stretch d to shield the\\nhonored land!\\nStrong may she glow with all her\\nancient fire\\nMay every son be worthy of his sire\\nF irm may she rise, with generous dis-\\ndain\\nAt Tyranny s, or direr Pleasure s\\nchain\\nStill self-dependent in her native\\nshore,\\nBold may she brave grim Danger s\\nloudest roar.\\nTill Fate the curtain drop on worlds\\nto be no more\\nPROLOGUE SPOKEN AT THE\\nTHEATRE OF DUMFRIES,\\nON NEW year s day EVENING, I790.\\n[Of this Prologue Burns writes to Mr.\\nGeorge Sutherland, Player, Dumfries.\\nThe enclosed verses are very incorrect\\nbut if they can be of any service to Mr.\\nSutherland and his friends I shall kiss my\\nhands to my Lady Muse, and own myself\\nmuch her debtor.\\nNo song nor dance I bring from yon\\ngreat city\\nThat queens it o er our taste -the\\nmore s the pity!\\nTho by the bye, abroad why will you\\nroam\\nGood sense and taste are natives here\\nat home.\\nBut not for panegyric I appear\\nI come to wish you all a good New\\nYear\\nOld Father Time deputes me here\\nbefore ye.\\nNot for to preach, but tell his simple\\nstory.\\nThe sage, grave Ancient cough d, and\\nbade me say\\nYou re one year older this important\\nday.\\nIf wiser too he hinted some sug-\\ngestion,\\nBut would be rude, you know, to ask\\nthe question\\nAnd with a would-be-roguish leer and\\nwink\\nHe bade me on you press this one\\nword Think\\nYe sprightly youths, quite flush\\nwith hope and spirit,\\nWho think to storm the world by dint\\nof merit,\\nTx) you the dotard has a deal to say.\\nIn his sly, dry, sententious, proverb\\nway!\\nHe bids you mind, amid your thought-\\nless rattle.\\nThat the first blow is ever half the\\nbattle\\nThat, tho some by the skirt may try\\nto snatch him\\nYet by the forelock is the hold to\\ncatch him\\nThat, whether doing, suffering, or\\nforbearing.\\nYou may do miracles by persevering.\\nLast, tho not least in love, ye youth-\\nful fair.\\nAngelic forms, high Heaven s pecul-\\niar care\\nTo you old Bald-Pate smoothes his\\nwrinkled brow.\\nAnd humbly begs you ll mind the\\nimportant Now\\nTo crown your happiness he asks your\\nleave.\\nAnd offers bliss to give and to receive.\\nFor our sincere, tho haply weak\\nendeavours,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0213.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "1 66\\nSCOTS PROLOGUE FOR MRS. SU llIERLAND.\\nWith grateful pride we own your many\\nfavours\\nAnd howsoe er our tongues may ill\\nreveal it,\\nBelieve our glowing bosoms truly\\nfeel it.\\nSCOTS PROLOGUE FOR MRS.\\nSUTHERLAND,\\nON HER BENEFIT NIGHT AT THE\\nTHEATRE, DUMFRIES, MARCH 3D,\\n1790.\\n[This Prologue has been hitherto desig-\\nnated as for Air. Sutlierland, but that it was\\nfor his wife is proved, first by an unpub-\\nhshed letter to ]\\\\Irs. Dunlop: Tlie follow-\\ning is a Prologue I made for his wife and\\nsecond by a humorous letter (unpublished)\\nto Provost Staig, Dumfries, in which Burns\\nstates that Sutherland had asked him tor\\na Prologue for Mrs. Sutherland s benefit\\nnight. Centenary Edition.]\\nWhat needs this din about the town\\no London,\\nHow this new play an that new song\\nis comin?\\nWhy is outlandish stuff sae meikle\\ncourted\\nDoes Nonsense mend like brandy\\nwhen imported?\\nIs there nae jjoet, burning keen for\\nfame.\\nWill bauldly try to gie us jjlays at\\nhame\\nFor Comedy abroad he need na toil\\nA. knave and fool are plants of every\\nsoil.\\nNor need he stray as far as Rome or\\nGreece\\nTo gather matter for a serious piece\\nThere s themes enow in Caledonian\\nstory\\nWould show the tragic Muse in a\\nher glory.\\nIs there no daring Bard will rise and\\ntell\\nHow glorious Wallace stood, how\\nhapless fell?\\nWhere are the Muses fled that could\\nproduce\\nA drama worthy o tlie name o Bruce?\\nHow here, even here, he first un-\\nsheathed the sword\\nGainst mighty England and her\\nguilty lord.\\nAnd after monie a bloody, deathless\\ndoing,\\nWrench d his dear country from the\\njaws of Ruin\\nO, for a Shakespeare, or an Otway\\nscene\\nTo paint the lovely, hapless Scottish\\nC2ueen\\nVain all th omnipotence of female\\ncharms\\nGainst headlong, ruthless, mad Re-\\nbellion s arms\\nShe fell, but fell with spirit truly\\nRoman,\\nTo glut the vengeance of a rival\\nwoman\\nA woman (tho the phrase may seem\\nuncivil)\\nAs able and as cruel as the\\nDevil\\nOne Douglas lives in Home s immor-\\ntal page.\\nBut Douglasses were heroes every\\nAnd tho your fathers, prodigal of\\nlife,\\nA Douglas followed to the martial\\nstrife,\\nPerhaps, if bowls row right, and Riglit\\nsucceeds.\\nYe yet may follow where a Douglas\\nleads\\nAs ye hae generous done, if a the\\nland\\nWould take the Muses servants by\\nthe hand\\nNot only hear, but patronize, befriend\\nthem.\\nAnd where ye justly can commend,\\ncommend them\\n1", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0214.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.\\n167\\nAnd aiblins, when they winna stand\\nthe test,\\nWink hard, and say Tlie folks hae\\ndone their best\\nWould a the land do this, then I 11\\nbe caition\\nYe 11 soon hae Poets o the Scottish\\nnation\\nWill gar Fame blaw until her trumpet\\ncrack.\\nAnd warsle Time, an lay him on his\\nback\\nFor us and for our stage, should onie\\nspier\\nWhase aught thae chiels maks a\\nthis bustle here?\\nMy best leg foremost, I 11 set up my\\nbrow\\nWe have the honor to belong to\\nyou\\nWe re your ain bairns, e en guide us\\nas ye like,\\nBut like good mithers, shore before\\nye strike\\nAnd gratefu still I trust ye 11 ever\\nfind us\\nFor gen rous patronage and meikle\\nkindness\\nWe ve got frae a professions setts an\\nranks\\nGod help us we re but poor ye se\\nget but thanks!\\nTHE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.\\nAn Occasional Address.\\nSPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON\\nHER BENEFIT NIGHT NOVEMBER\\n26, 1792.\\n[Sent to Miss Fontenellc in a compli-\\nmentary letter, in which the poet writes;\\nYotir charms as a woman would secure ap-\\nplause to the most indifferent actress, and\\nyour theatrical talents would secure admira-\\ntion to the plainest figure. She played in\\nAmerica under the name of Mrs. Wilkin-\\nson, and died in Charleston, S. C, of yellow\\nfever, September, 1800.]\\nWhile Europe s eye is fix d on\\nmighty things.\\nThe fate of empires and the fall of\\nkings\\nWhile cjuacks ot State must each pro-\\nduce his plan.\\nAnd even children lisp the Rights of\\nMan\\nAmid this mighty fuss just let me\\nmention.\\nThe Rights of Woman merit some\\nattention.\\nFirst, in the sexes intermix d connex-\\nion\\nOne sacred Right of Woman is Pro-\\ntection\\nThe tender flower, that lifts its head\\nelate.\\nHelpless must fall before the blasts of\\nfate.\\nSunk on the earth, defac d its lovely\\nform.\\nUnless your shelter ward th impend-\\ning storm.\\nOur second Right but needless here\\nis caution\\nTo keep that right inviolate s the\\nfashion\\nEach man of sense has it so full before\\nhim.\\nHe d die before he d wrong it t is\\nDecorum\\nThere was, indeed, in far less polish d\\ndays,\\nA time, when rough rude Man had\\nnaughty wa_\\\\-s\\nWould swagger, swear, get drunk,\\nkick up a riot,\\nNay, even thus invade a lady s quiet\\nNow, thank our stars these Gothic\\ntimes are fled\\nNow, well-bred men and you are all\\nwell-bred\\nMost justly think (and we are much\\nthe gainers)", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0215.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "1 68\\nADDRESS FOR MISS 10\\\\ 1 ENKLLL:.\\nSuch conduct neither spn^it, wit, nor\\nmanners.\\nFor Right the third, our last, our best,\\nour dearest\\nThat right to fluttering female hearts\\nthe nearest,\\nWhich even the Rights of Kings, in\\nlow prostration.\\nMost humbly own t is dear, dear\\nAdmiration\\nIn that blest sphere alone we live and\\nmove\\nThere taste that life of life Immor-\\ntal Love.\\nSmiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirta-\\ntions, airs\\nGainst such an host what flinty sav-\\nage dares?\\nWhen awful Beauty joins with all her\\ncharms.\\nWho is so rash as rise in rebel arms?\\nBut truce with kings, and truce with\\nconstitutions.\\nWith bloody armaments and revolu-\\ntions\\nLet Majesty your first attention sum-\\nmon\\nAh ga zra the Majesty of Woman\\nADDRESS\\nSPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON\\nHER BENEFIT NIGHT, DECEMBER\\n4TH, 1793, AT THE THEATRE, DUM-\\nFRIES.\\nStill anxious to secure your partial\\nfavor.\\nAnd not less anxious, sure, this night\\nthan ever,\\nA Prologue, Epilogue, or some such\\nmatter,\\n*T would vamp my bill, said I, if noth-\\ning better\\nSo sought a Poet roosted near the\\nskies\\nTold him I came to feast my curious\\neyes\\nSaid, nothing like his works was ever\\nprinted\\nAnd last, my prologue-business slily\\nhinted.\\nMa am, let me tell you, quoth my\\nman of rhymes,\\nI know your bent these are no\\nlaughing times\\nCan you but. Miss, I own I have my\\nfears\\nDissolve in pause, and sentimental\\ntears\\nWith laden sighs and solemn-rounded\\nsentence.\\nRouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell\\nRepentance?\\nPaint Vengeance, as he takes his\\nhorrid stand.\\nWaving on high the desolating brand,\\nCalling the storms to bear him o er a\\nguilty land\\nI could no more Askance the crea-\\nture eyeing\\nD ye think, said I, this face was\\nmade for crying?\\nril laugh, that spoz nay more, the\\nworld shall know it\\nAnd so, your servant gloomy Master\\nPoet\\nFirm as my creed, Sirs, t is my fix d\\nbelief\\nThat Misery s another word for\\nGrief.\\nI also think (so may I be a bride!)\\nThat, so much laughter, so much life\\nenjoy d.\\nThou man of crazy care and ceaseless\\nsigh.\\nStill under bleak Misfortune s blasting\\neye\\nDoom d to that sorest task of man\\nalive\\nTo make three guineas do the work of\\nfive\\nLaugh in Misfortune s face the bel-\\ndam witch\\nSay you 11 be merry, tho you can t be\\nrich", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0216.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB.\\n169\\nThou other man of care, the wretch\\nm love!\\nWho long with jiltish arts and airs hast\\nstrove\\nWho, as the boughs all temptingly\\nproject,\\nMeasur st in desperate thought a\\nrope thy neck\\nOr, where the beetling cliff o erhangs\\nthe deep,\\nPeerest to meditate the healing\\nleap\\nWould st thou be cur d, thou silly,\\nmoping elf?\\nLaugh at her follies, laugh e en at thy-\\nself;\\nLearn to despise those frowns now so\\nterrific,\\nAnd love a kinder that s your grand\\nspecific.\\nTo sum up all be merry, I advise\\nAnd as we re merry, may we still be\\nwise\\nPOLITICAL PIECES.\\nADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB\\nTo the Right Honorable the Earl of\\nBreadalbane, President of the Flight Honor-\\nable the Highland Society, which met on the\\n23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent\\nGarden, to concert ways and means to frus-\\ntrate the designs of five hundred Highland-\\ners who, as the Society were informed by\\nMr. M Kenzie of Applecross, were so auda-\\ncious as to attempt an escape from their\\nlawful lords and masters whose property\\nthey were, by emigrating from the lands of\\nMr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of\\nCanada, in search of that fantastic thing\\nLiberty.\\nHighlanders in those days wanted to\\nemigrate, the chiefs wanted them to stay at\\nhome. The parts have long been inverted.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nLong life, my lord, an health be yours,\\nUnskaith d by hunger d Highland\\nboors\\nLord grant nae duddie, desperate beg-\\ngar,\\nWi dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,\\nMay twin auld Scotland o a life\\nSite likes as lambkins like a knife\\nFaith! you and Applecross were right\\nTo keep the Highland hounds in sight!\\nI doubt na! they wad bid nae better\\nTitan let them ance out owre the water!\\nThen up amang thae lakes and seas,\\nThey 11 mak what rules and laws they\\nplease\\nSome daring Hancock, or a Franklin,\\nMay set their Highland bluid a-ranklin\\nSome Washington again may head\\nthem.\\nOr some Montgomerie, fearless, lead\\nthem\\nTill (God knows what may be effected\\nWhen by such heads and hearts\\ndirected)\\nPoor dunghill sons of dirt an mire\\nMay to Patrician rights aspire!\\nNae sage North now, nor sager Sack-\\nville,\\nTo watch and premier owre the pack\\nvile!\\nAn whare will ye get Howes and\\nClintons\\nTo bring them to a right repentance?\\nTo cowe the rebel generation,\\nAn save the honor o the nation?\\nThey, an be damn d! what right hae\\nthey\\nTo meat or sleep or light o day.\\nFar less to riches, pow r, or freedom.\\nBut what your lordship likes to gie\\nthem\\nBut hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!\\nYour hand s owre light on them. I fear\\nYour factors, grieves, trustees, and bail-\\nies,\\nI canna say but they do gaylies\\nThey lay aside a tender mercies.\\nAn tirl the bullions to the birses.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0217.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "170\\nBIRTHDAY ODE.\\nYet while they re only poind and\\nherriet,\\nThey ll keep their stubborn Highland\\nspirit.\\nBut .smash them! crush them a to\\nspails,\\nAn rot the dyvors i tlic jails\\nThe young dogs, swinge them to tlie\\nlabour\\nLet wark an hunger mak them sober!\\nThe hizzies, if they re aughtlins faw-\\nsont,\\nLet tliem in Drury Lane be lesson d\\nAn if the wives an dirty brats\\nCome thiggin at your doors an yetts,\\nF laffin wi duds an grey wi beas\\nP righten awa your deuks an geese,\\nGet out a horsewhip or a jowler.\\nThe langest thong, the fiercest growler,\\nAn gar the tatter d gypsies pack\\nWi a their bastards on their back!\\nGo on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,\\nAn in my house at hame to greet you.\\nWi common lords ye shanna mingle\\nThe benmost neuk beside the ingle,\\nAt my right han assigned your seat\\nTween Herod s hip an Polycrate,\\nOr (if you on your station tarrow)\\nBetween Almagro and Pizarro,\\nA seat, I m sure ye re vveel deservin t\\nAn till ye come your humble ser-\\nBeelzebub.\\nHell,\\nij/ June, Anno Mundi 5790.\\nBIRTHDAY ODE FOR 31ST\\nDECEMBER, 1787.\\nThis piece has a melancholy interest.\\nThe greatest of Scottish poets wrote the\\nlast Birthday Ode for the last hope of the\\nStuart line. In a month the king was dead.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nAfar the illustrious Exile roams,\\nWhom kingdoms on this day\\nshould hail.\\nAn inmate in the casual shed,\\nOn transient pity s bounty fed,\\nHaunted by busy Memory s bitter\\ntale\\nBeasts of the forest have their\\nsavage homes,\\nBut He, who should imi)crial\\npurple wear,\\nOwns not the lap of earth where rests\\nhis royal head\\nHis wretched refuge dark despair.\\nWhile ravening wrongs and woes\\npursue,\\nAnd distant far the faithful few\\nWho would his sorrows share\\nFalse flatterer, Hope, away.\\nNor think to lure us as in days\\nof yore\\nWe solemnize this sorrowing natal\\nday.\\nTo prove our loyal truth we\\ncan no more\\nAnd, owning Heaven s mysterious\\nsway.\\nSubmissive, low, adore.\\nYe honor d, mighty Dead,\\nWho nobly perish d in the glori-\\nous cause,\\nYour King, your Country, and\\nIier laws\\nFrom great Dundee, who smiling\\nVictory led\\nAnd fell a Martyr in her arms\\n(What breast of northern ice but\\nwarms\\nTo bold Balmerino s undying name.\\nWhose soul of fire, lighted at Heav-\\nen s high flame.\\nDeserves the proudest wreath de-\\nparted heroes claim\\nNot unrevenged your fate shall lie.\\nIt only lags, the fatal hour\\nYour blood shall with incessant cry\\nAwake at last th unsparing\\nPower.\\nAs from the cliff, with thundering\\ncourse,\\nThe snowy ruin smokes along\\nWith doubling speed and gathering\\nforce,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0218.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "ODE TO THE DEPARTED REGENCY BILL.\\n171\\nTill deep it, crushing, whelips the\\ncottage in the vale,\\nSo Vengeance arm, ensanguined,\\nstrong,\\nShall with resistless might assail,\\nUsurping Brunswick s pride shall\\nlay,\\nAnd Stewart s wrongs and 3 ours with\\ntenfold weight repay.\\nPerdition, baleful child of night,\\nRise and revenge the injured right\\nOf Stewart s royal race!\\nLead on the unmuzzled hounds of\\nHell,\\nTill all the frighted echoes tell\\nThe blood-notes of the chase\\nFull on the quarry point their view.\\nFull on the base usurping crew.\\nThe tools of faction and the nation s\\ncurse\\nHark how the cry grows on the\\nwind\\nThey leave the lagging gale be-\\nhind\\nTheir savage fury, pityless, they\\npour;\\nWith murdering eyes already they\\ndevour\\nSee Brunswick spent, a wretched\\nHis life one poor despairing day,\\nWhere each avenging hour still ushers\\nin a worse\\nSuch Havoc, howling all abroad.\\nTheir utter ruin bring.\\nThe base apostates to their God\\nOr rebels to their King\\nODE TO THE DEPARTED\\nREGENCY BILL.\\n[Fox insisted on a reg-ency during the\\ninsanity of George IIL Pitt opposed. In\\nthe meantime the king began to recover.]\\nDaughter of Chaos doting years,\\nNurse of ten thousand hopes and\\nfears\\nWhether thy airy, unsubstantial shade\\n(The rights of sepulture now duly\\npaid)\\nSpread abroad its hideous form\\nOn the roaring civil storm.\\nDeafening din and warring rage\\nFactions wild with factions wage\\nOr Underground\\nDeep-sunk, profound\\nAmong the demons of the earth.\\nWith groans that make\\nThe mountains shake\\nThou mourn thy ill-starr d blighted\\nbirth\\nOr in the uncreated Void,\\nWhere seeds of future being fight,\\nWith lighten d step thou wander\\nwide\\nTo greet thy mother Ancient\\nNight\\nAnd as each jarring inonster-mass is\\npast.\\nFond recollect what once thou wast\\nIn manner due, beneath this sacred\\noak,\\nHear, Spirit, hear thy presence I\\ninvoke\\nBy a Monarch s heaven-struck\\nfate\\nBy a disunited State\\nBy a generous Prince s wrongs\\nBy a Senate s war of tongues\\nBy a Premier s sullen pride\\nLouring on the changing tide\\nBy dread Thurlow s powers to\\nawe\\nRhetoric, blasphemy and law\\nBy the turbulent ocean,\\nA Nation s commotion\\nBy the harlot-caresses\\nOf Borough addresses\\nBy days few and evil\\n(Thy portion, poor devil!).\\nBy Power, Wealth, and Show the\\nGods by men adored\\nBy nameless Poverty their Hell ab-\\nhorred\\nBy all they hope, by all they fear.\\nHear! and Appear", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0219.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "172\\nA NEW PSALM FOR THE CHAPEL OF KILMARNOCK.\\nStare not on me, thou ghostly Power,\\nNor, grim with chain d defiance, lour!\\nNo Babel-structure woukl I build\\nWhere, Order exil d from his native\\nsway,\\nConfusion might the Regent-sceptre\\nwield,\\nWhile all would rule and none obey.\\nGo to the world of Man, relate\\nThe story of thy sad, eventful fate\\nAnd call presumptuous Hope to hear\\nAnd bid him check his blind career;\\nAnd tell the sore-prest sons of Care\\nNever, never to despair\\nPaint Charles s speed on wings of fire,\\nThe object of his fond desire.\\nBeyond his boldest hopes, at hand.\\nPaint all the triumph of the Portland\\nBand\\n(Hark! how they lift the joy-exulting\\nvoice,\\nAnd how their numerous creditors\\nrejoice!)\\nBut just as hopes to warm enjoyment\\nrise,\\nCry Convalescence! and the vision\\nflies.\\nThen next pourtray a dark ning twi-\\nliglit gloom\\nEclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn.\\nWhile proud Ambition to th un-\\ntimely tomb\\nBy gnashing, grim, despairing fiends\\nis borne\\nPaint Ruin, in the shape of high\\nDundas\\nGaping with giddy terror o er tlie\\nbrow\\nIn vain he struggles, the Fates behind\\nhim press,\\nAnd clamorous Hell yawns for her\\nprey below!\\nHow fallen That, whose pride late\\nscaled the skies\\nAnd This, like Lucifer, no more to rise\\nAgain pronounce the powerful word\\nSee Day, triumphant from the night,\\nrestored!\\nThen know this truth, ye Sons of\\nMen\\n(Thus ends thy moral tale)\\nYour darkest terrors may be vain,\\nYour brightest hopes may fail!\\nA NEW PSALM FOR THE\\nCHAPEL OF KILMARNOCK,\\non the thanksgiving-day for his\\n.majesty s recovery.\\n[Thursday, April 23, was appointed a\\nday of solemn thanksgiving for the recovery\\nof the king. Burns looked on the whole\\nbusiness as a solemn farce of pageant\\nmummery, and composed this parody.]\\nO, SING a new song to the Lord!\\nMake, all and every one,\\nA joyful noise, ev n for the King\\nHis restoration!\\nThe sons of Belial in the land\\nDid set their heads together.\\nCome, let us sweep them off, said\\nthey,\\nLike an o erflowing river!\\nThey set their heads together, I say.\\nThey set their heads together:\\nOn right, and left, and every hand,\\nWe saw none to deliver.\\nThou madest strong two chosen ones,\\nTo quell the Wicked s pride\\nThat Young Man, great in Issachar,\\nThe burden-bearing tribe\\nAnd him, among the Princes, chief\\nIn our Jerusalem,\\nThe Judge that s mighty in Thy law,\\nThe man that fears Thy name.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0220.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON, C. J. FOX.\\n173\\nYet they, even they with all their\\nstrength,\\nBegan to faint and fail\\nEven as two howling, rav ning wolves\\nTo dogs do turn their tail.\\nTh ungodly o er the just prevail d\\nFor so Thou hadst appointed,\\nThat Thou might st greater glory give\\nUnto Thine own anointed!\\nVIII.\\nAnd now Thou hast restored our\\nState,\\nPity our Kirk also\\nFor she by tribulations\\nIs now brought very low\\nIX.\\nConsume that high-place. Patronage,\\nFrom off Thy holy hill;\\nAnd in Thy fury bm^n the book\\nEven of that man M Gill\\nNow hear our prayer, accept our song,\\nAnd fight Thy chosen s battle!\\nWe seek but little, Lord, from thee\\nThou kens we get as little\\nINSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT\\nHON. C. J. FOX.\\nI have anotlier poetic whim in my head,\\nwhich I at present dedicate, or rather in-\\nscribe, to the Hon. Charles J. Fox; but\\nhow lon tlie fancv may hold I can t say.\\nBurns to Mrs. Dunloi*.]\\nHow Wisdom and Folly meet, mix,\\nand unite.\\nHow Virtue and Vice blend their black\\nand their white,\\nHow Genius, th illustrious father of\\nfiction.\\nConfounds rule and law, reconciles\\ncontradiction,\\nI sing. If these mortals, the critics,\\nshould bustle,\\nI care not, not I let the critics go\\nwhistle\\nBut now for a Patron, whose name\\nand whose glory\\nAt once may illustrate and honor my\\nstory\\nThou first of our orators, first of our\\nwits,\\nYet whose parts and acquirements\\nseem mere lucky hits\\nWith knowledge so vast and with\\njudgment so strong.\\nNo man with the half of em e er could\\ngo wrong\\nWith passions so potent and fancies\\nso bright,\\nNo man with the half of em e er could\\ngo right\\nA sorry, poor, misbegot son of the\\nMuses,\\nFor using thy name, offers fifty excuses.\\nGood Lord, what is Man! For as\\nsimple he looks,\\nDo but try to develop his hooks and\\nhis crooks!\\nWith his depths and his shallows, his\\ngood and his evil,\\nAll in all he s a problem must puzzle\\nthe Devil.\\nOn his one ruling passion Sir Pope\\nhugely labors,\\nThat, like th old Hebrew walking-\\nswitch, eats up its neighbours.\\nHuman Nature s his show-box your\\nfriend, would you know him\\nPull the string, Ruling Passion the\\npicture will show him.\\nWhat pity, in rearing so beauteous a\\nsystem.\\nOne trifling particular Truth\\nshould have miss d him!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0221.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "\u00c2\u00bb74\\nON glenridi)i:ll s I ox i;ri:akix(j his chain.\\nFor, spite of his fine theoretic posi-\\ntions,\\nMankind is a science defies defi-\\nnitions.\\nSome sort all our qualities each to\\nits tribe,\\nAnd thinlv Human Nature they truly\\ndescribe\\nHave you found this, or t other?\\nThere s more in the wind,\\nAs by one drunken fellow his comrades\\nyou 11 find.\\nBut such is the flaw, or the depth of\\nthe plan\\nIn the make of that wonderful creature\\ncalled Man,\\nNo two virtues, whatever relation they\\nclaim,\\nNor even two different shades of the\\nsame,\\nThough like as was ever twin brother\\nto brother.\\nPossessing the one shall imply you ve\\nthe other.\\nBut truce with abstraction, and truce\\nwith a Muse\\nWhose rhymes you 11 perhaps, Sir,\\nne er deign to peruse\\nWill you leave your justings, your jars,\\nand your quarrels.\\nContending with Billy for proud-nod-\\nding laurels?\\nMy much-honour d Patron, believe\\nyour poor Poet,\\nYour courage much more than your\\nprudence, you show it.\\nIn vain with Squire Billy for laurels\\nyou struggle\\nHe U have them b} fair trade if not,\\nhe will smuggle\\nNor cabinets even of kings would con-\\nceal em,\\nHe d up the back-stairs, and by God\\nhe would steal em\\nThen feats like Squire Billy s, you\\nne er can achieve em\\nIt is not, out-do him the task is, out-\\nthieve him!\\nON GLKNRIDDELL S FOX\\nBREAKING HIS CHAIN.\\nA FRAGMENT, 1 79 1.\\nA fragment in the manner of Prior and\\nother fabulists of the eighteenth century.\\nThe Wliigs of Sparta had not much to do\\nwith tlie defeat of Xerxes, that abandoned\\nTory. Andrew Lang.]\\nThou, Liberty, thou art my theme\\nNot such as idle poets dream.\\nWho trick thee up a heathen goddess\\nThat a fantastic cap and rod has!\\nSuch stale conceits are poor and silly\\n1 paint thee out a Highland filly,\\nA sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple.\\nAs sleek s a mouse, as round s an\\napple.\\nThat, when thou pleasest, can do\\nwonders,\\nBut when thy luckless rider blunders,\\nOr if thy fancy should demur there,\\nWilt break thy neck ere thou go fur-\\nther.\\nThese things premis d, I sing a\\nFox\\nWas caught among his native rocks.\\nAnd to a dirty kennel chained\\nHow he his liberty regained.\\nGlenriddell a Whig without a stain,\\nA Whig in principle and grain,\\nCould st thou enslave a free-born\\ncreature,\\nA native denizen of Nature?\\nHow could st thou, with a heart so\\ngood\\n(A better ne er was sluiced with\\nblood).\\nNail a poor devil to a tree.\\nThat ne er did harm to thine or thee?\\nThe staunchest Whig Glenriddell\\nwas,\\nQuite frantic in his country s cause\\nAnd oft was Reynard s prison pass-\\ning.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0222.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "ODE FOR GENERAL WASHINGTON S BIRTHDAY.\\n175\\nAnd with his brother-Whigs canvdss-\\ning\\nThe rights of men, the powers of\\nwomen,\\nWith all the dignity of Freemen.\\nSir Reynard daily heard debates\\nOf princes kings and nations fates\\nWith many rueful, bloody stories\\nOf tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories\\nFrom liberty how angels fell,\\nThat now are galley-slaves in Hell\\nHow Nimrod first the trade began\\nOf binding Slavery s chains on man\\nHow fell Semiramis God damn\\nher!\\nDid first, with sacrilegious hammer\\n(All ills till then were trivial matters)\\nFor Man dethron d forge hen-peck\\nfetters\\nHow Xerxes, that abandoned Tory,\\nThought cutting throats was reaping\\nglory.\\nUntil the stubborn Whigs of Sparta\\nTaught him great Nature s Alagna\\nCharta\\nHow mighty Rome her fiat hurl d\\nResistless o er a bowing world,\\nAnd, kinder than they did desire,\\nPolish d mankind with sword and\\nfire\\nWith much too tedious to relate\\nOf ancient and of modern date.\\nBut ending still how Billy Pitt\\n(Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit\\nHas gagg d old Britain, drained her\\ncoffer,\\nAs butchers bind and bleed a heifer.\\nThus wily Reynard, by degrees\\nIn kennel listening at his ease,\\nSuck d in a mighty stock of knowl-\\nedge.\\nAs much as some folks at a college\\nKnew Britain s rights and constitu-\\ntion,\\nHer aggrandisement, diminution\\nHow Fortune wrought us good from\\nevil\\nLet no man, then, despise the Devil,\\nAs who should say I ne er can\\nneed him,\\nSince we to scoundrels owe our Free-\\ndom.\\nON THE COMMEMORATION\\nOF RODNEY S VICTORY,\\nking s arms, DUMFRIES, I2TH APRIL,\\n1793-\\n[Rodney s action off Dominica, April 12,\\n1782, was for some time celebrated year by\\nyear. This version appeared in tlie Edin-\\nburgh Advertiser, April 19, 1793.]\\nInstead of a song, boys, I 11 give you\\na toast\\nHere s the Mem ry of those on the\\nTwelfth that we lost\\nWe lost, did I say No, by Heav n,\\nthat we found\\nFor their fame it shall live while the\\nworld goes round.\\nThe next in succession I 11 give you\\nthe King\\nAnd who would betray him, on high\\nmay he swing\\nAnd here s the grand fabric, our Free\\nConstitution\\nAs built on the base of the great\\nRevolution\\nAnd, longer with Politics not to be\\ncramm d.\\nBe Anarchy curs d, and be Tyranny\\ndamn d\\nAnd who would to Liberty e er prove\\ndisloval.\\nMay his son be a hangman and he\\nhis first trial\\nODE FOR GENERAL WASH-\\nINGTON S BIRTHDAY.\\nI am just going to trouble your criti-\\ncal patience with tlie first sketch of a stanza\\nI have been framing as I paced along the\\nroad. The subject is Liberty you know,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0223.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "176\\nODE FOR GENERAL WASHINGTON S BIRTHDAY.\\nmy honored friend, how dear the theme is\\nto me. I design it as an irregular ode for\\nGeneral Washmglon s Ijirthday.\\nR. B./o Mrs. Uunlop, June 25, 1794.]\\nNo Spartan tube, no Attic shell,\\nNo lyre /Eolian I awake.\\nT is Liberty s bold note 1 swell\\nThy harp, Columbia, let me take\\nSee gathering thousands, while 1 sing,\\nA broken chain, exulting, bring\\nAnd dash it in a tyrant s face,\\nAnd dare him to his very beard,\\nAnd tell him he no more is fearVl,\\nNo more the despot of Colum-\\nbia s race\\nA tyrant s proudest insults brav d.\\nThey shout a People freed They\\nhail an Empire sav d\\nWhere is man s godlike form?\\nWhere is that brow erect and\\nbold,\\nThat eye that can unmov d be-\\nhold\\nThe wildest rage, the loudest storm\\nThat e er created Fury dared to\\nraise\\nAvaunt thou caitiff, servile, base.\\nThat tremblest at a despot s nod.\\nYet, crouching under the iron rod.\\nCanst laud the arm tliat struck\\nth insulting blow\\nArt thou of man s Imperial line\\nDost boast tiiat countenance divine?\\nEach skulking feature answers\\nNo\\nBut come, ye sons of Liberty,\\nColumbia s offspring, brave as free,\\nIn danger s hour still flaming in the\\nvan.\\nYe know, and dare maintain the\\nRoyalty of Man\\nAlfred, on thy starry throne\\nSurrounded by the tuneful choir,\\nThe Bards that erst have strack the\\npatriot lyre.\\nAnd rous d the freeborn Briton s\\nsoul of fire,\\nNo more thy England own!\\nDare injured nations form the great\\ndesign\\nTo make detested tyrants bleed\\nThy England execrates the glorious\\ndeed\\nBeneath her hostile banners wav-\\ning\\nEvery pang of honour braving,\\nEngland in thunder calls: The\\nTyrant s cause is mine\\nThat hour accurst how did the fiends\\nrejoice,\\nAnd Hell thro all her confines raise\\nth exulting voice\\nThat hour which saw the generous\\nEnglish name\\nLink t with such damned deeds of\\neverlasting shame\\nThee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths\\namong.\\nFam d for the martial deed, the\\nheaven-taught song.\\nTo thee I turn with swimming\\neyes\\nWhere is that soul of Freedom fled?\\nImmingled with the mighty dead\\nBeneath that hallow d turf where\\nWallace lies\\nHear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of\\ndeath\\nYe babbling winds, in silence\\nsweep\\nDisturb not ye the hero s sleep,\\nNor give the coward secret breath!\\nIs this the ancient Caledonian form.\\nFirm as her rock, resistless as her\\nstorm\\nShow me that eye which shot immor-\\ntal hate.\\nBlasting the Despot s proudest bear-\\ning\\nShow me that arm which, nerv d with\\nthundering fate,\\nCrush d Usurpation s boldest dar-\\ning\\nDark-quench d as yonder sinking\\nstar,\\nNo more that glance lightens afar,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0224.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "THE FETE- CHAMPETRE.\\n177\\nThat palsied arm no more whirls on\\nthe waste of war.\\nTHE FETE CHAMPETRE.\\nTune Killiecrankie.\\n[This related to a picnic on the coming\\nof age of Mr. Cunningham of Annbank,\\nand was the earhest of a series of election\\nballads.]\\nO, WHA will to Saint Stephen s House,\\nTo do our errands there, man?\\nO, wha will to Saint Stephen s House\\nO th merry lads of Ayr, man\\nOr will ye send a man o law\\nOr will ye send a sodger\\nOr him wha led o er Scotland a\\nThe meikle Ursa-Major\\nII.\\nCome, will ye court a noble lord.\\nOr buy a score o lairds, man\\nFor Worth and Honour pawn their\\nword,\\nTheir vote shall be Glencaird s,\\nman.\\nAne gies them coin, ane gies them\\nwine,\\nAnither gies them clatter\\nAnnbank, wha guess d the ladies\\ntaste.\\nHe gies a Fete Champetre.\\nWhen Love and Beauty heard the\\nnews\\nThe gay-green woods amang, man.\\nWhere, gathering flowers and busk-\\ning bowers,\\nThey heard the blackbird s sang,\\nman,\\nA vow, they seaPd it with a kiss.\\nSir Politics to fetter\\nAs theirs alone the patent bliss\\nTo hold a Fete Champetre.\\nThen mounted Mirth on gleesome\\nwing,\\nO er hill and dale she flew, man\\nIlk wimpling burn, ilk crystal, spring.\\nIlk glen and shaw she knew, man.\\nShe summon d every social sprite,\\nThat sports by wood or water.\\nOn th bonie banks of Ayr to meet\\nAnd keep this Fete Champetre.\\nCauld Boreas wi his boisterous crew\\nWere bound to stakes like kye,\\nman\\nAnd Cynthia s car, o silver fu\\nClamb up the starry sky, man\\nReflected beams dwell in the streams.\\nOr down the current shatter\\nThe western breeze steals through\\nthe trees\\nTo view this Fete Champetre.\\nVI.\\nHow many a robe sae gaily floats.\\nWhat sparkling jewels glance, man,\\nTo Harmony s enchanting notes,\\nAs moves the mazy dance, man!\\nThe echoing wood, the winding flood\\nLike Paradise did glitter,\\nWhen angels met at Adam s yett\\nTo hold their Fete Champetre.\\nVII.\\nWhen Politics came there to mix\\nAnd make his ether-stane, man,\\nHe circled round the magic ground.\\nBut entrance found he nane, man\\nHe blush d for shame, he quat his\\nname,\\nForswore it every letter,\\nWi humble prayer to join and share\\nThis festive Fete Champetre.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0225.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "178\\nTHE FIVE CARLINS.\\nTHE FIVE CARLINS.\\nTune: Chevy Chase.\\n[The Five Carlins represent the five bor-\\noughs of Dumfries-shire and Kirkcudbright.\\nDumfries is Maggie by the banks o Nitli\\nAnnan is Blinl in Bess of Annandale;\\nKirkcudbright Brandy Jean of Gallo-\\nway Sanquhar Black joAn frae Ciich-\\nton Peel and Lochmaben Marjorie o\\nthe Monie Loclis.\\nThere was five carlins in the South\\nThey fell upon a scheme\\nTo send a lad to London town\\nTo brino^ them tidings hame\\nNor only bring them tidings hame,\\nBut do their errands there\\nAnd aiblins gowd and honor baith\\nMight be that laddie s share.\\nThere was Maggie by the Banks o\\nNith,\\nA dame wi pride eneugh\\nAnd Marjorie o the Monie Lochs,\\nA carlin auld and teugh\\nIV.\\nAnd Blinkin Bess of Annandale,\\nThat dwelt near Solway-side\\nAnd Brandy Jean, that took her gill\\nIn Galloway sae wide\\nV.\\nAnd Black JoAn frae Crichton Peel,\\nO gipsy kith an kin\\nFive wighter carlins were na found\\nThe South countrie within.\\nTo send a lad to London town\\nThey met upon a day\\nAnd monie a knight and monie a laird\\nThis errand fain wad gac.\\nO, monie a knight and monie a laird\\nThis errand fain wad gae\\nBut nae ane could their fancy please,\\nO, ne er a ane but tway\\nThe first ane was a belted Knight,\\nBred of a Border band\\nAnd he wad gac to London Town,\\nMight nae man him withstand;\\nIX.\\nAnd he wad do their errands weel,\\nAnd meikle he wad say\\nAnd ilka ane at London court\\nWad bid to him guid-day.\\nThe neist cam in, a Soger boy.\\nAnd spak wi modest grace\\nAnd he wad gae to London Town,\\nIf sae their pleasure was.\\nHe wad na hecht them courtly gifts,\\nNor meikle speech pretend\\nBut he wad hecht an honest heart\\nWad ne er desert his friend.\\nXII.\\nNow wham to chuse and wham refuse\\nAt strife thae carlins fell\\nFor some had gentle folk to please,\\nAnd some wad please themsel.\\nThen out spak mim-mouVl Meg o Nith,\\nAnd she spak up wi pride,\\nAnd she wad send the Soger lad,\\nWhatever might betide.\\nFor the auld Guidman o London court\\nShe didna care a ])in\\nBut she wad send the Soger lad\\nTo greet his eldest son.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0226.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "ELECTION BALLAD FOR WESTERHA\\n179\\nThen up sprang Bess o Annandale,\\nAnd swore a deadly aith,\\nSays: I will send the belted Knight,\\nSpite of you carlins baith!\\nXVI.\\nFor far-aff fowls hae feathers fair,\\nAnd fools o change are fain\\nBut I hae tried this Border Knight\\nI II try him yet again.\\nXVII.\\nThen Brandy Jean spak owre her\\ndrink\\nYe weel ken, kimmers a\\nThe auld Guidman o London court,\\nHis back s been at the wa\\nXVIII.\\nAnd monie a friend that kiss d his\\ncaup\\nIs now a freniit wight\\nBut it s ne er be sae wi Brandy Jean\\nI 11 send the Border Knight.\\nXIX.\\nSays Black Jodn frae Crichton Peel,\\nA carlin stoor and grim\\nThe auld Guidman or the young\\nGuidman\\nFor me may sink or swim\\nFor fools will prate o right orwrang,\\nWhile knaves laugh in their slieve\\nBut wha blaws best the horn shall\\nwin\\nI 11 spier nae courtier s leave\\nThen slow raise JMarjorie o the Lochs,\\nAnd wrinkled was her brow,\\nHer ancient weed was russet gray,\\nHer auld Scots heart was true\\nThere s some great folk set light by\\nme,\\nI set as light by them\\nBut I will send to London town\\nWham I lo e best at hame.\\nSae how this sturt and strife may end.\\nThere s naebody can tell.\\nGod grant the King and ilka man\\nMay look weel to themsel\\nELECTION BALLAD FOR\\nWESTERHA\\n[In the letter to Mrs. Dunlop, enclosing\\nthis ballad, Burns wrote of the Duke of\\nQueensberry His Grace is keenly at-\\ntached to the Buff and Blue party; rene-\\ngades and apostates are, you know, always\\nkeen.\\nUp and waur them a Jamie-,\\nUp and waur tliem a\\nThe Johnstones hae the guidin o t\\nYe turncoat whig:s, awa!\\nThe Laddies by the banks o Nith\\nWad trust his Grace wi a Jainie\\nBut he ll sair them as he sair d the\\nKing\\nTurn tail and rin awa, Jamie.\\nThe day he stude his country s friend,\\nOr gied her faes a claw, Jamie,\\nOr frae puir man a blessin wan\\nThat day the Duke ne er saw, Jamie\\nBut wha is he, his country s boast\\nLike him there is na twa. Jamie\\nThere s no a callant tents the kye\\nBut kens o Westerha Jamie.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0227.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "i8o\\nTURN-COAT WHIGS AWA, MAN.\\nTo end the wark, here s Whistle-\\nbirk\\nLang may his whistle blaw,\\nJamie!\\nAnd iVIaxwcll true, o sterHng blue,\\nAn we ll be Johnstones a Jamie.\\nUp and waur them a Jamie,\\nUp and waur them a\\nThe Johnstones hae the guidinoH:\\nYe turncoat Whigs awa!\\nTURN-COAT WHIGS AWA,\\nMAN.\\n[In the following ballad, printed in the\\nChambers edition, Burns satirizes William\\nDouglas, fourth Duke of Queensberry, the\\nnotorious Old Q.\\nAs I cam doon the banks o Nith\\nAnd by GlenriddelTs ha man,\\nThere I heard a piper play\\nTurti-coat IVhigs aiva, iiia)i.\\nDrumlanrig s towers hae tint the\\npowers\\nThat kept the lands in awe, man\\nThe eagle s dead, and in his stead\\nWe ve gotten a hoodie-craw, man.\\nThe turn-coat Duke his King for-\\nsook,\\nWhen his back was at the wa\\nman\\nThe rattan ran wi a his clan\\nFor fear the house should fa man.\\nThe lads about the banks o Nith,\\nThey trust his Grace for a man\\nBut he 11 sair them as he sair t his\\nKing.\\nTurn tail and rin awa, man.\\nELECTION BALLAD\\nAT CLOSE OF THE CONTEST FOR\\nREPRESENTING THE DUMFRIES\\nBURGHS, 1790.\\nAddressed to Robert Graham of\\nFiiitry.\\n[The ballad sent to Graham is dated\\nJune 10, 1790.]\\nFiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife,\\nFriend o my Muse, friend o my life.\\nAre ye as idle s 1 am\\nCome, then Wi uncouth kintra fleg\\nO er Pegasus I 11 Hing my leg.\\nAnd ye shall see me try him\\nBut where shall I gae rin or ride,\\nThat I may splatter nane beside?\\nI wad na be uncivil\\nIn mankind s various paths and ways\\nThere s ay some doytin body strays,\\nAnd I ride like a devil.\\nThus I break aflf wi a my birr,\\nAn down yon dark, deep alley spur.\\nWhere Theologies dander\\nAlas curst wi eternal fogs.\\nAnd damn d in everlasting bogs.\\nAs sure s the Creed I 11 blunder\\nI 11 stain a band, or jaup a gown,\\nOr rin my reckless, guilty crown\\nAgainst the haly door!\\nSair do I rue my luckless fate.\\nWhen, as the Muse an Deil wad hae\\nI rade that road before\\nSuppose I take a spurt, and mix\\nAmang the wilds o Politics\\nElectors and elected", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0228.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "ELECTION BALLAD.\\ni8i\\nWhere dogs at Court (sad sons o\\nbitches\\nSeptennially a madness touches,\\nTill all the land s infected\\nAll hail, Drumlanrig s haughty Grace,\\nDiscarded remnant of a race\\nOnce godlike great in story\\nThy fathers virtues all contrasted.\\nThe very name of Douglas blasted,\\nThine that inverted glory\\nHate, envy, oft the Douglas bore\\nBut thou hast superadded more,\\nAnd sunk them in contempt!\\nFollies and crimes have stain d the\\nname\\nBut, Queensberry, thine the virgin\\nclaim.\\nFrom aughtthat sgood exempt\\nI 11 sing the zeal Dramlanrig bears,\\nWho left the all-important cares\\nOf fiddlers, whores, and hunters.\\nAnd, bent on buying Borough Towns,\\nCame shaking hands wi wabster-\\nloons.\\nAnd kissina: barefit hunters.\\nCombustion thro our boroughs rode,\\nWhistling his roaring pack abroad\\nOf mad unmuzzled lions.\\nAs Queensberry buif-and-blue unfurl d,\\nAncTWesterha and Hopeton hurl d\\nTo every Whig defiance.\\nBut cautious Queensberry left the\\nwar\\n(Th unmanner d dust might soil his\\nstar\\nBesides, he hated bleeding),\\nBut left behind him heroes bright.\\nHeroes in Caesarean fight\\nOr Ciceronian pleading.\\nO, for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,\\nTo muster o er each ardent Whig\\nBeneath Drumlanrig s banner\\nHeroes and heroines commix,\\nAll in the field of poUtics,\\nTo win immortal honor\\nXII.\\nM Murdo and his lovely spouse\\n(Th enamour d laurels kiss her\\nbrows!)\\nLed on the Loves and Graces\\nShe won each gaping burgess heart.\\nWhile he, sub rosd, played his part\\nAmong their wives and lasses.\\nXIII.\\nCraigdarroch led a light-arm d core\\nTropes, metaphors, and figures pour.\\nLike Hecla streaming thunder.\\nGlenriddell, skill d in rusty coins.\\nBlew up each Tory s dark designs\\nAnd bared the treason under.\\nIn either wing two champions fought\\nRedoubted Staig, who set at nought\\nThe wildest savage Tory\\nAnd Welsh, who ne er yet flinch d his\\nground,\\nHigh-wav d his magnum-bonum round\\nWith Cyclopeian fury.\\nMiller brought up th artillery ranks,\\nThe many-pounders of the Banks,\\nResistless desolation\\nWhile Maxwelton, that baron bold.\\nMid Lawson s port entrench d his\\nhold\\nAnd threaten d worse damna-\\ntion.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0229.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "l82\\nELECTION BALLAD.\\nXVI.\\nTo these what Tory hosts opposed,\\nWith these what Tory warriors clos d.\\nSurpasses my descrivin\\nSquadrons, extended lonsi; and large,\\nWith furious speed rush to tlie charge,\\nLike furious deviLs driving.\\nWhat verse can sing, what prose nar-\\nrate\\nThe butcher deeds of bloody Fate\\nAmid this mighty tulyie?\\nGrim Horror girn d, pale Terror\\nroar d.\\nAs Murther at his thrapple shor d.\\nAnd Hell mix d in the brulyie.\\nAs Highland craigs by thunder cleft,\\nWhen lightnings iire the stormy lift,\\nHurl down with crashing rattle,\\nAs flames among a hundred woods,\\nAs headlong foam a hundred floods\\nSuch is the rage of Battle\\nXIX.\\nThe stubborn Tories dare to die\\nAs soon the rooted oaks would fly\\nBefore th approaching fellers!\\nThe Whigs come on like Ocean s\\nroar,\\nWhen all his wintry billows pour\\nAsainst the Buchan Bullers.\\nLo, from the shades of Death s deep\\nnight\\nDeparted Whigs enjoy the fight.\\nAnd think on former daring!\\nThe muflled murtherer of Charles\\nThe Magna Charta flag unfurls.\\nAll deadly gules its bearing.\\nNor wanting ghosts of Tory fame\\nBold Scrimgeour follows gallant\\nGraham,\\nAuld Covenanters shiver\\nForgive forgive much-wrong d\\nMontrose\\nNow Death and Hell engulph thy\\nfoes.\\nThou liv st on high forever\\nStill o er the field the combat burns\\nThe Tories, Whigs, give way by\\nturns\\nBut Fate the word has s])oken\\nFor woman s wit and strength o man,\\nAlas can do but what they can\\nThe Tory ranks are broken.\\nXXIII.\\nO, that my een were flowing burns\\nMy voice a lioness that mourns\\nHer darling cubs undoing\\nThat I might greet, that I might cry,\\nWhile Tories fall, while Tories fly\\nFrom furious Whigs pursuing\\nXXIV.\\nWhat Whig but melts for good Sir\\nJames,\\nDear to his country by the names.\\nFriend, Patron, Benefactor\\nNot Pulteney s wealth can Pultcney\\nsave\\nAnd Hopeton falls the generous,\\nbrave\\nAnd Stewart bold as Hector.\\nXXV.\\nThou. Pitt, shall rue this overthrow.\\nAnd Thurlow growl this curse of woe,\\nAnd Melville melt in wailing\\nNow Fox and Sheridan rejoice.\\nAnd Burke shall sing: O Prince,\\narise\\nThy power is all prevailing\\nXXVI.\\nFor your poor friend, the Bard, afar\\nHe sees and hears the distant war,\\nA cool spectator purely\\nSo, when the storm the forest rends,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0230.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "FIRST HERON ELECTION BALLAD.\\n183\\nThe robin in the hedge descends,\\nAnd, patient, chirps securely.\\nNow, for my friends and brethren s\\nsauces.\\nAnd for my dear-lov d Land o\\nCakes,\\nI pray with holy fire\\nLord, send a rough-shod troop o\\nHell\\nO er a wad Scotland buy or sell.\\nTo grind them in the mire\\nBALLADS ON MR. HERON S ELECTION, 1795.\\nBALLAD FIRST.\\n[In this election Burns warmly supported\\nMr. Heron, not merely for friendship s sake,\\nbut out of especial dislike to the more con-\\nspicuous of his opponent s supporters.]\\nWham will we send to London town,\\nTo Parliament and a that?\\nOr wha in a the country round\\nThe best deserves to fa that?\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nThro Galloway and a that.\\nWhere is the Laird or belted\\nKnight\\nThat best deserves to fa that\\nWha sees Kerroughtree s open yett\\nAnd wha is t never saw that?\\nWha ever \\\\vi Kerrouglitree met,\\nAnd has a doul)t of a that\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nThe independent patriot,\\nThe honest man, and a that\\nTho wit and worth, in either sex.\\nSaint Mary s Isle can shaw that,\\nWi Lords and Dukes let Selkirk mix,\\nAnd wccl does Selkirk fa that.\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nAn independent commoner\\nShall be the man for a that.\\nBut why should we to Nobles jeuk.\\nAnd It against the law, that.\\nAnd even a Lord may be a gowk,\\nWi ribban, star, and a that\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nA Lord may be a lousy loon,\\nWi ribban, star, and a that.\\nA beardless boy comes o er the hills\\nWi s uncle s purse and a that\\nBut we 11 hae ane frae mang oursels,\\nA man we ken, and a that.\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nWe are na to be bought and sold.\\nLike nowte, and naigs, and a\\nthat.\\nThen let us drink The Stewartry,\\nKerroughtree s laird, and a that.\\nOur representative to be\\nFor weel he s worthy a that\\nFor a that, and a that,\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nA House of Commons such as he.\\nThey wad be blest that saw that.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0231.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "1 84\\nTHE ELECTION.\\nBALLAD SECOND:\\nELECTION.\\nTHE\\nTune Fy, Let Us A to The Bridal.\\n[A parody of The Blythsome Wedding.\\nFy, let US a to Kirkcudbright,\\nFor there will be bickerin there\\nFor Murray s light horse are to mus-\\nter.\\nAn O, how the heroes will swear\\nAnd there will be Murray commander.\\nAn Gordon the battle to win\\nLike brothers, they ll stan by each\\nother,\\nSae knit in alliance and kin.\\nAn there 11 be black-nebbit Johnie,\\nThe tongue o the trump to them a\\nGin he getna Hell for his haddin,\\nThe i3eil gets nae justice ava\\nAnd there ll be Kempleton s birkie,\\nA boy no sae black at the bane\\nBut as to his fine nabob fortune\\nWe 11 e en let the subject alane\\nAn there 11 beWigton s new sheriff\\nDame Justice fu brawly has sped\\nShe s gotten the heart of a Bushby,\\nBut Lord what s become o the\\nhead\\nAn there 11 be Cardoness, Esquire,\\nSae mighty in Cardoness eyes\\nA wight that will weather damnation.\\nFor the Devil the prey would des-\\npise.\\nAn there 11 be Douglasses doughty,\\nNew christening towns far and\\nnear:\\nAbjuring their democrat doings\\nAn kissing the arse of a peer\\nAn there 11 be Kenmure sae gener-\\nous,\\nWha s honor is proof to the storm\\nTo save them from stark reprobation\\nHe lent them his name to the firm\\nBut we winna mention Redcastle,\\nThe body e en let him escape\\nHe d venture the gallows for siller,\\nAn t were na the cost o the rape\\nAn whare is our King s Lord Lieu-\\ntenant,\\nSae famed for his gratefu return\\nThe billie is getting his Questions\\nTo say at St. Stephen s the morn\\nAn there 11 be lads o the gospel\\nMuirhead, wha s as guid as he s\\ntrue\\nAn there 11 be Buittle s Apostle,\\nWha s mair o the black than the\\nblue\\nAn there ll be folk frae St. Mary s,\\nA house o great merit and note\\nThe Deil ane but honors them higjily.\\nThe Deil ane will gie them his\\nvote\\nVII.\\nAn there 11 be wealthy young Rich-\\nard,\\nDame Fortune should hang by the\\nneck\\nBut for prodigal thriftless bestowing,\\nHis merit had won him respect\\nAn there ll be rich brither nabobs;\\nTho nabobs, yet men o the first\\nAn there 11 be Collieston s whiskers,\\nAn Quinton o lads no the warst\\nVIII.\\nAn there ll be Stamp-Office Johnie:\\nTak tent how ye purchase a dram\\nAn there 11 be gay Cassencarry,\\nAn there 11 be Colonel Tam", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0232.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "JOHN BUSHBY S LAMENTATION.\\n185\\nAn there 11 be trusty Kerroughtree,\\nWha s honour was ever his law\\nIf the virtues were pack t in a parcel,\\nHis worth might be sample for a\\nAn can we forget the auld Major,\\nWha II ne er be forgot in the\\nGreys\\nOur fiatt ry we ll keep for some\\nother\\nHim only it s justice to praise!\\nAn there ll be maiden Kilkerran,\\nAn also Barskimming s guid\\nKnight.\\nAn there ll be roaring Birtwhistle\\nYet luckily roars in the right\\nAn there frae the Niddlesdale bor-\\nder\\nWill mingle the Maxwell s in\\ndroves\\nTeuch Johnie, Staunch Geordie, and\\nWattie\\nThat girns for the fishes an\\nloaves\\nAn thei^e 11 be Logan s M Doual\\nSculdudd ry an he will be there!\\nAn also the wild Scot o Galloway,\\nSogering, gunpowther Blair!\\nXI.\\nThen hey the chaste interest of\\nBroughton.\\nAn hey for the blessings t will\\nbring\\nIt may send Balmaghie to the Com-\\nmons\\nIn Sodom t would mak him a King!\\nAn hey for the sanctified Murray\\nOur land wha wi chapels has stor d\\nHe founder d his horse among har-\\nlots.\\nBut gie d the auld naig to the\\nLord!\\nBALLAD THIRD.\\nJOHN BUSHBY S lamentation.\\nTune: Babes in the Wood.\\n[Bushby, the son of a spirit-dealer in\\nDumfries, became a lawyer, and afterwards\\na private banker in the same town.]\\nTwAS in the Seventeen Hunder year\\nO grace, and Ninety-Five,\\nThat year I was the wae est man\\nOf onie man alive.\\nII.\\nIn March the three-an -twentieth\\nmorn,\\nThe sun raise clear an bright\\nBut O, I was a waefu man.\\nEre to-fa o the nieht\\nIII.\\nYerl Galloway lang did rule this land\\nWi equal right and fame.\\nFast knit in chaste and holy bands\\nWith Broughton s noble name.\\nYerl Galloway s man o men was I,\\nAnd chief o Broughton s host\\nSo twa blind beggars, on a string,\\nThe faithfu tyke will trust\\nBut now Yerl Galloway s sceptre s\\nbroke,\\nAnd T5roughton s wi the slain.\\nAnd I my ancient craft may try,\\nSin honesty is gane.\\nT was by the banks o bonie Dee,\\nBeside Kirkcudbright s towers.\\nThe Stewart and the Murray there\\nDid muster a their powers.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0233.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "1 86\\nTHE TROGGER.\\nThen Murray on the auld _e;rey yaud\\nWi \\\\vin i;ed spvirs did riile\\nThat auld grey yaud a Nidsdale rade,\\nHe staw upon Nidside.\\nVIII.\\nAn there ha na been the Yerl him-\\nsel,\\nO. there had been nae play!\\nBut Garlies was to London gane,\\nAnd sae tlie kye might stray.\\nAnd there was Balmaghie, I ween\\nIn front rank he wad shine\\nBut Bahiiaghie had better been\\nDrinkin Madeira wine.\\nAnd frae Glenkens cam to our aid\\nA chief o doughty deed\\nIn case that worth should wanted be,\\nO Kenmure we had need.\\nXI.\\nAnd by our banners marcli d Muir-\\nhead,\\nAnd Buittle was na slack,\\nWhase haly priesthood nane could\\nstain,\\nFor wha could dye the black?\\nXII.\\nAnd there was grave Squire Cardo-\\nness,\\nLookVl on till a was done*\\nSae in the tower o Cardoness\\nA howlet sits at noon.\\nAnd there led I the Bushby clan\\nMy gamesome biilie, Will,\\nAnd my son Maitland. wise as brave.\\nMy footsteps follow d still.\\nXIV.\\nTlie Douglas and the Heron s name,\\nWe set nought to tlieir score\\nThe Douglas and the Heron s name\\nHad felt our weight before.\\nBut Douglasses o weight had we\\nTlie pair o lusty lairds.\\nFor building cot-houses sae fam d.\\nAnd christenin kail-yards.\\nAnd then Redcastle drew his sword\\nThat ne er was stain d wi gore\\nSave on a wand rer lame and blind,\\nTo drive him frae his door.\\nAnd last cam creepin Collicston,\\nWas mair in fear than wrath\\nAe knave was constant in his mind\\nTo keep that knave frae scaith.\\nBALLAD FOURTH: THE\\nTROGGER.\\nTune Buy Broom Besoms.\\n[Written for Heron s election for Kirkcud-\\nbright. Bums died before tlu; result was\\nknown. A trogger is a travelling hawker or\\npackman.]\\nChoriis.\\nBuy braw troggin\\nFrae the banks o Dee\\nWha wants troggin\\nLet him come to me\\nWha will buy my troggin,\\nFine election ware.\\nBroken trade o Broughton,\\nA in high repair?", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0234.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY.\\n1S7\\nThere s a noble Earl s\\nFame and high renown,\\nFor an anld sang it s thought\\nThe giiids were stown.\\nHere s the worth o Broughton\\nIn a needle s e e.\\nHere s a reputation\\nTint by Balmaghie.\\nHere s its stutT and lining,\\nCardoness s head\\nFine for a soger,\\nA the wale o lead.\\nHere s a little wadset\\nBuittle scrap o truth,\\nPawn d in a gin-shop,\\nQuenching holy drouth.\\nHere s an honest conscience\\nMight a prince adorn,\\nFrae the downs o Tinwald\\nSo was never worn\\nHere s armorial bearings\\nFrae the manse o Urr:\\nThe crest, a sour crab-apple\\nRotten at the core.\\nHere is Satan s picture,\\nLike a bizzard gled\\nPouncing poor Redcastle,\\nSprawlin like a taed.\\nHere s the font where Douglas\\nStane and mortar names.\\nLately used at Caily\\nChristening Murray s crimes.\\nHere s tlie worth and wisdom\\nCollieston can boast\\nBy a thievish midge\\nThey had been nearly lost.\\nHere is Murray s fragments\\nO the Ten Commands,\\nGifted by Black Jock\\nTo get them afif his hands.\\nSaw ye e er sic troggin?\\nIf to buy ye re slack,\\nHornie s turnin chapman\\nHe ll buy a the pack\\nCJiorus.\\nBuy braw troggin\\nFrae the banks o Dee\\nWha wants troggin\\nLet him come to me!\\nTHE DEAN OF THE FACULTY.\\nA NEW BALLAD.\\nTune The Dragon of \\\\x itley.\\n[This ballad refers to a contest between\\nMr. Erskine and Mr. Dundas for the dean-\\nship of the Faculty of Advocates. Mr.\\nDundas was elected.]\\nDire was the hate at Old Harlaw\\nThat Scot to Scot did carry\\nAnd dire the discord Langside saw\\nFor beauteous, hapless Mary.\\nBut Scot to Scot ne er met so hot,\\nOr were more in fury seen. Sir,\\nThan twi.\\\\t Hal and Bob for the\\nfamous job,\\nWho should be the Faculty s Dean,\\nSir.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0235.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "THE TARBOLTON LASSES.\\nII.\\nIV.\\nThis Hal for genius, wit, and lore\\nAs once on Pisgali purg d was the sight\\nAmong the first was numbered\\nOf a son of CircLimcision,\\nBut pious Boll, mid learning s store.\\nSo, may be, on this Pisgah height\\nCommandment the Tenth remeni-\\nBob s purblind mental vision.\\nber d.\\nNay, Bobby s mouth may be open d\\nYet simple Bob the victory got,\\nyet.\\nAnd won his heart s desire\\nTill for eloquence you hail him.\\nWhich shows that Heaven can boil\\nAnd swear that he has tlie Angel met\\nthe pot,\\nThat met the Ass of Balaam.\\nTho the Deil piss in the fire.\\nV.\\nIII.\\nIn your heretic sins may ye live and\\nSquire Hal, besides, had in this case\\ndie,\\nPretensions rather brassy\\nYe heretic Eight-and-Thirty!\\nFor talents, to deserve a place,\\nBut accept, ye sublime majority.\\nAre qualifications saucy.\\nMy congratulations hearty!\\nSo their worships of the Faculty,\\nWith your honors, as with a certain\\nQuite sick of Merit s rudeness.\\nKing,\\nChose one who should owe it all, d ye\\nIn your servants this is striking,\\nsee.\\nThe more incapacity they bring\\nTo their gratis grace and goodness.\\nThe more they re to your liking.\\nMISCELLANIES.\\nTHE TARBOLTON LASSES.\\n[An early attempt at satire.\\nby Chambers (1851).]\\nPublished\\nIf ye gae up to yon hill-tap,\\nYe 11 there see bonie Peggy\\nShe kens her father is a laird.\\nAnd she forsooth s a leddy.\\nThere s Sophy tight, a lassie bright.\\nBesides a handsome fortune\\nWha canna win her in a night\\nHas little art in courtin.\\nGae down by Faile, and taste the ale,\\nAnd tak a look o Mysie\\nShe s dour and din, a deil within,\\nBut aiblins she may please ye.\\nIf she be shy, her sister try.\\nYe 11 may be fancy Jenny\\nIf ye II dispense wi want o sense,\\nShe kens hersel she s bonie.\\nV.\\nAs ye gae up by yon hillside.\\nSpier in for bonie Bessy\\nShe II gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,\\nAnd handsomely address ye.\\nThere s few sae bonie, nane sae guid\\nIn a King George dominion\\nIf ye should doubt the truth of this.\\nIt s Bessy s ain opinion.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0236.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "THE RONALDS OF THE BENNALS.\\n189\\nTHE RONALDS OF THE BEN-\\nNALS.\\n[The Bennals was a farm in Tarbolton\\nParish. Miss Jean refused Gilbert Burns.]\\nIn Ta?bolton, ye ken, there are proper\\nyoung men,\\nAnd proper young lasses and a.\\\\\\nman\\nBut ken ye the Ronalds that live in\\nthe Bennals?\\nThey carry the gree frae them a\\nman.\\nTheir father s a laird, and vveel he\\ncan spare t\\nBraid money to tocher them a\\\\\\nman\\nTo proper young men, he 11 clink in\\nthe hand\\nGowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.\\nThere s ane they ca Jean, I 11 warrant\\nye ve seen\\nAs bonie a lass or as braw, man\\nBut for sense and guid taste she 11 vie\\nwi the best,\\nAnd a conduct that beautifies a\\nman.\\nThe charms o the min the langer\\nthey shine\\nThe mair admiration they draw,\\nman\\nWhile peaches and cherries, and roses\\nand lilies.\\nThey fade and they wither awa,\\nman.\\nIf ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a\\nfrien\\nA hint o a rival or twa, man\\nThe Laird o Blackbyre wad gang\\nthrough the fire.\\nIf that wad entice her awa, man.\\nThe Laird o Braehead has been on\\nhis speed\\nFor mair than a towmond or twa,\\nman\\nThe Laird o the Ford will straught on\\na board.\\nIf he canna get her at a man.\\nThen Anna comes in, the pride o\\nher kin,\\nThe boast of our bachelors a\\nman\\nSae sonsy and sweet, sae fi.illy com-\\nplete.\\nShe steals our affections awa, man.\\nIf I should detail the pick and the\\nwale\\nO lasses that live here awa, man.\\nThe faut wad be mine, if they didna\\nshine\\nThe sweetest and best o them a\\nman.\\nI lo e her mysel, but darena weel\\ntell,\\nMy poverty keeps me in awe, man\\nFor making o rhymes, and working\\nat times,\\nDoes little or naething at a man.\\nYet I wadna choose to let her refuse\\nNor hae t in her power to say na,\\nman\\nFor though I be poor, unnoticed,\\nobscure.\\nMy stomach s as proud as them\\na man.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0237.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "IQO I LL GO AND P.E A SOEKIKR. TIIK liELLES OF MAUCIILlNi:\\nThough I canna ride in wcIl-booted\\npride,\\nAnd flee o er the hills ]ii e a craw,\\nman,\\nI can hand up my head \\\\vV the best o\\nthe breed,\\nThough fluttering ever so braw,\\nman.\\nMy coat and my vest, they are Scotch\\no the best\\nO pairs o guid breeks I hae twa,\\nman,\\nAnd stockings and pumps to put on\\nmy stumps,\\nAnd ne er a wrang steek in them\\na man.\\nXIII.\\nMy sarks they are few, but five o\\nIhem new\\nTvvaP hundred, as white as the\\nsnaw, man\\nA ten-shillings hat, a Holland cra-\\nvat\\nThere are no monie Poets sae\\nbraw, man\\nI never had frien s weel stockit in\\nmeans,\\nTo leave me a hundred or twa,\\nman\\nNae weel-tocher d aunts, to wait on\\ntheir drants\\nAnd wish them in hell for it a\\nman.\\nI never was cannie for hoarding o\\nmoney,\\nOr claughtin t together at a\\\\ man\\nI ve little to spend and naething to\\nlend,\\nBut devil a shilling I awe, man.\\nTLL GO AND BE A SODGER.\\n[Inspired, it may be, by the destruction\\nof the sliop at Irvine, when the writer was\\nleft, like a true poet, not worth sixpence.\\nO, WHY the deuce should I repine,\\nAnd be an ill foreboder\\nI m twenty-three and five feet nine.\\nI 11 no and be a sodger.\\nI gat some gear wi meikle care,\\nI held it weel thegither\\nBut now it s gane and something\\nmair\\nI 11 go and be a sodger.\\nAPOSTROPHE TO FERGUSSON.\\nINSCRIBED ABOVE AND BELOW HIS\\nPORTRAIT.\\n[The copy of Fergusson bearing this pas-\\nsionate but Anglified protest, was given by\\nBurns to Miss R. Carmichael, a wTiter of\\nverse.]\\nCqrse on ungrateful man, that can\\nbe pleas d\\nAnd yet can starve the author of the\\npleasure\\nO thou, my elder brother in mis-\\nfortune,\\nBy tar my elder brother in the Muse,\\nWith tears I pity thy unhappy fate\\nWhy is the Bard unfitted for the\\nworld,\\nYet has so keen a relish of its\\npleasures\\nTHE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.\\n[These young ladies were all married,\\nand their histories have been traced. Miss\\nArmour became Mrs. Burns.]\\nIn Mauchline there dwells six proper\\nyoung belles,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0238.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "AH, WOE IS ME. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 191\\nThe pride of the place and its neigh-\\nbourhood a\\\\\\nTheir carriage and dress, a stranger\\nwould guess.\\nIn Lon on or Paris they d gotten\\nit a\\nMiss Millar is fine, Miss Markland s\\ndivine,\\nMiss Smith she has wit, an Miss Betty\\nis braw,\\nThere s beauty and fortune to get wi\\nIMiss Morton\\nBut Armour s the jewel for me o\\nthem a\\nAH, WOE IS ME, MY MOTHER\\nDEAR.\\nferemiak, chap. xv. verse 10.\\n[The lines were inscribed by Burns in a\\ncopy of Fergusson now in the Free Library,\\nEdinburgh.]\\nAh, woe is me, my Mother dear\\nA man of strife ye Ve born me\\nFor sair contention I maun bear\\nThey hate, revile, and scorn me.\\nII.\\nI ne er could lend on bill or band,\\nThat five per cent, might blest me\\nAnd borrowing, on the tither hand,\\nThe deil a ane wad trust me.\\nYet I, a coin-denyed wight,\\nBy Fortune quite discarded.\\nYe see how I am day and night\\nBy lad and lass blackguarded\\nINSCRIBED ON A WORK OF\\nHANNAH MORE S\\nPRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY A\\nLADY.\\n[This lady has not been identified.]\\nThou flattVing mark of friendship\\nkind,\\nStill may thy pages call to mind\\nThe dear, the beauteous donor\\nTho sweetly female ev ry part,\\nYet such a head and more the\\nheart\\nDoes both the sexes honor\\nShe shovy d her taste refin d and just,\\nWhen she selected thee.\\nYet deviating, own I must,\\nFor so approving me\\nBut, kind still, I mind still\\nThe giver in the gift\\nI 11 bless her, and wiss her\\nA Friend aboon the lift.\\nLINES WRITTEN ON A BANK\\nNOTE.\\n[The vei ses were written on a Bank of\\nScotland one-pound note of the date of\\nMarch i, 1780.]\\nWae worth thy power, thou cursed\\nleaf!\\nFell source of a my woe and grief.\\nFor lack o thee I ve lost my lass.\\nFor lack o thee I scrimp my glass!\\nI see the children of affliction\\nUnaided, through thy curs d restric-\\nfion.\\nI ve seen the oppressor s cruel smile\\nAmid his hapless victims .spoil\\nAnd for thy potence vainly wish d\\nTo crush the villain in the dust.\\nFor lack 0 thee I leave this much-\\nlov d shore.\\nNever, perhaps, to greet old Scotland\\nmore.\\nR. B.\\nKyle.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0239.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "192\\nTHE FAREWKLL. WHOSE IS THAT NOBLE.\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\nThe valiant, in himself, ichal can he suffer f\\nOr what does he regard his single woes\\nBut when, alas f he multiplies himself.\\nTo dearer selves, to the lov d tender fair.\\nTo tho e whose bliss, whose beings hang upon\\nhim,\\nTo helpless children, then. Oh then he\\nfeels\\nThe point of misery festering in his heart.\\nAnd weakly tueeps his fortunes like a cow-\\nard\\nSuch, sue It am I undone\\nThomson s Edward and Eleanora.\\nThe Farewell was written in August,\\n1786, when the idea of emigration was\\nfirmly fixed in the poet s mind.]\\nFarewell, old Scotia s bleak do-\\nmains,\\nFar dearer than the torrid plains,\\nWhere rich ananas blow\\nFarewell, a mother s blessing dear\\nA brother s sigh, a sister s tear,\\nMy Jean s heart-rending throe\\nFarewell, my Bess Tho thou rt\\nbereft\\nOf my paternal care,\\nA faithful brother I have left.\\nMy part in him thou It share\\nAdieu too, to you too,\\nMy Smith, my bosom frien\\nWhen kindly you mind me,\\nO, then befriend my Jean\\nII.\\nWhat bursting anguish tears\\nheart\\nFrom thee, my Jeany, must I part\\nThou, weeping, answ rest No\\nAlas misfortune stares my face.\\nAnd points to ruin and disgrace\\nI for thy sake must go\\nThee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,\\nA grateful, waiMii adieu\\nI with a much-indebted tear\\nShall still remember you\\nmy\\nAll-hail, then, the gale then\\nWafts me from thee, dear shore\\nIt rustles, and whistles\\nI 1 never see thee more\\nELEGY ON THE DEATH OF\\nROBERT RUISSEAUX.\\nRuisseaux French for brooks\\n(i.e., burns is a play on the poet s\\nname.]\\nNow Robin lies in his last lair,\\nHe ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae\\nmair\\nCauld Poverty wi hungry stare\\nNae mair shall fear him\\nNor anxious Fear, nor cankert Care,\\nE er mair come near him.\\nTo tell the truth, they seldom fash d\\nhim.\\nExcept the moment that tliey crush d\\nhim\\nFor sune as Chance or Fate had hush d\\nem,\\nTho e er sae short.\\nThen wi a rhyme or sang he lash d em.\\nAnd thought it sport.\\nTho he was bred to kintra-wark.\\nAnd counted was baith wight and stark.\\nYet that was never Robin s mark\\nTo mak a man\\nBut tell him he was learned and dark.\\nYe roos d him than!\\nVERSES INTENDED TO BE\\nWRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE\\nEARL S PICTURE.\\n[A special compliment to the poet s patron,\\nthe Earl of Glencairn, who declined, as a", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0240.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 193\\nquestion of taste, to have it included in the\\n87 edition.]\\nWhose is that noble, dauntless brow?\\nAnd whose that eye of fire?\\nAnd whose that generous princely\\nmien,\\nEv n rooted foes admire?\\nStranger! to justly show that brow\\nAnd mark that eye of fire.\\nWould take His hand, whose vernal\\ntints\\nHis other works admire\\nIII.\\nBright as a cloudless summer sun.\\nWith stately port he moves\\nHis guardian Seraph eyes with awe\\nThe noble Ward he loves.\\nAmong the illustrious Scottish sons\\nThat Chief thou may st discern\\nMark Scotia s fond-returning eye\\nIt dwells upon Glencairn.\\nELEGY ON THE DEATH OF\\nSIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.\\n[Sir James Hunter Blair was a public-\\nspirited citizen of Edinburgh, the promoter\\nof many public works, and was created a\\nbaronet in 1786.]\\nThe lamp of day with ill-presaging\\nglare,\\nDim, cloudy, sank beneath the\\nwestern wave\\nTh inconstant ])last howl d thro the\\ndarkening air.\\nAnd hollow whistled in the rocky\\ncave.\\nLone as I wander d by each clifif and\\ndell.\\nOnce the lov d haunts of Scotia s\\nroyal train\\nOr mus d wliere limpid streams, once\\nhallow d. well.\\nOr nioLikFring ruins mark the sacred\\nFane.\\nTh increasing blast roared round the\\nbeetling rocks,\\nThe clouds, swift-wing d, flew o er\\nthe starry sky.\\nThe groaning trees untimely shed\\ntheir locks.\\nAnd shooting meteors caught the\\nstartled eye.\\nThe paly moon rose in the livid east,\\nAnd mong the cliffs disclos d a\\nstately form\\nIn weeds of woe, that frantic beat her\\nbreast.\\nAnd mix d her wailings with the\\nraving storm.\\nWild to my heart the filial pulses glow\\nT was Caledonia s trophied shield\\nI view d.\\nHer form majestic droop d in pensive\\nwoe.\\nThe lightning of her eye in tears\\nimbued\\nRevers d that spear redoubtable in\\n\\\\va.r.\\nReclined that banner, erst in fields\\nunfurl d.\\nThat like a deathful meteor gleam d\\nafar,\\nAnd brav d the mighty monarchs\\nof the world.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0241.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "194\\nON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS.\\n*My patriot son fills an untimely\\ngrave!\\nWith accents wild and lifted arms,\\nshe cried\\nLow lies the hand that oft was\\nstretch d to save,\\nLow lies the heart that swelled with\\nhonor s pride.\\nA weeping country joins a widow s\\ntear;\\nThe\u00e2\u0080\u0094helpless poor mix with the\\norphan s cry\\nThe drooping Arts surround their\\npatron s bier\\nAnd grateful Science heaves the\\nheart-felt sieh.\\nI saw my sons resume their ancient\\nfire\\nI saw fair Freedom s blossoms richly\\nblow.\\nBut ah how hope is born but to expire!\\nRelentless fate has laid their guar-\\ndian low.\\nMy patriot falls, but shall he lie un-\\nsung,\\nWhile empty greatness saves a\\nworthless name?\\nNo every Muse shall join her tuneful\\ntongue.\\nAnd future ages hear his growing\\nfame.\\nAnd I will join a mother s tender cares\\nThro future times to make his vir-\\ntues last.\\nThat distant years may boast of other\\nBlairs!\\nShe said, and vanish d with the\\nsweeping blast.\\nON THE DEATH OF LORD\\nPRESIDENT DUNDAS.\\n[Burns composed this elegy at the sug-\\ngestion of Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, after-\\nwards elevated to the bench under the de-\\nsignation of Lord Newton. The son of the\\nLord President, to whom the ]ioeni was\\nsent, never took the smallest notice of the\\nletter, the ]5oem, or the poet, and Burns s\\npride received an incurable wound.]\\nLoNK on the bleaky hills, the straying\\nflocks\\nShun the fierce storms among the\\nsheltering rocks\\nDown foam the rivulets, red with\\ndashing rains\\nThe gathering floods burst o er the\\ndistant plains\\nBeneath the blast the leafless forests\\ngroan\\nThe hollow caves return a hollow\\nmoan.\\nYe hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye\\ncaves.\\nYe howling winds, and wintry swell-\\ning waves.\\nUnheard, unseen, by human ear or\\neye,\\nSad to your sympathetic glooms I fly,\\nWhere to the whistling blast and\\nwater s roar\\nPale Scotia s recent wound I may de-\\nplore\\nO heavy loss, thy country ill could\\nbear!\\nA loss these evil days can ne er re-\\npair\\nJustice, the high vicegerent of her\\nGod,\\nHer doubtful balance eyed, and sway d\\nher rod\\nHearing the tidings of the fatal blow,\\nShe sank, aljandon d to the wildest\\nwoe.\\nWrongs, injuries, from many a dark-\\nsome den.\\nNow gay in hope explore the paths\\nof men.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0242.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "ELEGY ON WILLIE NICOL S MARE. LINES ON FERGUSSON. 195\\nSee from his cavern grim Oppression\\nrise,\\nAnd throw on Poverty his cruel eyes!\\nKeen on tlie helpless victim let him\\nfly,\\nAnd stifle, dark, the feebly-burstnig\\ncry\\nMark Ruffian Violence, distained with\\ncrimes.\\nRousing elate in these degenerate\\ntimes!\\nView unsuspecting Innocence a prey.\\nAs guileful F^raud points out the err-\\ning way\\nWhile subtile Litigation s pliant\\ntongue\\nThe life-blood equal sucks of Right\\nand Wrong!\\nHark, injur d Want recounts th un-\\nlisten d tale,\\nAnd much-wrong d Mis ry pours th\\nunpitied wail!\\nYe dark, waste hills, ye brown, un-\\nsightly plains.\\nCongenial scenes, ye soothe my\\nmournful strains.\\nYe tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents,\\nroll!\\nYe suit the joyless tenor of my soul.\\nLife s social haunts and pleasures I\\nresign\\nBe nameless wilds and lonely wander-\\nings mine.\\nTo mourn the woes my country must\\nendure\\nThat wound degenerate ages cannot\\ncure.\\nELEGY ON WILLIE NICOL S\\nMARE.\\n[The mare, which was named after the\\ninsane woman who attempted the Hfe of\\nGeorge III., was the property of Burns s\\nfriend, Mr. WilHam Nicol.]\\nPeg Nicholson was a good bay\\nmare\\nAs ever trod on airn\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\nAnd past the mouth o Cairn.\\nPeg Nicholson was a good bay mare,\\nAn rode thro thick an thin\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\nAnd wanting even the skin.\\nPeg Nicholson was a good bay mare.\\nAnd ance she bore a priest\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\n-For Sol way fish a feast.\\nPeg Nicholson was a good bay mare\\nAn the priest he rode her sair\\nAnd much oppress d, and bruis d she\\nwas,\\nAs priest-rid cattle are.\\nLINES ON FERGUSSON.\\n[Inscribed in a copy of the World.\\n(Chambers)\\nIll-fated genius Heaven-taught\\nFergusson\\nWhat heart that feels, and will not\\nyield a tear\\nTo think Life s sun did set, e er well\\nbegun\\nTo shed its influence on thy bright\\ncareer\\nO, why should truest Worth and\\nGenius pine\\nBeneath the iron grasp of Want\\nand Woe,\\nWhile titled knaves and idiot-great-\\nness shine\\nIn all the splendour Fortune can\\nbestow", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0243.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "196 ELEGY ON MISS BURNET. PEGASUS AT WANLOCKIIEAU.\\nELECxY ON THE LATE MISS\\nBURNET OF M0NI30DD0.\\n[Elizabeth Burnet, the fair Burnet of\\nthe Address to Eilinburgh, was the\\nyounger daughter of James Burnet, Lord\\nMonhoddo. Burns was a frequent visitor\\nto Monboddo s house in 1786-7, and ahiiost\\nworshipped the fair hostess.]\\nLife ne er exulted in so rich a prize\\nAs Burnet, lovely from her native\\nskies\\nNor envious Death so triumphed in a\\nblow\\nAs that which laid th accomplish d\\nBurnet low.\\nThy form and mind, sweet maid, can\\nI forget?\\nIn richest ore the brightest jewel set!\\nIn thee high Heaven above was truest\\nshown,\\nFor by His noblest work the Godhead\\nbest is known.\\nIn vain ye flaunt in summer s pride,\\nye groves\\nThou crystal streamlet with thy\\nflowery shore.\\nYe woodland choir that chaunt your\\nidle loves.\\nYe cease to charm Eliza is no\\nmore.\\nYe heathy wastes immix d with reedy\\nfens,\\nYe mossy streams with sedge and\\nrushes stor d,\\nYe rugged cliffs overhanging dreary\\nglens.\\nTo you I fly ye with my soul\\naccord.\\nPrinces whose cumb rous pride was\\nall their worth.\\nShall venal lays their pompous exit\\nhail.\\nAnd thou, sweet Excellence forsake\\nour earth.\\nAnd not a Muse with honest grief\\nbewail\\nWe saw thee shine in youtli and\\nbeauty s pride\\nAnd Virtue s light, that beams be-\\nyond the spheres\\nBut, like the sun eclips d at morning\\ntide,\\nTiiou left us darkling in a world of\\ntears.\\nThe parent s heart that nestled fond\\nin thee.\\nThat heart how sunk, a prey to\\ngrief and care\\nSo deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged\\ntree.\\nSo, rudely ravish d, left it bleak and\\nbare.\\nPEGASUS AT WANLOCK-\\nHEAD.\\n[Written in Rainage s Inn, while the\\npoet s horse s shoes were frosting. For\\nthirty years afterwards it was said Vulcan\\nwas in the habit of boasting that he had\\nnever been weel paid but ance, and that\\nwas by a poet, who paid him in money,\\npaid him in drink, and paid him in verse.\\nWith Pegasus upon a day\\nApollo, weary flying\\n(Through frosty Itills the journey lay),\\nOn foot the way was plying.\\nI", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0244.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "ON GENERAL DUMOURIER S DESERTION.\\n197\\nPoor slip-shod, giddy Pegasus\\nWas but a sorry walker\\nTo Vulcan then Apollo goes\\nTo get a frosty caulker.\\nOhliging Vulcan fell to work,\\nThrew by his coat and bonnet,\\nAnd did Sol s business in a crack\\nSol paid him in a sonnet.\\nIV.\\nYe Vulcan s sons of Wanlockhead,\\nPity my sad disaster\\nMy Pegasus is poorly shod\\nI 11 pay you like my master\\nRamage s, 3 o clock.\\nON SOME COMMEMORATIONS\\nOF THOMSON.\\n[Thomson, among other pieces of patron-\\nage, drew the salary of Surveyor-General of\\nthe Leew.ird Islands, and had a pension.\\nThomson did not climb the brae helpless\\nand alane, quite the reverse. ANDREW\\nLang.]\\nI.\\nDost thou not rise, indignant Shade,\\nAnd smile wi spurning scorn\\nWhen they wha wad hae starved thy\\nlife\\nThy senseless turf adorn?\\nThey wha about thee mak sic fuss\\nNow thou art but a namg.\\nWad seen thee damn d ere they had\\nspared\\nAe plack to fill thy wame.\\nHelpless, alane, thou clamb the brae\\nWi meikle honest toil.\\nAnd claucht th unfading garland there,\\nThy sair-won, rightful spoil.\\nAnd wear it there and call aloud\\nThis axiom undoubted\\nWould thou hae Nobles patronage?\\nFirst learn to live without it\\nTo whom hae much, more shall be\\ngiven\\nIs every great man s faith\\nBut he, the helpless, needful wretch,\\nShall lose the mite he hath.\\nON\\nGENERAL DUMOURIER S\\nDESERTION\\nFROM THE FRENCH REPUBLICAN\\nARMY.\\n[Burns chanted these verses on hearing\\nsome one express his joy at General Du-\\nmourier s defection from the service of the\\nFrench Republic]\\nYou RE welcome to Despots,\\nDumourier!\\nYou re welcome to Despots,\\nDumourier\\nHow does Dampiere do?\\nAy, and Bournonville too?\\nWhy did they not come along with\\nyou,\\nDumourier\\nI will fight France with you,\\nDumourier,\\nI will fight France with you,\\nDumourier\\nI will figlit France with you,\\nI will take my chance with you,\\nBy my soul I li dance with you,\\nDumourier", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0245.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "igS ON JOHN M MURUO. ON MRS. RIDDELL S BIRTHDAY.\\nIII.\\nThen let us figlit about,\\nDumourier\\nThen let us fight about,\\nDumourier\\nThen let us fight about\\nTill Freedom s spark be out,\\nThen we 11 be damnVl, no doubt,\\nDumourier.\\nON JOHN M MURDO.\\n[Cunningham states that the verses ac-\\ncompanied a present of books or verse,\\nand that afterwards Burns wrote them on a\\nwindow-pane with a diamond.]\\nBlest be M Murdo to his latest day!\\nNo envious cloud o ercast his evening\\nray\\nNo wrinkle furrow d by the hand of\\ncare,\\nNor ever sorrow, add one silver\\nhair\\nO may no son the father s honor\\nstain.\\nNor ever daughter give the mother\\npain!\\nON HEARING A THRUSH SING\\nIN A MORNING WALK IN\\nJANUARY.\\n[Burns dealt little in sonnets this example\\nbreaks every former rule except that which\\nrestricts the numl)er of lines to fourteen.]\\nSing on, sweet thrush, upon the leaf-\\nless bough,\\nSing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy\\nstrain\\nSee aged Winter, mid his surly\\nreign,\\nAt thy blythe carol clears his fur-\\nrowed brow.\\nSo in lone Poverty s dominion drear\\nSits meek Content with light, un-\\nanxious heart,\\nWelcomes the rapid moments, bids\\nthem part.\\nNor asks if they bring ought to hope\\nor fear.\\nI thank Thee, Author of this opening\\nday,\\nThou whose bright sun now gilds\\nyon orient skies!\\nRiches denied, Thy boon was purer\\njoys\\nWhat wealth could never give nor\\ntake away\\nYet come, thou child of Poverty and\\nCare,\\nThe mite high Heav n bestow d, that\\nmite with thee I 11 share.\\nIMPROMPTU ON MRS. RID-\\nDELL S BIRTHDAY,\\n4TH NOVEMBER 1 793.\\n[Mrs. Walter Riddell, whose maiden\\nname was Maria Woodley, was the daugh-\\nter of William Woodley, Commander and\\nGovernor of St. Kitts and the Leeward\\nIslands.]\\nOld Winter, with his frosty beard.\\nThus once to Jove his prayer pre-\\nferred\\nWhat have I done of all the year.\\nTo bear this hated doom severe?\\nMy cheerless suns no pleasure know\\nNight s horrid car drags dreary slow\\nMy dismal months no joys are ciown-\\ning,\\nBut spleeny, English hanging, drown-\\ninsr.\\nNow Jove, for once be mighty civil\\nTo counterbalance all this evil\\nGive me, and I ve no more to say.\\nGive me Maria s natal day\\nThat brilliant gift shall so enrich me.\\nSpring, Summer, Autumn, cannot\\nmatch me.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0246.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "ON THE DEATH OF ROBT. RIDDELL. GRIZZEL GRIMME. 199\\nT is done says Jove so ends my\\nslory,\\nAnd Winter once rejoiced in glory.\\nSONNET ON THE DEATH OF\\nROBERT RIDDELL OF GLEN-\\nRIDDELL.\\n[Burns had offended the Riddells by\\nlampooning Mrs. Walter Riddell and the\\nworthy Glenriddell, deep read in old coins,\\nfell out with the poet ot the Whistle, and\\nhe died unreconciled to his friend, who, re-\\nmembering only his worth and former kind-\\nness, immediately penned an elegiac sonnet\\non the event.]\\nNo more, ye warblers of the wood,\\nno more,\\nNor pour your descant grating on my\\nsoul\\nThou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy\\nverdant stole,\\nMore welcome were to me grim\\nWinters wildest roar\\nHow can ye charm, ye flowers, with\\nall your dyes\\nYe blow upon the sod that wraps my\\nfriend.\\nHow can I to the tuneful strain at-\\ntend\\nThat strain flows round the untimely\\ntomb where Riddell lies.\\nYes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes\\nof woe.\\nAnd sooth the Virtues weeping o er\\nhis bier\\nThe man of worth and hath not\\nleft his peer\\nLs in his narrow house for ever\\ndarkly low.\\nThee, Spring, again with joy shall\\nothers greet\\nMe, memory of my loss will only\\nmeet.\\nA SONNET UPON SONNETS.\\n[First published in the Centenary edition,\\nwhich says We have done our utmost to\\ndetermine whether this copy of verses be\\nvery Burns, or merely a copy in Burns s\\nhandwriting. It seems to be unknown, and\\nwe have assumed that it is one of his few\\nmetrical experiments.]\\nFourteen, a sonneteer thy praises\\nsings\\nWhat magic myst ries in that number\\nlie!\\nYour hen hath fourteen eggs beneath\\nher wings\\nThat fourteen chickens to the roost\\nmay fly.\\nFourteen full pounds the jockey s\\nstone must be\\nHis age fourteen a horse s prime is\\npast.\\nFourteen long hours too oft the Bard\\nmust fast\\nFourteen bright bumpers bliss he\\nne er must see\\nBefore fourteen, a dozen yields the\\nstrife\\nBefore fourteen e en thirteen s\\nstrength is vain.\\nFourteen good years a woman\\ngives us life\\nFourteen good men we lose that\\nlife again.\\nWhat lucubrations can be more upon\\nit?\\nFourteen good measur d verses make\\na sonnet.\\nGRIZZEL GRIMME.\\n[This piece is published in the Notes\\nof the Centenary edition, with the following\\ncomment: This piece came into our\\nhands too late for insertion among the\\nMiscellanies. But it is plainly Burns, the\\nartist in folk-song, and save for a false\\n(eighteenth century) note or two in the\\nfirst half of stanza iii that Burns bv no\\nmeans at his worst; it is racy, rank, even,\\nof the rustic earth; and we have pleasure\\nin giving it in this Note.\\nGrim Grizzel was a mighty Dame\\nWeel kend on Cluden-side\\nGrim Grizzel was a mighty Dame\\nO meikle fame and pride.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0247.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "GRIZZEL GRIM ME.\\nWhen gentles met in gentle bowers\\nAnd nobles in the ha\\nGrim Grizzel was a mighty Dame,\\nThe loudest o tliem a\\nWhere lawless Riot rag d the night\\nAnd Beauty durst na gang.\\nGrim Grizzel was a mighty Dame,\\nWham nae man e er wad wrang.\\nNor had Grim Grizzel skill alane\\nWhat bower and ha require\\nBut she had skill, and meikle skill,\\nIn barn and eke in byre.\\nAe day Grim Grizzel walked forth,\\nAs she was wont to do,\\nAlang the banks o Cluden fair,\\nHer cattle for to view.\\nThe cattle sh o er hill and dale\\nAs cattle will incline.\\nAnd sair it grieved Grim Grizzel s\\nheart\\nSae meikle muck to tine.\\nAnd she has ca d on John o Clods,\\nOf her herdsmen the chief.\\nAnd she has ca d on John o Clods!\\nAnd teird him a her grief:\\nNow wae betide thee, John o Clods!\\nI gie thee meal and fee,\\nAnd yet sae muckle muck ye tine\\nMight a be gear to me\\nYe claut my byre, ye sweep my byre.\\nThe like was never seen\\nThe very chamber 1 lie in\\nWas never half sae clean.\\nYe ca my kye adown the loan\\nAnd there they a discharge\\nMy Tammie s hat, wig, head and a\\nWas never half sac large\\nBut mind mv words now, John o\\nClods,\\nAnd tent me what I say\\nMy kye shall sh ere they gae out,\\nThat shall they ilka day.\\nAnd mind my words now, John o\\nClods,\\nAnd tent now wha ye serve\\nOr back ye se to the Colonel gang,\\nEither to steal or starve.\\nThen John o Clods he looked up\\nAnd syne he looked down\\nHe looked east, he looked west.\\nHe looked roun and roun\\nHis bonnet and his rowantree club\\nFrae either hand did fa\\nWi lifted een and open mouth\\nHe naething said at a\\nAt length he found his trembling\\ntongue,\\nWithin his mouth was fauld\\nAe silly word frae me, mad^m,\\nGin 1 daur be sae bauld.\\nYour kye will at nae bidding sh\\nLet me do what I can\\nYour kye will at nae bidding sh\\nOf onie earthly man.\\nTho ye are great Lady Glaur-hole,\\nFor a your power and art\\nTho ye are great Lady Glaur-hole,\\nThey winna let a fart.\\nNow wae betide thee, John o Clods!\\nAn ill death may ye die!\\nMy kye shall at my bidding sh\\nAnd that ye soon shall see.\\nThen she s ta en Hawkie by the tail.\\nAnd wrung wi miglit and main.\\nTill Hawkie rowted through the woods\\nWi agonising pain.\\nSh sh ye bitch, Grim\\nGrizzel roar d,\\nTill hill and valley rang;\\nAnd sh ye bitch, the echoes\\nroar d\\nLincluden wa s amang.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0248.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "TRAGIC FRAGMENT. REMORSE.\\nFRAGMENTS.\\nTRAGIC FRAGMENT.\\n[Assigned by Burns to his eighteenth or\\nnineteenth year. Much later in life he con-\\ntemplated a drama on an adventure of Rob-\\nert Bruce.]\\nAll villain as I am a damned\\nwretch,\\nA hardened, stubborn, unrepenting\\nsinner\\nStill my heart inelts at human wretch-\\nedness,\\nAnd with sincere, tho unavailing,\\nsighs\\nI view the helpless children of dis-\\ntress.\\nWith tears indignant I behold the op-\\npressor\\nRejoicing in the honest man s destruc-\\ntion,\\nWhose unsubmitting heart was all his\\ncrime.\\nEv n you, ye hapless crew! I pity\\nyou\\nYe, whom the seeming good think sin\\nto pity\\nYe poor, despised, abandoned vaga-\\nbonds.\\nWhom Vice, as usual, has tuniM o er\\nto ruin.\\nOh! but for friends and interposing\\nHeaven,\\nI had been driven forth, like you for-\\nlorn,\\nThe most detested, worthless wretch\\namong you\\nO injured God! Thy goodness has\\nendowed me\\nWith talents passing most of my com-\\npeers,\\nWhich I in just proportion have\\nabused,\\nAs far surpassing other common vil-\\nlains\\nAs Thou in natural parts has given me\\nmore.\\nREiMORSE.\\nm\\nRemorse is the most painful sentiment\\nthat can imbitter the human bosom. (R. B.)\\nAs early as 1783. The fragment, of course,\\nis dramatic, and not personal. ANDREW\\nLang.]\\nOf all the numerous ills that hurt our\\npeace,\\nThat press the soul, or wring the mind\\nwith anguish,\\nBeyond comparison the worst are those\\nBy our own folly, or our guilt brought\\non\\nIn ev ry other circumstance, the mind\\nHas this to say ^t was no deed of\\nmine.\\nBut, when to all the evil of misfor-\\ntune\\nThis sting is added Blame thy\\nfoolish self\\nOr, worser far, the pangs of keen re-\\nmorse.\\nThe torturing, gnawing consciousness\\nof guilt,\\nOf guilt, perhaps, where we Ve involved\\nothers.\\nThe young, the innocent, who fondly\\nlov d us\\nNay, more, that very love their cause\\nof ruin\\nO burning Hell! in all thy store of\\ntorments\\nThere s not a keener lash!\\nLives there a man so firm, who, while\\nhis heart\\nFeels all the bitter horrors of his\\ncrime,\\nCan reason down its agonizing\\nthrobs,\\nAnd, after proper purpose of amend-\\nment.\\nCan firmly force his jarring thoughts\\nto peace\\nO happy, happy, enviable man!\\nO glorious magnanimity of soul!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0249.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "RUSTICITY S UNGAINLY FORM. SKETCH FOR AN ELEGY,\\nRUSTICITY S UNGAINLY\\nFORiM.\\nThe sensible one Burns grieves for\\nwas the unlucky Miss Kennedy. -f AN-\\nDREW Lang.J\\nRusticity s ungainly form\\nMay cloud the highest mind\\nBut when the lieart is nobly warm.\\nThe good excuse will find.\\nPropriety s cold, cautious rules\\nWarm Fervour may overlook\\nBut spare poor Sensibility\\nTh ungentle, harsh rebuke.\\nON WILLIAM CREECH.\\n[Sent to Mrs. Dunlop, Oct. 23, 1788, with\\nthe fragment on William Sniellie. These,\\nwrote Burns, are embryotic fragments of\\nwhat may one day be a poem.\\nA LITTLE upright; pert, tart, tripping\\nwight,\\nAnd still his precious self his dear\\ndelight\\nWho loves his own smart shadow in\\nthe streets\\nBetter than e er the fairest She he\\nmeets.\\nMuch specious lore, but little under-\\nstood\\n(Veneering oft outshines the solid\\nwood).\\nHis solid sense by inches you must\\ntell,\\nBut meet his subtle cunning by tlie ell\\nA man of fashion, too, he made his\\ntour,\\nLearn d Vive la bagatelle et vive\\nI amour\\nSo traveird monkies their grimace\\nimprove.\\nPolish their grin nay, sigh for\\nladies love!\\nHis meddling vanity, a busy fiend.\\nStill making work his selfish craft\\nmust mend.\\nON WILLIAM SMELLIE.\\n[Author of the Philosophy of Natural\\nHistory, and member of the Antiquarian\\nand Royal Societies of Edinburgh.]\\nCrochallan came\\nThe old cock d hat, the brown surtout\\nthe same\\nHis grisly beard just bristling in its\\nmight\\nT was four long nights and days to\\nshaving-night)\\nHis uncomb d, hoary locks, wild-star-\\ning, thatch d\\nA head for thought profound and clear\\nunmatched\\nYet, tho his caustic wit was biting\\nrude.\\nHis heart was warm, benevolent, and\\ngood.\\nSKETCH FOR AN ELEGY.\\n[Probably the original form of the elegy\\non Captain Matthew Henderson, although\\nhis name is not mentioned.]\\nCraigdarroch, fam d for speaking\\nart\\nAnd every virtue of the heart.\\nStops short, nor can a word impart\\nTo end his sentence.\\nWhen memory strikes him like a dart\\nWith auld acquaintance.\\nBlack James whase wit was never\\nlaith.\\nBut, like a sword had tint the sheath,\\nAy ready for the work o death\\nHe turns aside.\\nAnd strains wi suffocating breath\\nHis grief to hide.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0250.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "PASSION S CRY.\\n203\\nEven Philosophic SmelHe tries\\nTo choak the stream that floods his\\neyes\\nSo Moses wi a hazel-rice\\nCame o er the stane\\nBut, tho it cost him speal ing twice,\\nIt gushYl amain.\\nGo to your marble graffs, ye great,\\nIn a the tinkler-trash of state!\\nBut by thy honest turf 1 11 wait.\\nThou man of worth.\\nAnd weep the ae best fallow s fate\\nE er lay in earth\\nPASSION S CRY.\\n[This Poem was inspired by a famous\\ndivorce case which was tried in the Court\\nof Session.]\\nMild zephyrs waft thee to life s far-\\nthest shore,\\nNor think of me and my distresses\\nmore\\nFalsehood accurst! No! Still I beg\\na place,\\nStill near thy heart some little, little\\ntrace!\\nFor that dear trace the world I would\\nresign\\nO, let me live, and die, and think it\\nBy all I lov d, neglected and forgot.\\nNo friendly face e er lights my squalid\\ncot.\\nShunn d, hated, wrong d, unpitied,\\nunredrest\\nThe mock d quotation of the scorner s\\njest\\nEv n the poor support of my wretched\\nlife,\\nSnatched by the violence of legal\\nstrife\\nOft grateful for my very daily bread,\\nTo those my family s once large\\nbounty fed\\nA welcome inmate at their homely\\nfare,\\nMy griefs, my woes, my sighs, my\\ntears they share\\nTheir vulgar souls unlike the souls\\nrefined.\\nThe fashion d marble of the polish d\\nmind.\\nI burn, I burn, as when thro ripen d\\ncorn\\nBy driving winds the crackling flames\\nare borne.\\nNow, maddening-wild, I curse that\\nfatal night.\\nNow bless the hour that charm d my\\nguilty sight.\\nIn vain the Laws their feeble force\\noppose\\nChain d at his feet, they groan Love s\\nvanquish d foes.\\nIn vain Religion meets my shrinking\\neye\\nI dare not combat, but I turn and\\nfly.\\nConscience in vain upbraids th un-\\nhallow d fire.\\nLove grasps his scorpions stifled\\nthey expire.\\nReason drops headlong from his\\nsacred throne.\\nYour dear idea reigns, and reigns\\nalone\\nEach thought intoxicated homage\\nyields,\\nAnd riots wanton in forbidden fields.\\nBy all on high adoring mortals know\\nBy all the conscious villain fears be-\\nlow\\nBy what, alas! much more my soul\\nalarms\\nMy doubtful hopes once more to fill\\nthy arms\\nEv n shouldst thou, false, forswear the\\nguilty tie,\\nThine and thine only I must live and\\ndie!", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0251.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "204\\nIN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE. AT ROSLIN INN.\\nIN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.\\n[These verses are sometimes included in\\ntlie preceding fragment.]\\nIn vain would Prudence with decorous\\nsneer\\nPoint out a censuring world, and bid\\nme fear\\nAbove that world on wings of love I\\nrise.\\n1 know its worst, and can that worst\\ndespise.\\nWrong d, injur d, shunn d, unpitied,\\nunredrest,\\nThe mock d quotation of the scorner\\\\s\\njest.\\nLet Prudence direst bodements on\\nme fall,\\nClarinda, rich reward! overpays them\\nall.\\nTHE CARES O LOVE.\\n[Printed for the first time in tlie Centen-\\nary edition, from the Ms. in the possession\\nof Mrs. Andrews, Newcastle.]\\nHE.\\nThe cares o Love are sweeter far\\nThan onie other pleasure\\nAnd if sae dear its sorrows are,\\nEnjoyment, what a treasure\\nSHE.\\nI fear to try, I dare na try\\nA passion sae ensnaring\\nFor light s her heart and blythe s\\nher song\\nThat for nae man is caring.\\nEPIGRAMS.\\nEXTEMPORE IN THE COURT\\nOF SESSION.\\nTune Killiecrankie.\\n[The oratorical duel was between Islay\\nCampbell, Lord Advocate, and Henry\\nErskine, Dean of Faculty, in a certain\\ndivorce case.]\\nLORD ADVOCATE.\\nHe clench d his pamphlets in his fist.\\nHe quoted and he hinted,\\nTill in a declamation-mist\\nHis argument, he tint it\\nHe gaped for t, he graped for t,\\nHe fand it was awa, man\\nBut what his common sense came\\nshort,\\nHe ekfed out wi law, man.\\nMR. ERSKINE.\\nCollected, Harry stood awee.\\nThen open d out his arm, man\\nHis lordship sat wi ruefu e e,\\nAnd ey d the gathering storm, man\\nLike wind-driv n hail it did assail.\\nOr torrents owre a linn, man\\nThe Bench sae wise lift up their eyes,\\nHauf-wauken d wi the din, man.\\nAT ROSLIN INN.\\n[Chambers states that Burns breakfasted\\nat the inn after a ramble in the Pentlands\\nwith Alexander Nasmyth, the painter.]\\nMy blessings on ye, honest wife\\nI ne er was here before\\nYe ve wealth o gear for spoon and\\nknife\\nHeart could not wish for more.\\nHeav n keep you clear o sturt and\\nstrife,\\nTill far ayont fourscore.\\nAnd by the Lord o death and life,\\nI II ne er gae by your door", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0252.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "TO AN ARTIST. AT INVERARAY.\\n205\\nTO AN ARTIST.\\n[According to Chambers, Burns entering\\na stiuiio in Edinburgh, found the occupant\\nengiiged on a Jacob s Dream, and wrote\\nthe hnes on the back of a hltle sketch.]\\nDear I 11 gie ye some advice,\\nYou Ml tak it no uncivil\\nYou shouldna paint at angels, man.\\nBut try and paint the Devil.\\nTo paint an angel s kittle wark,\\nWi Nick there s little danger\\nYou 11 easy draw a lang-kent face,\\nBut no sae weel a stranger.\\nR. B.\\nTHE BOOK-WORMS.\\n[Said to have been written on a splen-\\ndidly liound but worm-eaten volume of\\nShakespeare in a nobleman s library.]\\nThrough and through th inspired\\nleaves.\\nYe maggots, make your windings\\nBut O, respect his lordship s taste.\\nAnd spare the golden bindings\\nON ELPHINSTONE S TRANS-\\nLATION OF MARTIAL.\\n[_James Elphinstone born 1721, died\\n1809 published his egregious translation\\nof Martial s epigrams in 1782.]\\nO THOU whom Poesy abhors.\\nWhom Prose has turned out of doors,\\nHeard st tliou yon groan Proceed\\nno further\\nT was laurePd Martial calling Mur-\\nther\\nON JOHNSON S OPINION\\nHAMPDEN.\\nOF\\n[Inscribed on a copy of Johnson s Lives,\\npresented by Burns to Alexander Cunning-\\nham.]\\nFor shame\\nLet Folly and Knavery\\nFreedom oppose\\nT is suicide. Genius,\\nTo mix with her foes.\\nUNDER THE PORTRAIT OF\\nMISS BURNS.\\n[Miss Burns was a woman of ill repute.\\nShe was in Edinburgh while Burns resided\\nthere in 1786-87.]\\nCease, ye prudes, your envious rail-\\ning\\nLovely Burns has charms con-\\nfess\\nTrue it is she had ae failing\\nHad ae woman ever less?\\nON MISS AINSLIE IN CHURCH.\\n[Burns wrote these lines in church, in\\nMiss Ainslie s Bible, apropos of her search\\nfor a text against the impenitent denoted by\\nthe preacher.]\\nFair maid, you need not take the\\nhint.\\nNor idle texts pursue\\nT was guilty sinners that he meant.\\nNot angels such as you.\\nAT INVERARAY.\\n[This epigram is supposed to have been\\nwritten on a window-pane of the inn at\\nInveraray, where the landlord was too busy", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0253.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "2o6 AT CARRON IRONWORKS. A HIGHLAND WELCOME.\\nin attendance on visitors to the duke to pay\\nproper attention to the poet and his friend.]\\nWhoe er he be that sojourns here,\\nI pity much his case,\\nUnless he come to wait upon\\nThe Lord their God, His Grpce.\\nThere s naething here but Highland\\npride\\nAnd Highland scab and hunger:\\nIf Providence has sent me here,\\nT was surely in an anger.\\nAT CARRON IRONWORKS.\\n[Written on the window of the inn at\\nCarron, and signed R. B., Ayrshire.\\nWe cam na here to view your warks\\nIn hopes to be mair wise,\\nBut only, lest we gang to Hell,\\nIt may be nae surprise.\\nBut when we tirPd at your door\\nYour porter dought na bear us\\nSae may, should we to HelFs yetts\\ncome.\\nYour billie Satan sair us.\\nON SEEING THE ROYAL\\nPALACE AT STIRLING IN\\nRUINS.\\n[On applying for a place in the excise,\\nBurns was severely questioned in regard to\\nthis epigram.]\\nHere Stewarts once in glory reign d.\\nAnd laws for Scotland s weal ordain d\\nBut now unroof M their palace stands.\\nTheir sceptre fallen to other hands\\nFallen indeed, and to the earth.\\nWhence grovelling reptiles take their\\nbirth!\\nThe injured Stewart line is gone,\\nA race outlandish fills their throne\\nAn idiot race, to honour lost\\nWho know them best despise them\\nmost.\\nADDITIONAL LINES AT\\nSTIRLING.\\n[Cunningham states that Burns, on being\\nremonstrated with by Nicol on his return\\nfrom Harvieston, added this mock reproof\\nto the author.\\nRash mortal, and slanderous poet,\\nthy name\\nShall no longer appear in the records\\nof Fame\\nDost not know that old Mansfield,\\nwho writes like the Bible,\\nSays, the more t is a truth. Sir, the\\nmore H is a libel\\nREPLY TO THE THREAT OF\\nA CENSORIOUS CRITIC.\\n[The critic was a Rev. Mr. Hamilton,\\nminister of Gladsmuir, East Lothian.]\\nWith ^sop s lion. Burns says\\nSore I feel\\nEach other blow: but damn that\\nass s heel\\nA HIGHLAND WELCOME.\\n[Composed on leaving a place in the\\nHighlands, where he had been kindly\\nentertained.]\\nWhen Death s dark stream I ferry\\no er\\n(A time that surely shall come).\\nIn Heaven itself I 11 ask no more\\nThan just a Highland welcome.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0254.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "AT WHIGHAM S INN. SEARCHING AULD WIVES BARRELS. 207\\nAT WHIGHAM S INN,\\nQUHAR.\\nSAN-\\n[[nscribed on a window-pane of the inn.\\nWhigham became provost of the burgh.]\\nEnvy, if thy jaundiced eye\\nThrough this window chance to spy,\\nTo thy sorrow thou shalt find,\\nAll that s generous, all that s kind.\\nFriendship, virtue, every grace.\\nDwelling in this happy place.\\nVERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS.\\nThe everlasting surliness of a lion and\\nSaracen s head, writes Burns, or the un-\\nchanging blandness of the landlord wel-\\ncoming a traveller, on some sign-posts,\\nwould be no bad similes of the constant\\naffected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal\\nsimper of a Frenchman or a Fiddler.\\nI. 7^\\nHe looked\\nJust as your sign-post Lions do,\\nWith aspect fierce and quite as harm-\\nless too.\\n(patient stupidity.)\\nSo heavy, passive to the tempest s\\nshocks.\\nDull on the sign-post stands the\\nstupid ox.\\nHis face with smile eternal drest\\nJust like the landlord to his guest.\\nHigh as they hang with creaking din\\nTo index out the Country Inn.\\nA HEAD, pure, sinless quite of brain\\nand soul,\\nThe very image of a barber s poll\\nJust shews a human face, and wears\\na wig,\\nAnd looks, when well friseur d, amaz-\\ning big.\\nON MISS JEAN SCOTT.\\n[According to Allan Cunningham, the\\nJeanie Scott of these verses, belonged to\\nEcclefechan, although she resided in Avr,\\nand cheered the poet, not only with her\\nsweet looks, but sweet voice. WILLIAM\\nWallace.]\\nO, HAD each Scot of ancient times\\nBeen, Jeanie Scott, as thou art,\\nThe bravest heart on English ground\\nHad yielded like a coward.\\nON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE.\\nMr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent,\\nand used to rally himself with the greatest\\ngood humor on the singular rotundity of\\nhis figure. Scots Magazine.\\nThe Devil got notice that Grose was\\na-dying.\\nSo whip at the summons, old Satan\\ncame flying\\nBut when he approach d where poor\\nFrancis lay moaning.\\nAnd saw each bed-post with its bur-\\nthen a-groaning,\\nAstonish d, confounded, cries Satan\\nBy God,\\nI d want him ere take such a damna-\\nble load\\nON BEING APPOINTED TO\\nAN EXCISE DIVISION.\\n[The appointment was made in August,\\n1789.]\\nSearching auld wives barrels,\\nOchon, the day", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0255.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "208\\nON MISS DAVIES. IN LAMINGTON KIRK.\\nThat clarty barm should stain my\\nlaurels\\nBut what 11 ye say?\\nThese movin things ca d wives an\\nweans\\nWad move the very hearts o\\nstanes.\\nON MISS DAVIES.\\n[Miss Debora Davies, daughter of Dr.\\nDavies of Tenby, Pembrokeshire, and a\\nrelative of Captain Riddell.]\\nAsk why God made the gem so\\nsmall.\\nAnd why so huge the granite\\nBecause God meant mankind should\\nset\\nThat higher value on it.\\nON A BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY\\nSEAT.\\n[The seat of David Maxwell of Car-\\ndoness, described to Mrs. Dunlop by Burns\\nas a stupid, money-loving dunderpate.\\nWe grant they re thine, those beau-\\nties all,\\nSo lovely in our eye\\nKeep them, thou eunuch, Cardoness,\\nFor others to enjoy.\\nTHE TYRANT WIFE.\\n[Usually published under the title of\\nThe Henpecked Husband.\\nCurs d be the man, the poorest\\nwretch in life,\\nThe crouching vassal to the tyrant\\nwife\\nWho has no will but by her high per-\\nmission\\nWho has not sixpence but in her\\npossession\\nWho must to her his dear friend s\\nsecret tell\\nWho dreads a curtain lecture worse\\nthan hell\\nWere such the wife had fallen to my\\npart.\\nI d break her spirit, or I d break her\\nheart\\nI d charm her witli the magic of a\\nswitch,\\nI d kiss her maids, and kick the per-\\nverse bitch.\\nAT BROWNHILL INN.\\n[A play on the name of the Landlord,\\nBacon.\\nAt Brownhill we always get dainty\\ngood cheer\\nAnd plenty of bacon each day in the\\nyear\\nWe ve a thing that s nice, and mostly\\nin season\\nBut why always bacon come, tell\\nme the reason.\\nTHE TOADEATER.\\n[There are several versions of this epi-\\ngram, due to tradition, etc. Some of them\\nare vigorous but coarse.]\\nOf Lordly acquaintance you boast,\\nAnd the Dukes that you dined with\\nyestreen\\nYet an insect s an insect at most,\\nTho it crawl on the curl of a Oueen!\\nIN LAMINGTON KIRK.\\n[The minister was Thomas Mitchell. He\\nis described as an accomplished scholar.\\nAs cauld a wind as ever blew,\\nA cauld kirk, and in t but few.\\nAs cauld a minister s ever spak\\nYe se a be het or I come back", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0256.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "THE KEEKIN GLASS. ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE S BRAINS. 209\\nTHE KEEKIN GLASS.\\n[Written extempore for Miss Miller,\\nat Dalswinton, on a drunken Lord of Justi-\\nciary, pointing at her, and asl ing, Wha s\\nyon hoolet-faced thing i the corner\\nHow daur ye ca me H owlet-face,\\nYe bleai -e ed, withered spectre?\\nYe only spied the keekin-glass,\\nAn there ye saw your picture.\\nAT THE GLOBE TAVERN,\\nDUMFRIES.\\n[Inscribed, with the exception of the\\nsecond stanza of No. 2, on window-panes\\nnow in the possession of Mr. J. P. Brunton,\\nGalashiels.]\\nThe greybeard, old Wisdom, may\\nboast of his treasures.\\nGive me with gay Folly to live!\\nI grant him his calm-blooded, time-\\nsettled pleasures.\\nBut Folly has raptures to give.\\n(I.)\\nI MURDER hate by field or flood,\\nTho Glory s name may screen us.\\nIn wars at hame I 11 spend my blood\\nLife-giving wars of Venus.\\nThe deities that I adore\\nAre Social Peace and Plenty\\nI m better pleas d to make one more\\nThan be the death of twenty.\\n(II.)\\nI would not die like Socrates,\\nFor all the fuss of Plato\\nNor would I with Leonidas,\\nNor yet would I with Cato\\nThe zealots of the Church and State\\nShall ne er my mortal foes be\\nBut let me have bold Zimri s fate\\nWithin the arms of Cozbi.\\nMy bottle is a holy pool,\\nThat heals the wounds o care an dool,\\nAnd pleasure is a wanton trout\\nAnd ye drink it, ye 11 find him out.\\nIn politics if thou would st mix,\\nAnd mean thy fortunes be\\nBear this in mind Be deaf and blind,\\nLet great folks hear and see.\\nYE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.\\n[The Loyal Natives Club of Dumfries\\ncelebrated the king s birthday on June 4\\nwith a dinner and a ball. They had lam-\\npooned Burns and his friends, and this is\\nliis reply.]\\nYe true Loyal Natives attend to my\\nsong:\\nIn uproar and riot rejoice the night\\nlong\\nFrom Envy and Hatred your core is\\nexempt.\\nBut where is your shield from the\\ndarts of Contempt?\\nON COMMISSARY GOLDIE S\\nBRAINS.\\n[Commissary Goldie was President of\\nthe Loyal Natives.\\nLord, to account who does Thee call,\\nOr e er dispute Thy pleasure?\\nElse why within so thick a wall\\nEnclose so poor a treasure?", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0257.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "2IO IN A LADY S POCKET BOOK. ON MISS FONTENELLE.\\nIN A LADY S POCKET BOOK.\\n[Published in Stewart s Poems ascribed\\nto Robert Burns (Glasgow, 1801).]\\nGrant me, indulgent Heaven, that I\\nmay live\\nTo see the miscreants feel the pains\\nthey give\\nDeal Freedom s sacred treasures free\\nas air,\\nTill Slave and Despot be but things\\nthat were\\nAGAINST THE EARL OF\\nGALLOWAY.\\nWhy Burns detested Lord Galloway is\\nnot known, nor is it important to know.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nWhat dost thou in that mansion fair?\\nFlit, Galloway, and find\\nSome narrow, dirty, dungeon cav*\\nThe picture of thy mind.\\nON THE SAME.\\nNo Stewart art thou, Galloway\\nThe Stewarts all were brave.\\nBesides, the Stewarts were but fools,\\nNot one of them a knave.\\nON THE SAME.\\nBright ran thy line, O Galloway,\\nThro many a far-famed sire\\nSo ran the far-famed Roman way,\\nAnd ended in a mire.\\nON THE SAME, ON THE\\nAUTHOR BEING THREAT-\\nENED WITH VENGEANCE.\\nSpare me thy vengeance, Galloway!\\nIn quiet let me live\\nI ask no kindness at thy hand,\\nFor thou hast none to give.\\nON THE LAIRD OF LAGGAN.\\n[Morine had bought the farm of Ellis-\\nland.]\\nWhen Morine, deceas d, to the Devil\\nwent down,\\nT was nothing would serve him but\\nSatan s own crown.\\nThy fool s head, quoth Satan, that\\ncrown shall wear never\\nI grant thou rt as wicked, but not\\nquite so clever.\\nON MARIA RIDDELL.\\n[Inscribed on the back of a draft copy\\nof Scots VVha Hae. The heading is,\\nOn my I^ord Buchan s vociferating in an\\nargument that Women must always be\\nflattered grossly or not spoken to at all.\\nPraise Woman still, his lordship\\nroars,\\nDeserv d or not, no matter\\nBut thee whom all my soul adores,\\nThere Flattery cannot Hatter\\nMaria, all my thought and dream,\\nInspires my vocal sliell\\nThe more I praise my lovely theme,\\nThe more the truth I tell.\\nON MISS FONTENELLE.\\n[On seeing her in a favorite character.\\nPublished in Cunningham, 1834.]\\nSweet naivete of feature.\\nSimple, wild, enchanting elf,\\nNot to thee, but thanks to Nature\\nThou art acting but thyself.\\nWert thou awkward, stiff, affected,\\nSpurning Nature, torturing art.\\nLoves and Graces all rejected,\\nThen indeed thou dst act a part.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0258.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "KIRK AND STATE EXCISEMEN. ON CHLORIS.\\nKIRK AND STATE EXCISE-\\nMEN.\\n[Written on a window in the King s\\nArms, Dumfries.]\\nYe men of wit and wealth, why all\\nthis sneering\\nGainst poor Excisemen? Give the\\ncause a hearing.\\nWhat are your Landlorcrs rent-rolls?\\nTaxing ledgers\\nWhat Premiers? What ev n Mon-\\narchs? Mighty Gangers\\nNay, what are Priests (those seeming\\ngodly wise-men)\\nWhat are they, pray, but Spiritual\\nExcisemen\\nON THANKSGIVING FOR A\\nNATIONAL VICTORY.\\n[The victory as probably Howe s, off\\nUshant, June i, 1794.]\\nYe hypocrites are these your pranks\\nTo murder men. and give God thanks\\nDesist for shame Proceed no fur-\\nther\\nGod won t accept your thanks for\\nMurther.\\nPINNED TO MRS. WALTER\\nRIDDELL S CARRIAGE.\\nIf you rattle along like your mistress s\\ntongue,\\nYour speed will out-rival the dart\\nBut, a fly for your load, you 11 break\\ndown on the road,\\nIf your stuff be as rotten s her\\nheart.\\nTO DR. MAXWELL.\\nON MISS JESSY STAIG S RECOVERY.\\n[Burns and Ma.xwell were fast friends.\\nHe attended Burns during his last illness,\\nwhen the dying man presented him with his\\npistols.]\\nMaxwell, if merit here you crave.\\nThat merit I deny\\ni oil save fair Jessie from the grave!\\nAn Angel could not die\\nTO THE BEAUTIFUL MISS\\nELIZA J N.\\nON HER PRINCIPLES OF LIBERTY\\nAND EQUALITY.\\n[The idea occurs, as Mr. Scott Douglas\\npoints out, in a Latin epigram of Dr. John-\\nson s.]\\nHow, Liberty Girl, can it be by\\nthee nam d?\\nEquality, too Hussey, art not\\nasham d\\nFree and Equal indeed, while man-\\nkind thou enchainest.\\nAnd over their hearts a proud Despot\\nso reignest.\\nON CHLORIS\\nREQUESTING ME TO GIVE HER A\\nSPRIG OF BLOSSOMED THORN.\\n[Published in The Edinburgh Adver-\\ntiser of Aug. 8, 1800. With an additional\\nstanza, a change in the heroine s name, and\\na change in one of the lines, it was set to\\nmusic by William Shield, and has been\\npopular with English tenors ever since.]\\nFrom the white- blossom d sloe my\\ndear Chloris requested\\nA sprig, her fair breast to adorn\\nNo, by Heaven! I exclaim d, let\\nme perish for ever,\\nEre I plant in that bosom a\\nthorn", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0259.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "TO MAULE OF PANMUKH. ON A GOBLET.\\nTO THE HON. WM. R. MAULE\\nOF PANMURE.\\n[Published for the first time in the Cen-\\ntenary edition. This nentieman bestowed\\nan annuity of ^50 on Burns s widow.]\\nThou Fool, in thy phaeton towering.\\nArt proud when that phaeton s\\npraisVl\\nT is the pride of a Thief s exhibition\\nWhen higlier his pillory s raised.\\nON SEEING MRS. KEMBLE IN\\nYARICO.\\n[The lady was Mrs. Stephen Kemble,\\nwho appeared at the Dumfries Theatre in\\nOctober, 1794.]\\nKemble, thou cur st my unbelief\\nOf Moses and his rod\\nAt Yarico s sweet notes of grief\\nThe rock with tears had flow d.\\nON DR. BABINGTON S LOOKS.\\n[Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Dunlop, re-\\nfers to the subject of his satire as a well-\\nknown character in Dumfries.]\\nThat there is a falsehood in his\\nlooks\\nI must and will deny\\nThey say their Master is a knave,\\nAnd sure they do not lie.\\nON ANDREW TURNER.\\n[The epigram was written at Turner s\\nown suggestion.]\\nIn Seventeen Hunder n Forty-Nine\\nThe Deil gat stuff to mak a swine,\\nAn coost it in a corner\\nBut wilily he chang d his plan,\\nAn shap d it something like a man,\\nAn ca d it Andrew Turner.\\nTHE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND\\nCOVENANT.\\nAs a rule, Burns preferred Dundee to\\nthe Covenanters. Andrew Lanc]\\nThe Solemn League and Covenant\\nNow brings a smile, now brings a\\ntear.\\nBut sacred Freedom, too, was theirs\\nIf thou rt a slave, indulge thy\\nsneer.\\nTO JOHN SYME OF RYEDALE,\\nWITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF\\nPORTER.\\n[Mr. John Syme was one of the poet s\\nconstant companions. He possessed great\\nt.ilent, and Dr. Currie wished him to under-\\ntake the editing of the poet s life and writ-\\nings.]\\nO HAD the malt thy strength of mind,\\nOr hops the flavour of tliy wit,\\nTwere drink for first of human kind\\nA gift that ev n for Syme were fit.\\nJerusalem Tavern,\\nDumfries.\\nON A GOBLET.\\n[The goblet belonged to Syme.]\\nThere s Death in the cup, so be-\\nware\\nNay, more there is danger in\\ntouching\\nBut who can avoid the fell snare\\nThe man and his wine s so be-\\nwitchinji", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0260.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "APOLOGY TO JOHN SYME. TO JESSIE LEWARS.\\n213\\nAPOLOGY TO JOHN SYME.\\nOn refusing to dine witli him, after\\nhaving been promised the first of company\\nand the first of cookery, Dec. 17, 1795.\\nNo more of your guests, be they titled\\nor not,\\nAnd cookery the first in the nation\\nWho is proof to thy personal converse\\nand wit\\nIs proof to all other temptation.\\nON MR. JAMES GRACIE.\\n[PubHshed in McDowell s Burns in\\nDumfriesshire, 1870. Mr. Gracie was a\\nlocal banker.]\\nGracie, thou art a man of worth,\\nO, be thou Dean for ever\\nMay he be damn d to Hell hence-\\nforth,\\nWho fauts thy weight or measure\\nAT FRIARS CARSE HERMIT-\\nAGE.\\nI copied these lines from a pane of\\nglass in the Friars Carse Hermitage, on\\nwhich they had been traced with the dia-\\nmond of Burns. ALLAN CUNNING-\\nHAM.]\\nTo Riddell, much-lamented man.\\nThis ivied cot was dear\\nWand rer, dost value matchless worth\\nThis ivied cot revere.\\nFOR AN ALTAR OF INDEPEND-\\nENCE.\\nAT KERROUGHTRIE, THE SEAT OF\\nMR. HERON.\\n[Written in the summer of 1795. Pub-\\nlished in Currie, 1800.]\\nThou of an independent mind.\\nWith soul resolved, with soul resigned,\\nPrepar d Power s proudest frown to\\nbrax e,\\nWlio wilt not be, nor have a slave,\\nVirtue alone who dost revere,\\nThy own reproach alone dost fear\\nApproach this shrine, and worship\\nhere.\\nVERSICLES TO JESSIE\\nLEWARS.\\nTHE TOAST.\\n[Inscribed on a goblet presented to Miss\\nLewars.]\\nFill me with the rosy wine\\nCall a toast, a toast divine\\nGive the Poet s darling f^ame\\nLovely Jessie be her name\\nThen thou mayest freely boast\\nThou hast given a peerless toast.\\nTHE MENAGERIE.\\n[Written on the advertisement of a trav-\\nelling show, handed to Burns in Jessie s\\npresence.]\\nI.\\nTalk not to me of savages\\nFrom Afric s burning sun\\nNo savage e er can rend my heart\\nAs, Jessie, thou hast done.\\nBut Jessie s lovely hand in mine\\nA mutual faith to plight\\nNot even to view the heavenly choir\\nWould be so blest a sight.\\nJESSIE S ILLNESS.\\nSay, sages, what s the charm on earth\\nCan turn Death s dart aside.\\nIt is not purity and worth,\\nElse Jessie had not died!\\nHER RECOVERY.\\nBut rarely seen since Nature s birth\\nThe natives of tiie sky!\\nYet still one seraph s left on earth,\\nFor Jessie did not die.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0261.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "214\\nON MARRIAGE. AT THE GLOBE TAVERN.\\nON MARRIAGE.\\n[Printed for the first time in the Centen-\\nary edition, from a Ms. in possession of the\\npublishers of that edition.]\\nThat hackney d judge of human life.\\nThe Preacher and the King,\\nObserves: The man that gets\\nwife\\nHe gets a noljle tiling.\\nBut how capricious are mankind,\\nNow loathing, now desirous!\\nWe married men, how oft we find\\nThe best of thinjis will tire us!\\nGRACES.\\nA POET S GRACE.\\n[These stanzas appeared in The Edin-\\nburgh Courant, Aug. 27, 1789. The Grace\\nBefore Meat was inscribed in the Glenrid-\\ndell Book, and is printed in Currie, 1800.\\nBoth were published in Oliver (Edinburgh,\\n1801), Duncan (Glasgow, 1801), and Stew-\\nart (Glasgow, 1802).]\\nBEFORE MEAT.\\nO Thou, who kindly dost provide\\nFor ev ry creature s want\\nWe bless the God of Nature wide\\nFor all Thy goodness lent.\\nAnd if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,\\nMay never worse be sent\\nBut, whether granted or denied,\\nLord, bless us with content.\\nAFTER MEAT.\\nO Thou, in whom we live and move,\\nWho made the sea and shore,\\nThy goodness constantly we prove,\\nAnd. grateful, would adore\\nAnd, if it please Thee, Power above\\nStill grant us with such store\\nThe friend we trust, the fair we love,\\nAnd we desire no more.\\nAT THE GLOBE TAVERN.\\nBEFORE MEAT.\\nO Lord, when hunger pinches sore,\\nDo thou stand us in stead,\\nAnd send us from Thy bounteous store\\nA tup- or wether-head.\\nAFTER MEAT.\\nLord [Thee] we thank, and Thee\\nalone,\\nFor temporal gifts we little merit!\\nAt present we will ask no more\\nLet William Hislop bring the spirit.\\nO Lord, since we have feasted thus.\\nWhich we so little merit.\\nLet Meg now take the flesh away,\\nAnd Jock bring in the spirit.\\nO Lord, we do Thee humbly thank\\nFor that we little merit\\nNow Jean may tak tlie flesh away,\\nAnd Will bring in the spirit.\\nI\\ni", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0262.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "ON THE LAIRD OF BOGHEAD. ON HOLY WILLIE.\\n215\\nEPITAPHS.\\nON JAMES GRIEVE, LAIRD\\nOF BOGHEAD, TARBOLTON.\\n[This epitaph is a sort of reversal of that\\non Gavin Hamilton.]\\nHere lies Boghead amang the dead\\nIn hopes to get salvation\\nBut if such as he in Heav n may be,\\nThen welcome hail damnation.\\nON WM. MUIR IN TARBOL-\\nTON MILL.\\n[Jean Armour, being expelled from her\\nhome, found shelter for a time with Mr.\\nMuir s wife.]\\nAn honest man here lies at rest,\\nAs e er God with His image blest\\nThe friend of man. the friend of truth,\\nThe friend of age, and guide of youth\\nFew hearts like his with virtue\\nwarm d.\\nFew heads with knowledge so in-\\nforni d\\nIf there s another world, he lives in\\nbliss\\nIf there is none, he made the best of\\nthis.\\nON JOHN RANKINE.\\n[Adamhill, where Rankine lived, is a farm\\nnear Lochea.]\\nAe day, as Death, that gruesome carl.\\nWas driving to the tither warl\\nA mixtie-maxtie, motlev squad\\nAnd monie a guilt-bespotted lad\\nBlack gowns of each denomination.\\nAnd thieves of every rank and station,\\nFrom him that wears the star and\\ngarter\\nTo him that wintlcs in a halter\\nAsham d himself to see the wretches,\\nHe mutters, glowVingat the bitches\\nBy God I 11 not be seen behint them.\\nNor mang the spVitual core present\\nthem.\\nWithout at least ae honest man\\nTo grace this damn d infernal clan\\nBy Adamhill a glance he threw,\\nLord God quoth he, I have it\\nnow.\\nThere s just the man I want, i faith\\nAnd quickly stoppit Rankine s breath.\\nON TAM THE CHAPMAN.\\n[Reported to be one Thomas Kennedy,\\na schooifellow of Burns, who turned com-\\nmercial traveller.]\\nAs Tarn the chapman on a day\\nWi Death forgathered by the way,\\nWeel pleas d he greets a wight so\\nfamous,\\nAnd Death was nae less pleas d wi\\nThomas,\\nWha cheerfully lays down his pack,\\nAnd there blaws up a hearty crack\\nHis social, friendly, honest heart\\nSae tickled Death, they could na\\npart\\nSae, after viewing knives and garters,\\nDeath taks him hame to gie him\\nquarters.\\nON HOLY WILLIE.\\nUnpublished by Burns, and Burns\\nwas commonly a good critic of his own\\nwork. Andrew Lang.]\\nHere Holy Willie s sair worn clay\\nTaks up its last abode\\nHis saul has taen some other way\\nI fear, the left-hand road.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0263.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "2l6\\nON JOHN DOVE. ON ROBERT FERGUSSON.\\nStop there he is, as sure s a gun\\nPoor, silly body, see him\\nNae wonder he \\\\s as black s the\\ngrun\\nObserve wha s standin \\\\\\\\V him\\nYour brunstane Devilship, I see.\\nHas got him there before ye\\nBut haud your nine-tail-cat a wee,\\nTill ance you ve heard my story.\\nYour pity I will not implore,\\nFor pity ye have nane.\\nJustice, alas has gi en him o er.\\nAnd mercy s day is gane.\\nBut hear me, Sir, Deil as ye are.\\nLook something to your credit\\nA cuif like him wad stain your name,\\nIf it were kent ye did it\\nON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER.\\n[Dove was landlord of the Whitefoord\\nArms, Mauchline.]\\nHere lies Johnie Pigeon\\nWhat was his i-eligion\\nWhae er desires to ken\\nTo some other warP\\nMaun follow the carl.\\nFor here Johnie Pigeon had nane\\nII.\\nStrong ale was ablution\\nSmall beer, persecution\\nA dram was inciiiento mori\\nBut a full flowing bowl\\nWas the saving his soul,\\nAnd port was celestial glory\\nON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.\\n[James Smith, a member of the Club.]\\nLament him, Mauchline husbands a\\nHe aften did assist ve\\nFor had ye staid hale weeks awa\\\\\\nYour wives they ne er had missed\\nye\\nYe Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass\\nTo school in bands thegither,\\nO. tread ye lightly on his grass\\nPerhaps he was your father\\nON ROBERT FERGUSSON.\\nON THE TOMBSTONE IN THE CANON-\\nGATE CHURCHYARD.\\nHERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON.\\nBORN SEPT. 5TH, I751.\\nDIED OCT. 16TH, 1774.\\n[On the reverse of the stone is the decla-\\nration, By special grant of the Managers\\nto Robert Burns, who erected this stone,\\nthis burial-place is to remain forever sacred\\nto the memory of Robert Fergusson.\\nNo sculptured Marble here, nor pom-\\npous lay,\\nNo storied Urn nor animated Bust\\nThis simple stone directs pale Scotia s\\nway\\nTo pour her sorrow o er the Poet s\\ndust.\\nAdditional Stanzas,\\nnot inscribed.\\nI.\\nShe mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy\\nhapless fate", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0264.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "FOR WILLIAM NICOL. MONODY.\\n217\\nTho all the powers of song thy\\nfancy fir d.\\nYet Luxury and Wealth lay by in\\nState,\\nAnd, thankless, starvYl what they\\nso much admir d.\\nThis humble tribute with a tear he\\ngives\\nA brother Bard he can no more\\nbestow\\nBut dear to fame thy Song immortal\\nlives,\\nA nobler monument than Art can\\nshow.\\nFOR WILLIAM NICOL.\\n[Burns counted Nicol his dearest\\nfriend, after his own brother.]\\nYe maggots, feed on NicoFs brain,\\nFor few sic feasts you ve gotten\\nAnd fix your claws in NicoFs heart,\\nFor deil a bit o t s rotten.\\nFOR MR. WILLIAM MICHIE,\\nSCHOOLMASTER OF CLEISH PARISH,\\nFIFESHIRE.\\n[There is no record of Burns s acquaint-\\nance with William Michie.]\\nHere lie WilHe Michie s banes\\nO Satan, when ye tak him,\\nGie him the schulin o your weans,\\nFor clever deils he 11 mak them\\nFOR WILLIAM CRUICKSHANK,\\nA.M.\\n[Cruickshank was a schoolmaster in\\nEdinburgh. His daughter Jenny was a\\nfavorite with the poet.]\\nNow honest William s gaen to\\nHeaven,\\nI wat na gin t can mend him\\nThe fauts he had in Latin lay,\\nFor nane in English kent them.\\nON ROBERT MUIR.\\n[Muir subscribed with great liberality to\\nboth the Kilmarnock and the Edinburgh\\neditions, and letters to him are included m\\nthe Burns correspondence.]\\nWhat man could esteem, or what\\nwoman could love,\\nWas he who lies under this sod\\nIf such Thou refusest admission above,\\nThen whom wilt Thou favour, Good\\nGod?\\nON A LAP-DOG.\\n[The lap-dog belonged to Mrs. Gordon\\nof Kenmore. The little beast had died just\\nbefore Burns visited her during his Gallo-\\nway tour, and she was importunate that he\\nshould write its epitaph.]\\nIn wood and wild, ye warbling throng.\\nYour heavy loss deplore\\nNow halfextinct your powers of song\\nSweet Echo is no more.\\nYe jarring, screeching things around.\\nScream your discordant joys\\nNow half your din of tuneless sound\\nWith Echo silent lies.\\nMONODY\\nON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.\\n[The lady was Mrs. Walter Riddell, with\\nwhom the poet had quarrelled, and become\\ngreatly embittered.]\\nHow cold is that bosom which Folly\\nonce fired", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0265.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "2l8\\nFOR MR. WALTER RIDDELL. ON CAPT. LASCELLES.\\nHow pale is that cheek where the\\nrouge lately glistenVl\\nHow silent tliat tongue which the\\nechoes oft tired\\nHow dull is that car which to flattVy\\nso listened\\nIf sorrow and anguish their exit await,\\nFrom friendship and dearest affec-\\ntion removVl,\\nHow doubly severer, Maria, thy fate\\nThou diedst unwept, as thou livedst\\nunlov d.\\nLoves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not\\non you\\nSo shy, grave, and distant, 3e shed\\nnot a tear.\\nBut come, all ye offspring of Folly so\\ntrue,\\nAnd flowers let us cull for Maria s\\ncold bier\\nWe 11 search through the garden for\\neach silly flower.\\nWe 11 roam thro the forest for each\\nidle weed,\\nBut chiefly the nettle, so typical,\\nshower,\\nFor none e er approach d her but\\nrued the rash deed.\\nWe ll sculpture the marble, we ll\\nmeasure the lay\\nHere Vanity strums on her idiot\\nlyre\\nThere keen Indignation shall dart on\\nhis prey,\\nWhich spurning contempt shall re-\\ndeem from his ire\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nHere Hes, now a prey to insulting\\nneglect,\\nWhat once was a butterfly, gay in\\nlife s beam\\nWant only of wisdom denied her\\nrespect,\\nWant only of goodness denied her\\nesteem.\\nFOR MR. WALTER RIDDELL.\\n[Enclosed in a letter to Peter Hill, prob-\\nably of October, 1794, and also in an un-\\ndated letter to Mrs. Dunlop.]\\nSo vile was poor Wat, such a mis-\\ncreant slave,\\nThat the worms ev n damn d him\\nwhen laid in his grave.\\nIn his scull there s a famine, a\\nstarved reptile cries\\nAnd his heart, it is poison, another\\nreplies.\\nON A NOTED COXCOMB.\\nCAPT. WM. RODDICK, OF CORBISTON.\\n[Who this noted coxcomb was none of\\nthe poet s editors have pointed out; but\\nwe are assured that the lines are copied\\nIrom the author s Ms. SCOTT DOUGLAS.]\\nLight lay the earth on Billie s breast,\\nHis chicken heart s so tender\\nBut build a castle on his head\\nHis scull will prop it under.\\nON CAPT. LASCELLES.\\n[Published in Scott Douglas, 1877.]\\nWhen Lascelles thought fit from this\\nworld to depart.\\nSome friends warmly spoke of em-\\nbalming his heart.\\nA bystander whispers Pray don t\\nmake so much o t\\nThe subject is poison, no reptile will\\ntouch it.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0266.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "ON A GALLOWAY LAIRD. ON GRIZZEL GRIMME.\\n219\\nON A GALLOWAY LAIRD.\\nNOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON.\\n[David Maxwell of Cardoness de-\\nscribed to Mrs. Dunlop as a stupid,\\nmoney-loving dunderpate, and alluded to\\nwith great contempt in an epigram, was\\ncreated a baronet in 1804, and died in 1825.]\\nBless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,\\nWith grateful lifted eyes.\\nWho taught that not the soul alone\\nBut body too shall rise!\\nFor had He said The soul alone\\nFrom death I will deliver,\\nAlas alas O Cardoness,\\nThen hadst thou lain for ever\\nON WM. GRAHAM OF MOSS-\\nKNOWE.\\n[Cunningham (1840). Sent to Creech,\\nand inscribed in the Glenriddell Book.\\nStop thief Dame Nature calPd\\nto Death,\\nAs Willie drew his latest breath\\nHow shall I make a fool again?\\nMy choicest model thou hast taen.\\nON\\nJOHN BUSHBY OF\\nWALD DOWNS.\\nTIN-\\n[Bushby, the son of a spirit-dealer in\\nDumfries, became a lawyer, and afterwards\\na private banker in the same town.]\\nHere lies John Bushby honest\\nman\\nCheat him. Devil if you can\\nON A SUICIDE.\\n[Cunningham says that Burns was seen\\nto write the trash on a piece of paper, and\\nthrust it with his fingers into the red\\nmould of the grave.\\nHere lies in earth a root of Hell\\nSet by the Deil s ain dibble\\nThis worthless body damn d himsel\\nTo save the Lord the trouble.\\nON A SWEARING COXCOMB.\\nThis was an English swell, who had a\\nconstant practice of using such impreca-\\ntions. \u00e2\u0080\u0094ScOTT Douglas.]\\nHere cursing, swearing Burton lies,\\nA buck, a beau, or Dem my eyes!\\nWho in his life did little good.\\nAnd his last words were Dem\\nmy blood\\nON AN INNKEEPER NICK-\\nNAiMED THE MARQUIS.\\n[Published in Duncan, Glasgow, 1801.\\nThe inn was in a Dumfries close.]\\nHere lies a mock Marquis, whose\\ntitles were shamm d.\\nIf ever he rise, it will be to be damn d.\\nON GRIZZEL GRIMME.\\n[Mrs. Grizzel Young was the widow of\\nThomas Young of Lincluden.]\\nHere lyes with Dethe auld Grizzel\\nGrimme\\nLincluden s ugly witche.\\nO Dethe, an what a taste hast\\nthou\\nCann lye with siche a bitche", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0267.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "FOR GABRIEL RICHARDSON. ON THE AUTHOR.\\nFOR GABRIEL RICHARDSON.\\n[Gabriel Richardson was the chief\\nbrewer of Dumfries, and provost of the\\nburgh in 1802-3.]\\nHere brewer Gabriel s fire s extinct,\\nAnd empty all his barrels\\nHe s blest if as he brew d, he\\ndrink\\nIn upright, virtuous morals.\\nON THE AUTHOR.\\n[Written by Burns while on liis death-\\nbecl to John Rankine, Ayrshire, and for-\\nwarded to him immediately after the poet s\\ndeath.]\\nHe who of Rankine sang, lies stiff\\nand deid,\\nAnd a green, grassy hillock hides his\\nheld\\nAlas alas a devilish change indeed\\nI", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0268.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "YOUNG PEGGY. BONIE DUNDEE.\\nSONGS FROM JOHNSON S MUSICAL MUSEUM\\nAND THOMSON S SCOTTISH AIRS.\\nYOUNG PEGGY.\\n[Margaret, daughter of Robert Kennedy,\\nof Daljarroch, Ayrshire, and niece of iMr.\\nGavin Hamilton.]\\nYoung Peggy blooms our boniest\\nlass\\nHer blush is like the morning,\\nThe rosy dawn the springing grass\\nWith early gems adorning\\nHer eyes outshine the radiant beams\\nThat gild the passing shower,\\nAnd glitter o er the crystal streams,\\nAnd cheer each fresh nino: flower.\\nHer lips, more than the cherries\\nbright\\nA richer dye has graced them\\nThey charm the admiring gazer s sight,\\nAnd sweetly tempt to taste them.\\nHer smile is as the evening mild,\\nWhen feather d pairs are courting,\\nAnd little lambkins wanton wild,\\nIn playful bands disporting.\\nWere Fortune lovely Peggy s foe,\\nSuch sweetness would relent her\\nAs blooming Spring unbends the brow\\nOf surly, savage Winter.\\nDetraction s eye no aim can gain\\nHer winning powers to lessen,\\nAnd fretful Envy grins in vain\\nThe poison d tooth to fasten.\\nYe PowTs of Honour, Love, and\\nTi-uth,\\nFrom evry ill defend her\\nInspire the highly-favour d youth\\nThe destinies intend her!\\nStill fan the sweet connubial flame\\nResponsive in each bosom.\\nAnd bless the dear parental name\\nWith many a filial blossom\\nBONIE DUNDEE.\\n[A fragment of folk-ballad, with modifi-\\ncations and additions by Burns.]\\nO, WHAR gat ye that hauver-meal\\nbannock?\\nO silly blind body. O, dinna ye see\\nI gat it frae a young, brisk sodger lad-\\ndie\\nBetween Saint Johnston and bonie\\nDundee.\\nO, gin 1 saw the laddie that gae me t\\nAft has he doudl d me up on his\\nknee\\nMay Heaven protect my bonie Scots\\nladdie,\\nAnd send him hame to his babie\\nand me\\nMy blessin s upon thy sweet, wee\\nlippie\\nMy blessin s upon thy bonie e e\\nbrie\\nThy smiles are sae like my blythe\\nsodger laddie.\\nThou s ay the dearer and dearer to\\nme\\nBut I 11 big a bow r on yon bonie\\nbanks,\\nWhare Tay rins wimplin by sae\\nclear\\nAnd 1 11 deed thee in the tartan sae\\nfine.\\nAnd mak thee a man like thy daddie\\ndear.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0269.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "O, WHISTLE AN I LL COME TO YE, MY LAD.\\nTO\\nTHE WEAVER S\\nGO.\\nGIN YE\\nThe diorus of this song is old, the rest\\nis mine. (R. B.)]\\nChorus.\\nTo the weaver s gin ye go, fair maids,\\nTo the weaver s gin 36 go,\\nI rede you right, gang ne er at night,\\nTo the weaver s gin ye go.\\nMy heart was ance as biythe and free\\nAs simmer days were lang\\nBut a bonie, westUn weaver lad\\nHas gart me change my sang.\\nMy mither sent me to the town,\\nTo warp a plaiden wab\\nBut the weary, weary warpin o t\\nHas gart me sigh and sab.\\nA bonie, westlin weaver lad\\nSat working at his loom\\nHe took my heart, as wi a net,\\nIn every knot and thrum.\\nI sat beside my warpin-wheel,\\nAnd ay Ica d it roun\\nAnd every shot and every knock,\\nMy heart it gae a stoun.\\nThe moon was sinking in the west\\nWi visage pale and wan,\\nAs my bonie, westlin weaver lad\\nConvoy d me thro the glen.\\nBut what was said, or what was done.\\nShame fa mc gin I tell\\nBut O I fear the kintra soon\\nWill ken as weel s mysel\\nChorus.\\nTo the weaver s gin ye go, fair maids,\\nTo the weaver s gin ye go,\\nI rede you right, gang ne er at night.\\nTo the weaver s gin ye go.\\nO, WHISTLE AN I LL COME\\nTO YE, MY LAD.\\n[This song has hitherto been held pure\\nBurns. But he found his chorus in the\\nHerd Ms.]\\nChorus.\\nO, whistle an I 11 come to ye, my\\nlad!\\nO, whistle an I 11 come to ye, my\\nlad\\nTho father an mother an a should\\ngae mad,\\nO, whistle an I II come to ye, my\\nlad!\\nBut warily tent when ye come to\\ncourt me,\\nAnd come nae unless the back-yett\\nbe a-jee\\nSyne up the back-style, and let nae-\\nbody see.\\nAnd come as ye were na comin to\\nme,\\nAnd come as ye were na comin to\\nme\\nAt kirk, or at market, whene er ye\\nmeet me.\\nGang by me as tho that ye car d na\\na file\\nBut steal me a blink o your bonie\\nblack e e,\\nYet look as ye were na lookin to me,\\nYet look as ye were na lookin to me\\nAy vow and protest that ye care na\\nfor me,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0270.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "I M O ER YOUNG TO MARRY. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDIE. 223\\nAnd whyles ye may lightly my beauty\\na wee\\nBut court na anither tho jokin ye be,\\nFor fear that she wyle your fancy frae\\nme.\\nFor fear that she wyle your fancy frae\\nme.!\\nC /lories.\\nO, whistle an I 11 come to ye, my\\nlad\\nO, whistle an I 11 come to ye, my\\nlad!\\nTho father an mother an a should\\ngae mad,\\nO, whistle an I 11 come to ye, my\\nlad!\\nI M O ER YOUNG TO MARRY\\nYET.\\nThe chorus of this song is old; the\\nrest of it, such as it is, is mine. (R. B.)]\\nChorus.\\nI m o er young, I m o er young,\\nI m o er young to marry yet\\nI m o er young, t wad be a sin\\nTo tak me frae my mammie yet.\\nI AM my mammie s ae bairn,\\nWi unco folk I weary. Sir,\\nAnd lying in a man s bed,\\nI m fley d it make me eerie, Sir.\\nHallowmass is come and gane,\\nThe nights are lang in winter. Sir,\\nAnd you an I in ae bed\\nIn trowth, I dare na venture, Sir\\nFu loud and shrill the frosty wind\\nBlaws thro the leafless timmer.\\nSir,\\nBut if ye come this gate again,\\nI 11 aulder be gin simmer. Sir.\\nC/ioriis.\\nI m o er young, I m o er young,\\nI m o er young to marry yet\\nI m o er young, t wad be a sin\\nTo tak me frae my mammie yet.\\nTHE BIRKS OF ABERFELDIE.\\nI composed these stanzas standing\\nunder the Falls of Moness, at or near\\nAberfeldy. (R. B.)]\\nC/iorus.\\nBonie lassie, will ye go,\\nWill ye go, will ye go\\nBonie lassie, will ye go\\nTo the birks of Aberfeldie\\nNow simmer blinks on flow ry braes.\\nAnd o er the crystal streamlets plays.\\nCome, let us spend the lightsome\\ndays\\nIn the birks of Aberfeldie\\nThe little birdies blythely sing.\\nWhile o er their heads the hazels\\nhing.\\nOr lightly flit on wanton wing\\nIn the birks of Aberfeldie.\\nThe braes ascend like lofty wa s,\\nThe foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa s\\nO er hung with fragrant-spreading\\nshaws.\\nThe birks of Aberfeldie.\\nThe hoary cliffs are crown d wi\\nflowers,\\nWhite o er the linns the burnie pours,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0271.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "224 M PIIERSON S FAREWELL. MY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O.\\nAnd, rising, weets vvi misty showers\\nThe birks of Aberfcldie.\\nLet Fortune s gifts at random flee.\\nThey ne er shall draw a wish frae me,\\nSupremely blest wi love and thee\\nIn the birks of Aberfeldie.\\nCJiflt us.\\nBonie lassie, will ye go,\\nWill ye go, will ye go?\\nBonie lassie, will ye go\\nTo the birks of Aberfeldie\\nMTHERSON S FAREWELL.\\nM Pherson, a daring robber in the be-\\nginning of this century, was condemned to\\nbe hanged at the Assizes of Inverness. He\\nis said, when under sentence of deatli, to\\nhave composed this tune, which he calls his\\nown Lament, or Farewell. R. B. This\\nsong was a favorite one of Carlyle s, who\\nsang it with great enthusiasm.]\\nChorus.\\nSae rantingly. sae wantonly,\\nSae dauntingly gaed he.\\nHe play d a spring, and danc d it\\nround\\nBelow the gallows-tree.\\nFarewell, ye dungeons dark and\\nstrong.\\nThe wretch s destinie\\nM Pherson s time will not be long\\nOn yonder gallows-tree.\\nII.\\nO, what is death but parting breath\\nOn many a bloody plain\\nI ve dar d his fece, and in this place\\nI scorn him yet again\\nUntie these bands from off my hands,\\nAnd bring to me my sword.\\nAnd there s no a man in all Scot-\\nlAnd\\nBut I 11 brave him at a word.\\nI ve liv d a life of sturt and strife;\\nI die by treacherie\\nIt burns my heart 1 must depart,\\nAnd not avenged be.\\nNow farewell light, thou sunshine\\nbright.\\nAnd all beneath the sky\\nMay coward shame distain his name,\\nThe wretch that dare not die\\nCJiorus.\\nSae rantingly, sae wantonly,\\nSae dauntingly gaed he.\\nHe play d a spring, and danc d it\\nround\\nBelow the gallows-tree.\\nMY HIGHLAND LASSIE, O.\\nThis was a composition of mine in\\nvery early life, before I was known at all in\\nthe world. My Highland Lassie was a\\nwarm-hearted charming young creature :is\\never blessed a man with generous love.\\n(R. B.)]\\nCho7 us.\\nWithin tlie glen sae bushy, O,\\nAboon the plain sae rashy, O,\\nI set me down wi right guid will\\nTo sing my Highland lassie, O\\nNae gentle dames, tho ne er sae\\nfair,\\nShall ever be my Muse s care\\nTheir titles a are empty show^-\\nGie me my Highland lassie, O", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0272.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "THO CRUEL FATE. STRATHALLAN S LAMENT.\\n225\\nO, were yon hills and vallies mine,\\nYon palace and yon gardens fine.\\nThe world then the love should\\nknow\\nI bear my Highland lassie, O\\nBut fickle Fortune frowns on me,\\nAnd 1 maun cross the raging sea\\nBut while my crimson currents flow\\nI 11 love my Highland lassie, O.\\nAltho thro foreign climes I range,\\nI know her heart will never change\\nFor her bosom burns with honour s\\nglow.\\nMy faithful Highland lassie, O.\\nFor her I 11 dare the billows roar,\\nFor her I 11 trace a distant shore,\\nTliat Indian wealth may lustre throw\\nAround my Highland lassie, O.\\nShe has my heart, she has my hand.\\nMy secret troth and honour s band\\nTill the mortal stroke shall lay me\\nlow,\\nI m thine, my Highland lassie, O\\nChortis.\\nFarewell the glen sae bushy, O\\nFarewell the plain sae rashy, O\\nTo other lands I now must go\\nTo sing my Highland lassie, O.\\nTHO CRUEL FATE.\\n[Written for Johnson s Musical Mu-\\nseum.\\nTiio cruel fate should bid us part\\nFar as the pole and line,\\nQ\\nHer dear idea round my heart\\nShould tenderly entwine.\\nTho mountains rise, and deserts\\nhowl.\\nAnd oceans roar between.\\nYet dearer than my deathless soul\\nI still would love my Jean.\\nSTAY, MY CHARMER.\\n[Written for Johnson s Musical Mu-\\nseum.\\nStay, my charmer, can you leave me\\nCruel, cruel to deceive me\\nWell you know how much you grieve\\nme\\nCruel charmer, can you go\\nCruel charmer, can you go\\nBy my love so ill-requited.\\nBy the faith you fondly plighted,\\nBy the pangs of lovers slighted.\\nDo not, do not leave me so\\nDo not, do not leave nie so\\nSTRATHALLAN S LAMENT.\\n[The Strathallan of the Lament was\\nJames Drummond, eldest son of William,\\n4th Viscount Strathallan, killed at Culloden,\\nApril 14, 1746.]\\nThickest night, surromid my dwell-\\ning\\nHowling tempests, o er me rave\\nTurbid torrents wintry-swelling,\\nRoaring by my lonely cave\\nCrystal streamlets gently flowing.\\nBusy haunts of base mankind.\\nWestern breezes softly blowing.\\nSuit not my distracted mind.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0273.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "226\\nMY IIOGGIE. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.\\nIn the cause of Right engaged,\\nWrongs injurious to redress,\\nHonour s war we strongly waged.\\nBut the heavens deny d success.\\nRuin s wheel has driven o er us\\nNot a hope tiiat dare attend,\\nThe wide world is all before us,\\nBut a world without a friend.\\nMY HOGGIE\\n[Lines written to an old air. Burns says\\nNo person, except a few females at Moss-\\npaul, knew this fine old tune.\\nWhat will I do gin my hoggie die\\nMy joy, my pride, my hoggie\\nMy only beast, I had nae mae.\\nAnd vow but I was vogie\\nThe lee-lang night we watched the\\nfauld,\\nMe and my faithfu doggie\\nWe heard nocht but the roarinsf linn\\nBut the houlet cry d frae the castle\\nwa\\nThe blitter frae the boggie.\\nThe tod reply d upon the hill\\n1 trembled for my hoggie.\\nWhen day did daw, and cocks did\\ncraw,\\nThe morning it was foggie.\\nAn unco tyke lap o er the dyke,\\nAnd maist has kilPd my hoggie\\nJUMPIN JOHN.\\n[Fragment of an old humorous ballad,\\nwith verbal corrections by Burns.]\\nCJiorus.\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpin John\\nBeguil d the bonie lassie\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpin John\\nBeguil d the bonie lassie\\nHer daddie forbad, her niinnie for-\\nbad\\nForbidden she wadna be\\nShe wadna trow t, the browst she\\nbrew d\\nWad taste sae bitterlie\\nA cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf,\\nAnd thretty guid sliillins and three\\nA vera guid tocher! a cotter-man s\\ndochter,\\nThe lass with the bonie black e e\\nChorus.\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpin John\\nBeguil d the bonie lassie\\nThe lang lad tiiey ca Jumpin John\\nBeguil d the bonie lassie\\nUP IN THE MORNING EARLY.\\nThe chorus of this song is old the two\\nstanzas are mine. (R. B.)]\\nClionis.\\nUp in the morning s no for me,\\nUp in the morning early!\\nWhen a the hills are covered wi snaw,\\nI m sure it s winter fairly!\\nCauld blaws the wind frae east to west.\\nThe drift is driving sairly,\\nSae loud and shrill s 1 hear the blast\\nI m sure it s winter fairly\\nThe birds sit chittering in the thorn,\\nA day they fare but sparely\\nAnd lang s the night frae e en to\\nmorn\\nI m sure it s winter fairly.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0274.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 1 DREAM D I LAY.\\n227\\nCJiorus.\\nUp in the morning s no for me,\\nUp in the morning early\\nWhen a the hilLs are cover d wi snaw,\\n1 m sure it s winter fairly\\nTHE YOUNG HIGHLAND\\nROVER.\\n[Intended to commemorate his visit to\\nCastle Gordon in 1787.]\\nLoud blaw the frosty breezes,\\nThe snaws the mountains cover.\\nLike winter on me seizes,\\nSince my young Highland rover\\nFar wanders nations over.\\nWhere er he go, where er he stray,\\nMay Heaven be his warden\\nReturn him sate to fair Strathspey\\nAnd bonie Castle Gordon\\nThe trees, now naked groaning.\\nShall soon wi leaves be hinging.\\nThe birdies, dowie moaning,\\nShall a be blythely singing,\\nAnd every flower be springing:\\nSae 1 11 rejoice the lee-lang day.\\nWhen (by his mighty Warden)\\nMy youth s returned to fair Strathspey\\nAnd bonie Castle Gordon.\\nTHE DUSTY MILLER.\\n[Fragment of an old ballad, with verbal\\nalterations by Burns. Partly traditional.]\\nHey the dusty miller\\nAnd his dusty coat\\nHe will spend a shilling\\nOr he win a groat.\\nDusty was the coat,\\nDusty was the colour.\\nDusty was the kiss\\nThat I gat frae the miller\\nHey the dusty miller\\nAnd his dusty sack\\nLeeze me on the calling\\nFills the dusty peck\\nFills the dusty peck.\\nBrings the dusty siller\\nI wad gie my coatie\\nFor the dusty miller\\nI DREAM D I LAY.\\nThese two stanzas I composed when\\nI was seventeen they are among the oldest\\nof my printed pieces. (R. B.)]\\nI dream d I lay where flowers were\\nspringing\\nGaily in the sunny beam,\\nList ning to the wild birds singing,\\nBv a falling crystal stream\\nStraight the sky grew black and\\ndaring.\\nThro the woods the whirlwinds\\nrave.\\nTrees with aged arms were warring\\nO er the swelling, drumlie wave.\\nSuch was my life s deceitful morning.\\nSuch the pleasures I enjoy d\\nBut lang or noon loud tempests,\\nstorming,\\nA my flowery bliss destroy d.\\nTho fickle Fortune has deceiv d me\\n(She promised fair, and perfonu d\\nbut ill).\\nOf monie a joy and hope bereav d ine,\\nI bear a heart shall support me still.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0275.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "228\\nDUNCAN DAVISON. LADY ONLIE, HONEST LUCKY.\\nDUNCAN DAVISON.\\n[Stenhouse affirms that this song is by\\nBurns, although he did not choose to avow\\nit.]\\nI.\\nThere was a lass, they cakl her Me\\nAnd she held o er the moors to spin\\nThere was a lad that follow d her,\\nThey ca d him Duncan Davison.\\nThe moor was dreigh, and Meg was\\nskeigh.\\nHer favour Duncan could na win\\nFor wi the rock she wad him knock,\\nAnd ay she shook the temper-pin.\\nAs o er the moor they lightly foor,\\nA burn was clear, a glen was green\\nUpon the banks they eas d their\\nshanks,\\nAnd ay she set the wheel between\\nBut Duncan swoor a haly aith.\\nThat Meg should be a bride the\\nmorn\\nThen Meg took up her spinnin-graith,\\nAnd flans: them a out o er the burn.\\nWe will big a wee, wee house,\\nAnd we willhve like king and queen,\\nSae blythe and merry s we will be,\\nWhen ye set by the wheel at e en\\nA man may drink, and no be drunk\\nA man may fight, and no be slain\\nA man may kiss a bonie lass,\\nAnd ay be welcome back again\\nTHENIEL MENZIES BONIE\\nMARY.\\nNothing is known of this Aberdeen-\\nshire beauty. Andrew Lanc]\\nCJiorKS.\\nTheniel Menzies bonie Mary,\\nTheniel Menzies bonie Mary,\\nCharlie Grigor tint his plaidie,\\nKissin Tlieniel s bonie Mary\\nIn comin by the brig o Dye,\\nAt Darlet we a blink did tarry;\\nAs day was da win in the sky,\\nWe drank a health to bonie Mary.\\nHer een sae bright, her brow sae white\\nHer haftet locks as brown s a berry.\\nAnd ay they dimpl t wi a smile,\\nThe rosy cheeks o bonie Mary.\\nWe lap an danc d the lee-lang day.\\nTill piper-lads were wae and weary\\nBut Charlie gat the spring to pay.\\nFor kissin Theniel s bonie Mary.\\nCJiorus.\\nTheniel Menzies bonie Mary,\\nTheniel Menzies bonie Mary,\\nCharlie Grigor tint his plaidie,\\nKissin Theniel s bonie Mary\\nLADY ONLIE, HONEST LUCKY.\\nBurns probably picked up the chorus\\nduring his northern tour.\\nCJwrus.\\nLady Onlie, honest lucky,\\nBrews guid ale at shore o Bucky\\nI wish her sale for her guid ale.\\nThe best on a the shore o Bucky\\nA THE lads o Thorniebank,\\nWhen they gae to the shore o\\nBucky,\\nThey 11 step in an tak a pint\\nWi Lady Onlie, honest lucky.\\nHer house sae bien, her curch sae\\nclean\\nI wat she is a dainty chuckle,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0276.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. DUNCAN GRAY.\\n229\\nAnd cheery blinks the ingle-gleede\\nO Lady Onlie, honest lucky\\nClwriis.\\nLady Onlie, honest lucky,\\nBrows guid ale at shore o Bucky\\nI wish her sale for her guid ale,\\nThe best on a the shore o Bucky\\nTHE BANKS OF THE DEVON.\\nThese verses were composed on a\\ncharming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton.\\nI first heard the air from a lady in Inver-\\nness. (R. B.)]\\nHow pleasant the banks of the clear\\nwinding Devon,\\nWith green spreading bushes and\\nflow rs blooming fair\\nBut the boniest How r on the banks\\nof the Devon\\nWas once a sweet bud on the braes\\nof the Ayr.\\nMild be the sun on this sweet blush-\\ning flower,\\nIn the gay rosy morn, as it bathes\\nin the dew\\nAnd gentle the fall of the soft vernal\\nshower.\\nThat steals on the evening each\\nleaf to renew\\nO, spare the dear blossom, ye orient\\nbreezes.\\nWith chill, hoary wing as ye usher\\nthe dawn\\nAnd far be thou distant, thou reptile\\nthat seizes\\nThe verdure and pride of the gar-\\nden or lawn\\nLet Bourbon exult in his gay gilded\\nlilies,\\nAnd England triumphant display\\nher proud rose\\nA fairer than either adorns the green\\nvallies.\\nWhere Devon, sweet Devon, mean-\\ndering flows.\\nDUNCAN GRAY.\\n[Founded on a song preserved in the\\nHerd Ms. with variations by Burns.]\\nWeary fa you, Duncan Gray\\n(Ha, ha, the girdin o t\\nWae gae by you, Duncan Gray\\n(Ha, ha, the girdin o t\\nWhen a the lave gae to their play,\\nThen I maun sit the lee-lang day,\\nAnd jeeg the cradle wi my tae,\\nAnd a for the girdin o t\\nBonie was the Lainmas moon\\n(Ha, ha, the girdin o t!),\\nGlowrin a the hills aboon\\n(Ha. ha, the girdin o t\\nThe girdin brak, the beast cain down,\\nI tint my curch and baith my shoon,\\nAnd, Duncan, ye Ve an unco loun\\nWae on the bad girdin o t\\nBut Duncan, gin ye 11 keep your aith\\n(Ha. ha. the girdin o t\\nI se bless you wi my hindmost breath\\n(Ha, ha, the girdin o t\\nDuncan, gin ye 11 keep your aith.\\nThe beast again can bear us baith,\\nAnd auld Mess John will mend the\\nskaith\\nAnd clout the bad girdin o t.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0277.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "230 THE PLOUGHMAN.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.\\nTHE PLOUGHMAN.\\n[Founded on a coarse old song preserved\\nin The Merry Muses.\\nCJiorus.\\nThen up wiH a my ploughman lad,\\nAnd hey. my merry i^loughman\\nOf a the trades that I do Uen,\\nCommend me to the ploughman\\nThe ploughman, he s a bonie lad.\\nHis mind is ever true, jo\\nHis garters knit below his knee,\\nHis bonnet it is blue, jo.\\nI hae been east, I hae been west,\\nI hae been at St. Johnston\\nThe boniest sight that e^er I saw\\nWas the ploughman laddie dancin.\\nSnaw-white stockings on his legs\\nAnd siller buckles glancin,\\nA guid blue bonnet on his head.\\nAnd O, but he was handsome\\nCommend me to the barn-yard\\nAnd the corn mou, man\\nI never got my coggie fou\\nTill I met wi the ploughman.\\nCJionis.\\nThen up wi t a my ploughman lad.\\nAnd hey, my merry ploughman\\nOf a the trades that I do ken,\\nCommend me to the ploughman\\nLANDLADY, COUNT THE\\nLAWIN.\\n1 have met the tradition universally\\nover Scotland that this air was Robert\\nBruce s march to Bannockburn. (R. B.)\\nBurns afterwards wrote Scots Wha Hae\\nto it.]\\nChortcs.\\nHey tutti, taiti.\\nHow tutti, taita,\\nHey tutti, taiti,\\nVVha s fou now?\\nLandlady, count the lawin,\\nThe day is near the dawin\\nYe Ve a blind drunk, boys.\\nAnd I m but jolly fou.\\nII.\\nCog. an ye were ay fou.\\nCog, an ye were ay fou,\\nI wad sit and sing to you,\\nIf ye were ay fou\\nIII.\\nWeel may ye a be\\nIll may ye never see\\nGod bless the king\\nAnd the companie\\nCJiorus.\\nHey tutti, taiti,\\nHow tutti, taiti.\\nHey tutti, taiti,\\nWha s fou now?\\nRAVING WINDS AROUND\\nHER BLOWING.\\nI composed these verses on Miss\\nIsabella Macleod of Rasa, alluding to her\\nfeelings on the death of her sister. (R. B.)]\\nRaving winds around her blowing.\\nYellow leaves the woodlands strew-\\ning.\\nBy a river hoarsely roaring,\\nIsabella stray d deploring\\nI\\n1", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0278.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. BLYTHE WAS SHE. 231\\nFarewell hours that late did measure\\nSunshine days of joy and pleasure\\nHail, thou gloomy night of sorrow\\nCheerless night that knows no mor-\\nO er the Past too fondly wanderinc\\nOn the hopeless Future pondering,\\nChilly Grief my life-blood freezes,\\nFell Despair my fancy seizes.\\nLife, thou soul of every blessing,\\nLoad to Misery most distressing.\\nGladly how would I resign thee.\\nAnd to dark Oblivion join thee\\nHOW LANG AND DREARY IS\\nTHE NIGHT.\\nI met with some such words in a col-\\nlection of songs somewhere, which I altered\\nand enlarged. (R. B.)]\\nC/ioms.\\nFor O, her lanely nights are lang.\\nAnd O, her dreams are eerie.\\nAnd O, her widow d heart is sair.\\nThat s absent frae her dearie\\nHow lang and dreary is the night,\\nWhen I am frae my dearie\\nI restless lie frae e en to morn,\\nTho I were ne er sae weary.\\nII.\\nWhen I think on the lightsome days\\nI spent wi thee, my dearie,\\nAnd now what seas between us roar,\\nHow can I be but eerie?\\nHow slow ye move, ye heavy hours\\nThe joyless day how dreary\\nIt was na sae ye glinted by,\\nWhen I was wi my dearie\\nC/iflfns.\\nFor O, her lanely nights are lang.\\nAnd O, her dreams are eerie,\\nAnd O, her widow d heart is sair.\\nThat s absent frae her dearie\\nMUSING ON THE ROARING\\nOCEAN.\\nI composed these verses out of com-\\npliment to a Mrs. M Lachlan, whose hus-\\nband is an officer in the East Indies.\\n(R.B.)]\\nMusing on the roaring ocean,\\nWhich divides my love and me.\\nWearying heav n in warm devotion\\nFor his weal where er he be\\nHope and Fear s alternate billow\\nYielding late to Nature s law.\\nWhispering spirits round my pillow\\nTalk of him that s far awa.\\nYe whom sorrow never wounded,\\nYe who never shed a tear,\\nCare-untroubled, joy-surrounded,\\nGaudy day to you is dear\\nGentle night, do thou befriend me\\nDowny sleep, the curtain draw\\nSpirits kind, again attend me.\\nTalk of him tliat s far awa\\nBLYTHE WAS SHE.\\nI composed these verses while I stayed\\nat Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray.\\nThe lady was Miss Euphemia Murray of\\nLintrose, who was called, and very justly,\\nthe flower of Strathmore. (R. B.)]", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0279.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "2T,2\\nTO DAUNTON ME. O ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.\\nChorus.\\nBlytlie, blytbe and merry was slie,\\nBlythe was she butt and ben,\\nBlvthe by the banks of Earn.\\nAnd blythe in Glenturit glen\\nBy Ouglitertyre grows the aik.\\nOn Yarrow banks the birken shaw\\nBut Pheniie was a bonier lass\\nThan braes o Yarrow ever saw.\\nHer looks were like a flow r in May,\\nHer smile was like a simmer morn.\\nShe tripped by tlie banks o Earn\\nAs light s a bird upon a thorn.\\nHer bonie face it was as meek\\nAs onie lamb upon a lea.\\nThe evening sun was ne er sae sweet\\nAs was the blink o Phemie s e e.\\nThe Highland hills I ve wandered\\nwide,\\nAs o er the Lawlands I hae been.\\nBut Phemie was the blythest lass\\nThat ever trod the dewy green.\\nChon/s.\\nBlythe, blythe and merry was she,\\nBlythe was she butt and ben,\\nBlythe by the jjanks of Earn,\\nAnd blythe in Glenturit Glen\\nTO DAUNTON ME.\\n[Variation from an old Jacobite song.]\\nC /ion IS.\\nTo daunton me, to daunton me.\\nAn auld man shall never daunton me\\nThe blude-red rose at Yule may blaw.\\nThe simmer lilies bloom in snaw.\\nThe frost may freeze the deepest sea,\\nBut an auld man shall never daunton\\nme.\\nII.\\nTo daunton me, and me sae young,\\nWi his fause heart and HattVing\\ntongue\\nThat is the thing you ne er shall see,\\nFor an auld man shall never daunton\\nme.\\nIII.\\nFor a his meal and a his maut,\\nFor a his fresh beef and his saut.\\nFor a his gold and white monie,\\nAn auld man shall never daunton me.\\nHis gear may buy him kye and yovves,\\nHis gear may buy him glens and\\nknowes\\nBut me he shall not buy nor fee.\\nFor an auld man shall never daunton\\nme.\\nV.\\nHe hirples twa-fauld as he dow,\\nWi his teethless gab and his auld\\nbeld pow.\\nAnd the rain rains down frae his red\\nblear d e e\\nThat auld man shall never daunton\\nme\\nChorus.\\nTo daunton me, to daunton me.\\nAn auld man shall never daunton me\\nO ER THE WATER TO\\nCHARLIE.\\n[Tlie verses, Sfenhouse says, were\\nr(:vised and improved by Burns. Tliey\\nappear in Hogg s Jacobite Reliques.\\nChorus.\\nWe 11 o er the water, we 11 o er the\\nsea.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0280.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "A ROSE-BUD. AND I LL KISS THEE YET.\\n233\\nWe 11 o er the water to Charlie\\nCome weal, come woe, we 11 gather\\nand go,\\nAnd live and die wi Charlie\\nI.\\nCome boat me o er, come row me\\no er,\\nCome boat me o er to Charlie\\nI 11 gie John Ross another bawbee\\nTo boat me o er to Charlie.\\nII.\\nI lo e weel my Charlie s name,\\nTho some there be abhor him\\nBut O, to see Auld Nick gaun hame,\\nAnd Charlie s faes before him\\nI swear and vow by moon and stars\\nAnd sun that shines so early.\\nIf I had twenty thousand lives,\\nI d die as aft for Charlie\\nChorus.\\nWe 11 o er the water, we 11 o er the sea.\\nWe 11 o er the water to Charlie\\nCome weal, come woe, we 11 gather and\\nAnd live and die wi Charlie\\nA ROSE-BUD, BY MY EARLY\\nWALK.\\nThis song T composed on Miss Jenny\\nCruickshank, the only child of my worthy\\nfriend, Mr. William Cruickshank, of the\\nHigh School, Edinburgh. (R. B.)]\\nA ROSE-BUD, by my early walk\\nAdown a corn-inclosed bawk.\\nSae gently bent its thorny stalk.\\nAll on a dewy morning.\\nEre twice the shades o dawn are fled,\\nIn a its crimson glory sjjread\\nAnd drooping rich the dewy head.\\nIt scents the earlv morning.\\nWithin the bush her covert nest\\nA little linnet fondly prest.\\nThe dew sat chilly on her breast,\\nSae early in the morning.\\nShe soon shall see her tender brood,\\nThe pride, the pleasure o the wood,\\nAmang the fresh green leaves bedew d.\\nAwake the early morning.\\nSo thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair.\\nOn trembling string or vocal air\\nShall sweetly pay the tender care\\nThat tents tliy early morning\\nSo thou, sweet rose-bud, young and\\ngay,\\nShalt beauteous blaze upon the da}\\nAnd bless the parent s evening ray\\nThat watch d thy early morning\\nAND I LL KISS THEE YET.\\nSpoken of by Burns as Juvenile. Mr.\\nScott Douglas plausibly conjectures that\\nPeggy, in this piece, is really Ellison, or Ali-\\nson, Begbie. Some suppose the heroine to\\nhave been Mary Campbell. The first verse\\nis not in Johnson s copy Museum, ii. 1788),\\nand was first given by Cromek.\\nChorus.\\nAnd I 11 kiss thee yet, yet,\\nAnd I 11 kiss thee o er again,\\nAnd I 11 kiss thee yet, yet,\\nMy bonie Peggy Alison.\\nIlk care and fear, when thou art near,\\nI evermair defy them, O\\nYoung kings upon their hansel throne\\nAre no sae blest as I am, O\\nWhen in my arms, wi a thy charms,\\nI clasp my countless treasure, O,\\nI seek nae mair o Heav n to share\\nThan sic a moment s pleasure, O", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0281.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "234 RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. O TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.\\nIll\\nAnd by thy een sae bonie blue\\nI swear I m tliine for ever, O\\nAnd on thy lips 1 seal my vow,\\nAnd break it shall 1 never, O\\nC/ionis.\\nAnd I 11 kiss thee yet, yet,\\nAnd 1 11 kiss thee o er again,\\nAnd 1 11 kiss thee yet, yet,\\nMy bonie Peggy Alison.\\nRATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.\\nTlie last stanza of this song is mine;\\nit was composed out of compliment to one\\nof the worthiest fellows in the world, William\\nDunbar, Esq., Writer to the Signet, Edin-\\nburgh. (R. B.)]\\nO, RATTLIN, roarin Willie,\\nO, he held to the fair.\\nAn for to sell his fiddle\\nAnd buy some other ware\\nBut parting wi his fiddle,\\nThe saut tear blin t his e e\\nAnd, rattlin, roarin Willie,\\nYe re welcome hame to me\\nO Willie, come sell your fiddle,\\nO, sell your fiddle sae fine\\nO Willie, come sell your fiddle\\nAnd buy a pint o wine\\nIf I should sell my fiddle.\\nThe warld would think I was mad\\nFor monie a rantin day\\nMy fiddle and I hae had.\\nAs I cam by Crochallan,\\nI cannily keekit ben,\\nRattlin, roarin Willie\\nWas sitting at yon boord-en\\nSitting at yon boord-en\\nAnd amang guid companie\\nRattlin. roarin Willie,\\nYe re welcome hame to me.\\nWHERE, BRAVING ANGRY\\nWINTER S STORMS.\\n[The heroine was Margaret, daughter of\\nJohn Chalmers of Fingland, and a cousin of\\nCharlotte Hamilton, her particular friend.]\\nWhere, braving angry winter s\\nstorms.\\nThe lofty Ochils rise,\\nYm- in their shade my Peggy s charms\\nFirst blest my wondering eyes\\nAs one who by some savage stream\\nA lonely gem surveys,\\nAstonish d doubly, marks it beam\\nWith art s most polish d blaze.\\nBlest be the wild, sequester d glade,\\nAnd blest the day and hour.\\nWhere Peggy s charms I first survey d,\\nWhen first I felt their pow r\\nThe tyrant Death with grim control\\nMay seize my fleeting breath.\\nBut tearing Peggy from my soul\\nMust be a stronger death.\\nO TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE\\nDAY.\\n[Mrs. Regg states that the heroine was\\none Isabella Steenson, or Stevenson, the\\nfarmer s daughter of Little Hill, which\\nmarched with Lochlie.J\\nChorus.\\nO Tibbie, I hae seen the day,\\nYe wadna been sae shy\\nFor laik o gear ye lightly me,\\nBut, trowth, I care na by.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0282.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "CLARINDA, MISTRESS OF MY SOUL. THE WINTER IT IS PAST. 235\\nYestreen I met you on the moor,\\nYe spak na, but gaed by like stoure\\nYe geek at me because I m poor\\nBut tient a hair care I\\nWhen comin hame on Sunday last,\\nUpon the road as I cam past,\\nYe snuftt an gae your head a cast\\nBut, trovvth, I care t na by\\nI doubt na, lass, but ye may think.\\nBecause ye hae the name o clink.\\nThat ye can please me at a wink.\\nWhene er ye like to try.\\nBut sorrow tak him that s sae mean,\\nAltho his pouch o coin were clean,\\nWha follows onie saucy quean.\\nThat looks sae proud and high\\nAltho a lad were e er sae smart,\\nIf that he want the yellow dirt,\\nY e 11 cast your head anither airt.\\nAnd answer him fu dry.\\nBut if he hae the name o gear.\\nYe 11 fasten to him like a brier,\\nTho hardly he for sense or lear\\nBe better than the kye.\\nBut, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice\\nYour daddie s gear maks you sae nice.\\nThe Deil a ane wad spier your price.\\nWere ye as poor as I\\nThere lives a lass beside yon park,\\nI d rather hae her in her sark\\nThan you wi a your thousand mark.\\nThat gars you look sae high.\\nChorus.\\nO Tibbie, I hae seen the day.\\nYe wadna been sae shy\\nFor laik o gear ye lightly me,\\nBut, trowth, I care na by.\\nCLARINDA, MISTRESS OF MY\\nSOUL.\\n[This song was written when Burns was\\nabout to leave Edinburgh.]\\nClarinda, mistress of my soul.\\nThe measur d time is run\\nThe wretch beneath the dreary pole\\nSo marks his latest sun.\\nTo what dark cave of frozen night\\nShall poor Sylvander hie,\\nDepriv d of thee, his life and light,\\nThe sun of all his joy\\nWe part but, by these precious\\ndrops\\nThat fill thy lovely eyes,\\nNo other light shall guide my steps\\nTill thy bright beams arise\\nShe, the fair sun of all her sex.\\nHas blest my glorious day\\nAnd shall a glimmering planet fix\\nMy worship to its ray\\nTHE WINTER IT IS PAST.\\n[The song itself is largely and generously\\nadapted from a song called The Curragh", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0283.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "236 I LOVE MY LOVE IN SECRET. SWEET TIBBIE DUNBAR.\\nof Kildare. Only stanza II. is wholly\\nBuins s.]\\nThe winter it is past, and the simmer\\ncomes at last,\\nAnd the small birds sing on ev ry\\ntree\\nThe hearts of these are glad, but mine\\nis very sad,\\nFor my love is parted from me.\\nThe rose upon the brier by the waters\\nrunning clear\\nMay have charms for the linnet or\\nthe bee\\nTheir little loves are blest, and their\\nlittle hearts at rest.\\nBut my lover is parted from me.\\nMy love is like the sun in the firma-\\nment does run\\nForever is constant and true\\nBut his is like the moon, that wanders\\nup and down,\\nAnd every month it is new.\\nAll you that are in love, and cannot\\nit remove,\\nI pity the pains you endure.\\nFor experience makes me know that\\nyour hearts are full of woe,\\nA woe that no mortal can cure.\\nI LOVE MY LOVE IN SECRET.\\n[Stenhouse affirms that the old song was\\nslightly altered by Burns, because it was\\nrather inadmissible, in its original state;\\nbut apparently he spoke by guesswork.]\\nChorus.\\nMy Sandy O, my Sandy O,\\nMy bonie, bonie Sandy O\\nTho the love that I owe\\nTo thee I dare na show,\\nYet I love my love in secret,\\nMy Sandy O\\nMy Sandy gied to me a ring\\nWas a beset wi diamonds fine;\\nBut I gied him a far better thing,\\nI gied my heart in pledge o his ring.\\nMy Sandy brak a piece o gowd.\\nWhile down his cheeks the saut tears\\nrow d\\nHe took a hauf, and gied it to me.\\nAnd 1 11 keep it till the hour I die.\\nClioi tis.\\nMy Sandy O, my Sandy O,\\nMy bonie, bonie Sandy O\\nTho the love that I owe\\nTo thee I dare na show.\\nYet I love my love in secret,\\nMy Sandy O\\nSWEET TIBBIE DUNBAR.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum, by\\nBurns.]\\nO, WILT thou go wi me, sweet Tibbie\\nDunbar?\\nO, wilt tliou go wi me, sweet Tibbie\\nDunbar?\\nWilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn\\nin a car,\\nOr walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie\\nDunbar?\\nI care na thy daddie, his lands and\\nhis money", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0284.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "HIGHLAND HARRY.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE TAILOR FELL THRO THE BED. 237\\nI care na thy kin, sae high and sae\\nlordly\\nBut say that thou It hae me for better\\nor waur,\\nAnd come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie\\nDunbar.\\nHIGHLAND HARRY.\\nThe chorus I picked up from an old\\nwoman in Dunblane. The rest of the song\\nis mine. (R. B.)]\\nChorus.\\nO, for him back again\\nO, for him back again\\nI wad gie a Knockhaspie s land\\nFor Highland Harry back again.\\nMy Harry was a gallant gay,\\nFu stately strade he on the plain.\\nBut now he s banish d far away\\nI 11 never see him back atrain.\\nWhen a the lave gae to their bed,\\nI wander dowie up the glen,\\nI set me down, and greet my fill,\\nAnd ay I wish him back again.\\nO, were some villains hangit high,\\nAnd ilka body had their ain.\\nThen I might see the joyfu sight,\\nMy Highland Harry back again\\nCJiorus.\\nO, for him back again\\nO, for him back again\\nI wad gie a Knockhaspie s land,\\nFor Highland Harry back again.\\nTHE TAILOR FELL THRO\\nTHE BED.\\nThis air is the march of the Corpora-\\ntion of Tailors. The second and fourth\\nstanzas are mine. (R. B.)]\\nThe tailor fell thro the bed, thimble\\nan a\\nThe tailor fell thro the bed, thimble\\nan a\\nThe blankets were thin, and the\\nsheets they were sma\\nThe tailor fell thro the bed, thimble\\nan a\\nII.\\nThe sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded\\nnae ill.\\nThe sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded\\nnae ill\\nThe weather was cauld, and the lassie\\nlay still\\nShe thought that a tailor could do her\\nnae ill\\nIII.\\nGie me the groat again, cannie young\\nman\\nGie me the groat again, cannie young\\nman\\nThe day it is short, and the night it\\nis lang\\nThe dearest siller that ever I wan\\nIV.\\nThere s somebody weary wi lying\\nher lane,\\nThere s somebody weary wi lying\\nher lane\\nThere s some that are dowie, I trow\\nwad be fain\\nTo see the bit tailor come skippin\\nagain.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0285.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "238\\nAY WAUKIN, O. LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.\\nAY WAUKIN, O.\\n[An old ballad supposed to have been\\nadapted by Burns.]\\nCJiorus.\\nAy waukin. O,\\nWaukin still and weary\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinking on my dearie.\\nSimmer s a pleasant time\\nFlowers of every colour.\\nThe water rins owre the heugh,\\nAnd 1 long for iny true lover.\\nWhen I sleep I dream,\\nWhen I wauk I eerie,\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinkin on my dearie.\\nLanely night comes on,\\nA the lave are sleepin,\\nI think on my bonie lad,\\nAnd I bleer my een wi greetin.\\nClwriis.\\nAy waukin, O,\\nWaukin still and weary\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinking on my dearie.\\nBEWARE O BONIE ANN.\\nI composed this song out of compli-\\nment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter\\nof my friend Allan Masterton. (R. B.)]\\nYe gallants bright, I rede you right,\\nBeware o bonie Ann\\nHer comely face sae fu o grace,\\nYour heart she will trepan.\\nHer een sae bright like stars by\\nnight.\\nHer skin is like the swan.\\nSae jimply lac d her genty waist\\nThat sweetly ye might span.\\nYouth, Grace, and Love attendant\\nmove,\\nAnd Pleasure leads the van\\nIn a their charms, and conquering\\narms.\\nThey wait on bonie Ann.\\nThe captive bands may chain the\\nhands,\\nBut Love enslaves the man\\nYe gallants braw, I rede you a\\nBeware o bonie Ann\\nLADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.\\n[An old ballad, probably amended and\\ncondensed by Burns.]\\nCJwriis.\\nNear me, near ine,\\nLaddie, lie near me\\nLang hae I lain my lane\\nLaddie, lie near me\\nLang hae we parted been,\\nLaddie, my dearie\\nNow we are met again\\nLaddie, lie near me\\nA that I hae endur d.\\nLaddie, my dearie,\\nHere in thy arms is cur d\\nLaddie, lie near me", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0286.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "THE GARD NER Wl HIS PAIDLE. THE DAY RETURNS. 239\\nChorus.\\nNear me, near me.\\nLaddie, lie near me\\nLang liae I lain my lane\\nLaddie, lie near me\\nTHE GARD NER WP HIS\\nPAIDLE.\\nThe title of the song is old the rest is\\nmine. (R. B.)]\\nWhen rosy May comes in wi flowers\\nTo deck her gay, green-spreading\\nbowers.\\nThen busy, busy are his hours,\\nThe gard ner wi his paidle.\\nThe crystal waters gently fa\\nThe merry birds are lo\\\\ers a\\\\\\nThe scented Ijreezes round him blaw\\nThe gard ner wi his paidle.\\nIII.\\nWhen purple morning starts the hare\\nTo steal upon her early fare.\\nThen thro the dew he maun repair\\nThe gard ner wi his paidle.\\nWhen Da} expiring in the west.\\nThe curtain draws o Nature s rest,\\nHe flies to her arms he lo es best.\\nThe gard ner wi his paidle.\\nON A BANK OF FLOWERS.\\n[The original was written by Theobald.\\nVariation by Burns.]\\nOn a bank of flowers in a summer\\nday,\\nFor summer lightly drest,\\nThe youthful, blooming Nelly lay\\nWith love and sleep opprest\\nWhen Willie, wand ring thro the\\nwood.\\nWho for her favour oft had sued\\nHe gaz d, he wish d.\\nHe fear d, he blush d,\\nAnd trembled where he stood.\\nHer closed eyes, like weapons\\nsheath d.\\nWere seal d in soft repose\\nHer lips, still as she fragrant breath d,\\nIt richer dyed the rose;\\nThe springing lilies, sweetly prest.\\nWild-wanton kiss d her rival breast\\nHe gaz d, he wish d.\\nHe fear d, he blush d,\\nHis bosom ill at rest.\\nHer robes, light-waving in the breeze.\\nHer tender limbs embrace\\nHer lovely form, her native ease,\\nAll harmony and grace.\\nTumultuous tides his pulses roll,\\nA faltering, ardent kiss he stole\\nHe gaz d, he wish d.\\nHe fear d, he blush d,\\nAnd sigh d his very soul.\\nAs flies the partridge from the brake\\nOn fear-inspired wings.\\nSo Nelly starting, half-awake,\\nAway aifrighted springs.\\nBut Willie follow d as he should\\nHe overtook her in the wood\\nHe vow d, he pray d.\\nHe found the maid\\nForgiving all, and good.\\nTHE DAY RETURNS.\\nI composed this song out of compli-\\nment to one of the happiest and worthiest", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0287.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "240 MY LOVE, SHE S BUT A LASSIE YET. JAMIE, COME TRY ME.\\ncouples in the world, Robert Riddel!,\\nEsq.,of Glenriddell, and his lady. (R. B.)]\\nThe day returns, my bosom burns,\\nThe blissful day we twa did meet\\nTho winter wild in tempest toiTd,\\nNe er summer sun was half sae\\nsweet.\\nThan a the pride that loads the tide,\\nAnd crosses o er the sultry line.\\nThan kingly robes, than crowns and\\nglobes,\\nHeav n gave me more it made\\nthee mine\\nWhile day and night can bring de-\\nlight.\\nOr Nature aught of pleasure give.\\nWhile joys above my mind can move.\\nFor thee, and thee alone, I live\\nWhen that grim foe ot Life below\\nComes in between to make us part,\\nThe iron hand that breaks our band.\\nIt breaks my bliss, it breaks my\\nheart\\nMY LOVE, SHE S BUT A\\nLASSIE YET.\\nThe title and the last half stanza of\\nthis song, says Stenhouse, are old the\\nrest was composed by Burns.\\nCliorits.\\nMy love, she s but a lassie yet.\\nMy love, she s but a lassie yet\\nWe 11 let her stand a year or twa,\\nShe 11 no be lialf sae saucy yet\\nI RUE the day I sought her. O\\nI rue the day I sought her, O\\nWha gets her need na say he s\\nwoo d.\\nBut he may say he has bought\\nher, O.\\nCome draw a drap o the best o t\\nyet,\\nCome draw a drap o the best o t\\nyet\\nGae seek for pleasure whare ye will,\\nBut here I never missed it yet.\\nWe re a dry wi drinkin o t,\\nWe re a dry wi drinkin o t\\nThe minister kiss t the fiddler s\\nwife\\nHe could na preach for thinkin\\no t!\\nChoms.\\nMy love, she s but a lassie yet.\\nMy love, she s but a lassie yet\\nWe ll let her stand a year or twa,\\nShe 11 no be half sae saucy yet\\nJAMIE, COME TRY ME.\\n[The original was probably related to a\\nblackletter, entitled The New Scotch Jig,\\nor the Bonny Cravat.\\nCliorus.\\nJamie, come try me,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf thou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf thou should ask my love.\\nCould I deny thee?\\nIf thou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf thou should kiss me, love,\\nWha could espy thee\\nIf thou wad be my love,\\nJamie, come try me", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0288.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "THE SILVER TASSIE.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE CAPTAIN S LADY.\\n241\\nChorus.\\nJamie, come try me,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf thou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me\\nTHE SILVER TASSIE.\\nThis air is Oswald s; the first half\\nstanza is old; the rest is mine. (R. B.)]\\nGo, fetch to me a pint 0 wine\\nAnd fill it in a silver tassie,\\nThat I may drink before I* go\\nA service to my bonie lassie\\nThe boat rocks at the pier o Leith,\\nFu loud the wind blaws frae the\\nFerry,\\nThe ship rides by the Berwick-Law,\\nAnd I maun leave my bonie Mary.\\nThe tnmipets sound, the banners fly.\\nThe glittering spears are ranked\\nread}\\nThe shouts o war are heard afar,\\nThe battle closes deep and bloody.\\nIt s not the roar o sea or shore\\nWad mak me langer wish to tarry,\\nNor shouts o war that s heard afar\\nIt s leaving thee, my bonie Mary\\nTHE LAZY MIST.\\n[No. 232 in Johnson Written for this\\nwork by Robert Burns, and signed B.\\nThe lazy mist hangs from the brow\\nof the hill,\\nConcealing the course of the dark\\nwinding rill.\\nHow languid the scenes, late so\\nsprightly, appear,\\nR\\nAs Autumn to Winter resigns the\\npale year\\nThe forests are leafless, the meadows\\nare brown.\\nAnd all the gay foppery of summer is\\nflown.\\nApart let me wander, apart let me\\nmuse.\\nHow quick Time is flying, how keen\\nFate pursues\\nHow long I have liv d, but how much\\nliv d in vain\\nHow little of life s scanty span may\\nremain\\nWhat aspects old Time in his pro-\\ngress has worn\\nWhat ties cruel Fate in my bosom\\nhas torn\\nHow foolish, or worse, till our summit\\nis gain d\\nAnd downward, how weakened, how\\ndarkened, how pain d\\nLife is not worth having with all it\\ncan give\\nFor something beyond it poor man,\\nsure, must live.\\nTHE CAPTAIN S LADY.\\n[An old ballad. Authorship doubtful.]\\nChorus.\\nO, mount and go,\\nMount and make you ready\\nO, mount and go,\\nAnd be the Captain s Lady\\nWhen the drums do beat.\\nAnd the cannons rattle.\\nThou shalt sit in state,\\nAnd see thy love in battle", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0289.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "242\\nOF A THE AIRTS. WHISTLE O ER THE LAVE O T.\\nWhen the vanquish d foe\\nSues for peace and quiet,\\nTo tlie shades we 11 go,\\nAnd in love enjoy it.\\nChorus.\\nO, mount and go\\nMount and make you ready\\nO, mount and go,\\nAnd be the Captain s Lady\\nOF A THE AIRTS.\\nThe air is by Marshall, the song I\\ncomposed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.\\nN.B. It was during the honeymoon.\\n(R. B.)]\\nOf a the airts the wind can blaw\\nI dearly like the west,\\nFor there the bonie lassie lives.\\nThe lassie I lo e best.\\nThere wild woods grow, and rivers\\nrow.\\nAnd monie a hill between.\\nBut day and night my fancy s flight\\nIs ever wi my Jean.\\nI see her in the dewy flowers\\nI see her sweet and fair.\\nI hear her in the tunefu birds\\nI hear her charm the air.\\nThere s not a bonie flower that springs\\nBy fountain, shaw, or green.\\nThere s not a bonie bird that sings,\\nBut minds me o my Jean.\\nCARL, AN THE KING COME.\\n[A medley of Jacobite catchwords.]\\nCJiorus.\\nCarl, an the King come,\\nCarl, an the King come.\\nThou shalt dance, and I will sing,\\nCarl, an the kin-r come\\nAn somebodie were come again,\\nThen somebodie maun cross the\\nmain.\\nAnd every man shall hae his ain,\\nCarl, an the King come\\nI trow we swa]Dped for the worse\\nWe gae the boot and better hor.se,\\nAnd that we 11 tell them at the Cross,\\nCarl, an the King come\\nCoggie, an the King come,\\nCoggie, an the King come,\\nI 11 be fou, and thou se be toom,\\nCoggie, an the King come\\nCliorus.\\nCarl, an the King come,\\nCarl, an the King come.\\nThou shalt dance, and I will sing,\\nCarl, an the King come\\nWHISTLE O ER THE LAVE O T.\\n[The repeat is borrowed from an old\\nsong.]\\nI.\\nFirst when Maggie was my care,\\nHeav n, I thought, was in her air\\nNow we re married, spier nae mair,\\nBut whistle o er the lave o t\\nMeg w^as meek, and Meg was mild.\\nSweet and harmless as a child\\nWiser men than me s beguiled\\nWhistle o er the lave o t\\nHow we live, my Meg and me.\\nHow we love, and how we gree,\\nI care na by how few may see\\nWhistle o er the lave o t", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0290.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "O, WERE I. THERE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.\\n243\\nWha I wish were maggots meat,\\nDish d up in her winding-sheet,\\nI could write (but Meg wad see t)\\nWhistle o er the lave o t\\nO, WERE I ON PARNASSUS\\nHILL.\\n[The substance of this song is in many\\nold ballads, one of which Burns may have\\ntaken as his model.]\\nO, WERE I on Parnassus hill,\\nOr had o Helicon my fill,\\nThat I might catch poetic skill\\nTo sing how dear I love thee\\nBut Nith maun be my Muses well.\\nMy Muse maun be thy bonie seP,\\nOn Corsincon I 11 glowr and spell.\\nAnd write how dear I love thee.\\nThen come, sweet Muse, inspire my\\nlay!\\nFor a the lee-lang simmer s day\\nI couldna sing, I couldna say\\nHow much, how dear I love thee.\\nI see thee dancing o er the green.\\nThy waist sae jinip, thy limbs sae\\nclean.\\nThy tempting lips, thy roguish een\\nBy Heaven and Earth 1 love thee!\\nBy night, by day, a-field, at hame,\\nThe thoughts o thee my breast in-\\nflame.\\nAnd ay I muse and sing thy name\\nI only live to love thee.\\nTho I were doom d to wander on,\\nBeyond the sea, beyond the sun.\\nTill my last weary sand was run,\\nTill then and then I d love\\nthee\\nTHE CAPTIVE RIBBAND.\\n[Burns s authorship of this song is in\\ndoubt.]\\nMvRA, the captive ribband s mine\\nTwas all my faithful love could\\ngain.\\nAnd would you ask me to resign\\nThe sole reward that crowns my\\npain\\nGo, bid the hero, who has run\\nThro fields of death to gather\\nfame\\nGo, bid him lay his laurels down,\\nAnd all his well-earn d praise dis-\\nclaim\\nThe ribband shall its freedom lose\\nLose all the bliss it had with you\\nAnd share the fate I would impose\\nOn thee, wert thou my captive too.\\nIt shall upon my bosom live.\\nOr clasp me in a close embrace\\nAnd at its fortune if you grieve,\\nRetrieve its doom, and take its\\nplace.\\nTHERE S A YOUTH IN THIS\\nCITY.\\n[This piece is strongly reminiscent of\\nThe Mauchline Belles.\\nThere s a youth in this city, it were\\na great pity\\nThat he from our lassies should\\nwander awa\\nFor he s bonie and braw, weel-favor d\\nwitha", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0291.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "244 MY HEART S IN THE IHGHLAXDS. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.\\nAn his hair has a natural buckle\\nan a\\\\\\nHis coat is the hue o his bonnet sae\\nblue,\\nHis fecket is white as the new-\\ndriven snaw,\\nHis hose they are blae, and his shoon\\nlike tlie slae,\\nAnd his clear siller buckles, they\\ndazzle us a\\nIII.\\nFor beauty and fortune the laddie s\\nbeen courtin\\nWeel -featured, weel-tocher d, weel-\\nmounted. an braw.\\nBut chiefly the siller that gars liim\\ngang till her\\nThe penny s the jewel that beauti-\\nfies a\\nThere s Meg wi the mailen, that fain\\nwad a haen him,\\nAnd Susie, wha s daddie was laird\\nof the Ha\\nThere s lang-tocher d Nancy maist\\nfetters his fancy\\nBut the laddie s dear sel he loes\\ndearest of a\\nMY HEART S IN THE HIGH-\\nLANDS.\\nThe first half stanza of this song is\\nold; the rest is mine. (R. B.)]\\nChorilS.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, my\\nheart is not here.\\nMy heart sin the Highlands a-chas-\\ning the deer,\\nA-chasing the wild deer and following\\nthe roe\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, wher-\\never I go!\\nFarewell to the Highlands, farewell\\nto the North,\\nThe birthplace of valour, the country\\nof worth\\nWherever I wander, wherever I rove,\\nThe hills of the Highlands for ever 1\\nlove.\\nFarewell to the mountains high\\ncover d with snow.\\nFarewell to the straths and green\\nvalleys below.\\nFarewell to the forests and wild-hang-\\ning woods,\\nFarewell to the torrents and loud-\\npouring floods\\nClwriis.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, my\\nheart is not here.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands a-chas-\\ning the deer,\\nA-chasing the wild deer and following\\nthe roe\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, wher-\\never I go!\\nJOHN ANDERSON MY JO.\\n[The song traces back to one composed\\nabout 1560. Improved by Burns.]\\nJohn Anderson my jo, John,\\nWhen we were first acquent.\\nYour locks were like the raven,\\nYour bonie brow was brent\\nBut now your brow is beld, John,\\nYour locks are like tlie snaw,\\nBut lilessings on your frosty pow,\\nJohn Anderson my jo\\nJolin Anderson my jo, John,\\nWe clamb the hill thegither.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0292.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "AWA WHIGS, AWA CA THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 245\\nAnd monie a cantie day, John,\\nWe e had wi ane anither\\nNow we maun totter down, John,\\nAnd hand in hand we 11 go.\\nAnd sleep thegither at the foot,\\nJohn Anderson my Jo\\nAWA\\\\ WHIGS, AWA\\\\\\n[An old Jacobite song, improved by\\nBurns.]\\nChorus.\\nAwa\\\\ Whigs, awa\\nAwa Whigs, awa\\nYe re but a pack o traitor loans,\\nYe 11 do nae guid at a\\nOur thrissles flourished fresh and\\nfair,\\nAnd bonie blooni d our roses\\nBut Whigs cam like a frost in June,\\nAn wither d a our posies.\\nOur ancient crown s fa n in the\\ndust\\nDeil blin them wi the stoure o t,\\nAn write their names in his black\\nbeuk,\\nWha gae the Whigs the power o t\\nOur sad decay in church and state\\nSurpasses my descriving.\\nThe Whigs cam o er us for a curse,\\nAnd we hae done wi thriving.\\nGrim Vengeance lang has taen a\\nnap.\\nBut we may see Iiim waukin\\nGude help the day when Royal\\nheads\\nAre hunted like a maukin\\nChorus.\\nAwa Whigs, awa\\nAwa Whigs, awa\\nYe re but a pack o traitor loans,\\nYe 11 do nae guid at a\\nCA THE YOWES TO THE\\nKNOWES.\\nThis beautiful song is in the true old\\nScotch taste, yet I do not know that either\\nthe air or words were in print before.\\n(R. B.)]\\nClionts.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where the heather grows,\\nCa them where tlie burnie rowes.\\nMy bonie dearie!\\nAs I gaed down the water-side,\\nThere I met my shepherd lad\\nHe row d me sweetly in his plaid,\\nAnd he ca d me his dearie.\\nWill ye gang down the water-side,\\nAnd see the waves sae sweetly glide\\nBeneath the hazels spreading wide?\\nThe moon it shines fu clearly.\\nI was bred up in nae sic school.\\nMy shepherd lad, to play the fool,\\nAn a the day to sit in dool,\\nAn naebodv to see me.\\nYe sail get gowns and ribbons meet,\\nCauf-leather shoon upon your feet,\\nAnd in my arms thou It lie and sleep,\\nAn ye sail be my dearie.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0293.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "246\\nO, MERRY IIAE I BEEN. THE WHITE COCKADE.\\nIf ye ll but stand to wliat ye ve said,\\nI se gang wi you, my shepherd lad.\\nAnd ye may row me in your plaid,\\nAnd I sail be your dearie.\\nWhile waters wimple to the sea,\\nWhile day blinks in the lift sae hie.\\nTill clay-cauld death sail blin my e e,\\nYe sail be my dearie.\\nChorus.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where tlie heather grows,\\nCa them where the burnie rowes.\\nMy bonie dearie!\\nO, MERRY HAE I BEEN.\\nThe tune was called The Bob o Dum-\\nblane, and a song with this title appears in\\nRamsay s Tea-Table Miscellany (1727).\\n(R. B.J]\\nO, MERRY hae I been teethin a heckle.\\nAn merry hae I been shapin a\\nspoon\\nO, merry hae I been cloutin a kettle,\\nAn kissin my Katie when a was\\ndone\\nO, a the lang day 1 ca at my hammer.\\nAn a the lang day I whistle an sing!\\nO, a the lang night I cuddle my kim-\\nmer,\\nAn a the lang night as happy s a\\nkine\\nBitter in dool, I lickit my winnins\\nO marrying Bess, to gie her a slave.\\nBlest be the hour she cool d in her\\nlinens.\\nAnd blythe be the bird that sings\\non her grave!\\nCome to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,\\nAn come to my arms, and kiss me\\nagain\\nDrucken or sober, here s to thee, Katie,\\nAnd blest be the day I did it again!\\nA MOTHER S LAMENT.\\nThe words were composed to com-\\nmemorate the much lamented and prema-\\nture dt-ath of James Ferguson, Esq., Junior\\nof Craigdarroch. (R. B.)]\\nFate gave the word the arrow sped,\\nAnd pierc d my darling s heart.\\nAnd witli him all the joys are fled\\nLife can to me impart.\\nBy cruel hands the sapling drops,\\nIn dust dishonor d laid\\nSo fell the pride of all my hopes,\\nMy age s future shade.\\nThe mother linnet in the brake\\nBewails her ravishVl young\\nSo I for my lost darling s sake\\nLament the live-day long.\\nDeath, oft I ve fear d thy fatal blow\\nNow fond I bare my breast\\nO, do thou kindly lay me low,\\nWith him I love at rest\\nTHE WHITE COCKADE.\\n[Adapted from\\nLad in Herd.]\\nThe Ranting Rovins\\nChorus.\\nO, he s a ranting, roving lad\\nHe is a brisk an a bonie lad\\nBetide what may. I will be wed.\\nAnd follow the boy with the White\\nCockade\\nMy love was born in Aberdeen.\\nThe boniest lad that e er was seen", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0294.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "THE BRAES O BALLOCHMYLE. THOU LINGERING STAR. 247\\nBut now he makes our hearts fu^ sad\\nHe takes the field wi his White Cock-\\nade.\\nII.\\nI 11 sell my rock, my reel, my tow.\\nMy guid gray mare and hawkit cow,\\nTo buy mysel a tartan plaid.\\nTo follow the boy vvi the White Cock-\\nade.\\nChortis.\\nO, he s a ranting, roving lad\\nHe is a brisk an a bonie lad\\nBetide what may, I will be wed.\\nAnd follow the boy wi the White\\nCockade\\nTHE BRAES O BALLOCH-\\nMYLE.\\nI composed the verses on the amiable\\nand excellent family of Whitefoord s leav-\\ning Ballochmyle, when Sir John s misfor-\\ntunes had obliged him to sell the estate.\\n(R. B.)]\\nThe Catrine woods were yellow seen.\\nThe flowers decay d on Catrine\\nlea\\nNae lav rock sang on hillock green,\\nBut nature sickened on the e e\\nThro faded groves Maria sang,\\nHersel in beauty s bloom the while.\\nAnd aye the wild-wood echoes rang\\nFareweel the braes o Ballochmyle\\nLow in your wintry beds, ye flowers.\\nAgain ye 11 flourish fresh and fair\\nYe birdies, dumb in with ring bowers.\\nAgain ye 11 charm the vocal air\\nBut here, alas for me nae mair\\nShall birdie charm, or floweret smile\\nFareweel the bonie banks of Ayr!\\nFareweel fareweel, sweet Balloch-\\nmyle\\nTHE RANTIN DOG, THE\\nDADDIE O T.\\nI composed this song pretty early in\\nlife, and sent it to a young girl, a very par-\\nticular acquaintance of mine, who was at\\nthe time under a cloud. (R. B.)]\\nI.\\nO, WHA my babie-clouts will buy?\\nO, wha will tent me when I cry\\nWha will kiss me where I lie\\nThe rantin dog, the daddie o t\\nO, wha will own he did the faut?\\nO, wha will buy the groanin maut?\\nO. wha will tell me how to ca\\nThe rantin doe:, the daddie o t!\\nWhen I mount the creepie-chair,\\nWha will sit beside me there\\nGie me Rob, I 11 seek nae mair\\nThe rantin dog, the daddie o t\\nWha will crack to me my lane?\\nWha will mak me fidgin fain?\\nWha will kiss tne o er again\\nThe rantin dog, the daddie o t\\nTHOU LINGERING STAR.\\n[Enclosing this very famous lament in\\na letter to Mrs. Dunlop, November 8, 1789,\\nBurns described it as made the other\\nday. He also asked her opinion of it, as\\nhe was too much interested in the subject\\nto be a critic in the composition.\\nI.\\nThou lingering star with lessening\\nray.\\nThat lov st to greet the early morn.\\nAgain thou usher st in the day\\nMy Mary from my soul was torn.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0295.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "248\\nEPPIE ADAIR. THE BATTLE OF SHERRAMUIR.\\nO Mary, dear departed shade\\nWhere is thy place of blissful rest\\nSee st thou thy lover lowly laid?\\nHear st thou the groans that rend\\nhis breast?\\nII.\\nThat sacred hour can I forget,\\nCan I forget the hallow d grove.\\nWhere, by the winding Ayr, we met\\nTo live one day of parting love?\\nEternity cannot etface\\nThose records dear of transports\\npast.\\nThy image at our last embrace\\nAh little thought we t was our\\nlast\\nAyr, gurgling, kiss d his pebbled\\nshore,\\nO erhung with wild woods thicken-\\ning green\\nThe fragrant birch and hawthorn\\nhoar\\nTwin d amorous round the raptur d\\nscene\\nThe flowers sprang wanton to be\\nprest,\\nThe birds sang love on every\\nspray.\\nTill too, too soon, the glowing west\\nProclaim d the speed of winged\\nday.\\nIV.\\nStill o er these scenes my mem ry\\nwakes,\\nAnd fondly broods with miser-care.\\nTime but th impression stronger\\nmakes.\\nAs streams their channels deeper\\nwear.\\nO Mary, dear departed shade\\nWhere is thy place of blissful rest?\\nSee st thou thy lover lowly laid?\\nHear st thou the groans that rend\\nhis breast?\\nEPPIE ADAIR.\\n[No. 281 in Johnson, unsigned.\\nMs. is in the Hastie Collection.]\\nC horns.\\nAn O my Eppie,\\nMy jewel, my Eppie!\\nWha wadna be happy\\nWi Eppie Adair?\\nBy love and by beauty,\\nBy law and by duty,\\nI swear to be true to\\nMy Eppie Adair!\\nA pleasure exile me.\\nDishonour defile me.\\nIf e er I beguile thee.\\nMy Eppie Adair\\nChorus.\\nAn O my Eppie,\\nMy jewel, my Eppie\\nWha wadna be happy\\nWi Eppie Adair?\\nThe\\nTHE BATTLE OF SHERRA-\\nMUIR.\\n[This song is condensed from a ballad\\nby the Rev. John Barclay.]\\nO, CAM ye here the fight to shun.\\nOr herd the sheep wi me, man\\nOr were ye at the Sherra-moor,\\nOr did the battle see, man?\\nI saw the battle, sair and teugh,\\nAnd reekin-red ran monie a sheugh\\nMy heart for fear gae sough for sough,\\nTo hear the tliuds, and see the cluds\\nO clans frae woods in tartan duds,\\nWha glaum d at kingdoms three,\\nman.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0296.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "YOUNG JOCKIE WAS THE BLYTHEST LAD.\\n249\\nThe red-coat lads wi black cockaiids\\nTo meet them were na slaw, man\\nThey rush d and pushVl and bluid\\noutgushVl,\\nAnd monie a bouk did fa\\\\ man\\nThe great Argyle led on his files,\\nI wat they glanc d for twenty miles\\nThey hough d the clans like nine-pin\\nkyles,\\nThey hack d and hash d, while braid-\\nswords clash d,\\nAnd thro they dash d, and hew d and\\nsmashed,\\nTill fey men died awa, man.\\nBut had ye seen the philibegs\\nAnd skyrin tartan trews, man,\\nWhen in the teeth they daur d our\\nwhigs\\nAnd Covenant trueblues, man\\nIn lines extended lang and large,\\nWhen baig nets o erpower d the targe,\\nAnd thousands hastened to the charge,\\nWi Highland wrath they frae the\\nsheath\\nDrew blades o death, till out o breath\\nThey fled like frighted dows, man\\nO, how Deil Tarn, can that be true\\nThe chase gaed frae the north, man\\nI saw mysel, they did pursue\\nThe horseman back to Forth, man\\nAnd at Dunblane, in my ain sight.\\nThey took the brig wi a their might,\\nAnd straught to Stirling wing d their\\nflight;\\nBut. cursed lot the gates were shut,\\nAnd monie a huntit poor red-coat.\\nFor fear amaist did swarf, man\\nMy sister Kate cam up the gate\\nWi crowdie unto me, man\\nShe swoor she saw some rebels run\\nTo Perth and to Dundee, man\\nTheir left-hand general had nae skill\\nThe Angus lads had nae good will\\nThat day their neebors bluid to sjmII\\nFor fear by foes that they should lose\\nTheir cogs o brose, they scar d at\\nblows.\\nAnd hameward fast did flee, man.\\nThey ve lost some gallant gentlemen,\\nAmang the Highland clans, man\\nI fear my Lord Panmure is slain.\\nOr in his en mies hands, man.\\nNow wad ye sing this double flight.\\nSome fell for wrang, and some for\\nright.\\nBut monie bade the world guid-night\\nSay, pell and mell, wi muskets knell\\nHow Tories fell, and Whigs to Hell\\nFlew otr in frighted bands, man\\nYOUNG JOCKIE WAS THE\\nBLYTHEST LAD.\\n[Stenhouse remarks that the whole song,\\nexcepting three or four lines, is the pro-\\nduction of Burns.\\nYoung Jockie was the blythest lad,\\nIn a our town or here awa\\nFu blyfhe he whistled at the gaud,\\nFu lightly danc d he in the ha\\nII.\\nHe roos d my een sae bonie blue,\\nHe roos d my waist sae genty sma\\nAn ay my heart cam to my mou\\nWhen ne er a body heard or saw.\\nMy Jockie toils upon the plain\\nThro wind and weet, thro frost\\nand snaw\\nAnd o er the lea I leuk fu fain.\\nWhen Jockie s owsen hameward\\nca", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0297.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "250\\nA WAUKRIFE MINNIE. THO WOMEN S MINDS.\\nAn ay the night conies round again,\\nWhen in his arms lie taks me a\\nAn ay he vows he 11 be my ain\\nAs lang s he has a breath to draw.\\nA WAUKRIFE MINNIE.\\nI picked up the old song and tune\\nfrom a country girl in Nithsdale. I never\\nmet with it elsewhere in Scotland. (R. B.)]\\nWhare are you gaun, my bonie\\nlass?\\nWhare are you gaun, my hinnie?\\nShe answered me right saucilie\\nAn errand for my minnie\\nO, whare live ye, my bonie lass\\nO, whare live ye, my hinnie\\nBy yon burnside, gin ye maun ken.\\nIn a wee house wi my minnie\\nBut I foor up the glen at e en\\nTo see my bonie lassie,\\nAnd lang before the grey morn cam\\nShe was na hauf sae saucy.\\nIV.\\nO, weary fa the waukrife cock.\\nAnd the foumart lay his crawin\\nHe wauken d the auld wife frae her\\nsleep\\nA wee blink or the dawin.\\nAn angry wife I wat she raise.\\nAnd o er the bed she brought her.\\nAnd wi a meikle hazel-rung\\nShe made her a weel-pay d dochter.\\nVI.\\nO, fare-thee-weel, my bonie lass\\nO, fare-thee-weel, my hinnie\\nThou art a gay and a bonie lass.\\nBut thou has a waukrife minnie\\nTHO WOMEN S MINUS.\\nThis song is mine, all except the\\nchorus. (R. B.)]\\nChorus.\\nFor a that, an a that,\\nAnd twice as meikle s a that,\\nThe bonie lass that I loe best.\\nShe 11 be my ain for a that\\nI.\\nTho women s minds like winter\\nwinds\\nMay shift, and turn, an a that.\\nThe noblest breast adores them\\nmaist\\nA consequence, I draw that.\\nII.\\nGreat love I bear to a the fair,\\nTheir humble slave, an a that\\nBut lordly will, I hold it still\\nA mortal sin to thraw that.\\nIn rapture sweet this hour we meet,\\nWi mutual love an a that,\\nBut for how lang the flie may stang,\\nLet inclination law that\\nTheir tricks an craft hae put me\\ndaft.\\nThey ve taen me in an a that.\\nBut clear vour decks, and here s\\nThe Sex\\nI like the jads for a that", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0298.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "WILLIE BREW D A PECK O MAUT. KILLIECRANKIE. 251\\nCliorus.\\nFor a that, an a that,\\nAnd twice as nieikle s a that,\\nThe bonie lass that I loe best,\\nShe 11 be my ain for a that\\nWILLIE BREW D A PECK O\\nMAUT.\\nThe air is Masterton s the song mine.\\n(R. B.)J\\nChorus.\\nWe are na fou, we re nae that fou,\\nBut just a drappie in our e e\\nThe cock may craw, the day may\\ndaw.\\nAnd ay we 11 taste the barley-\\nbree\\nO, Willie brewed a peck o maut.\\nAnd Rob and Allan cam to see.\\nThree blyther hearts that lee-lang\\nnight\\nYe wad na found in Christendie.\\nHere are -we met three merry boys,\\nThree merry boys I trow are we\\nAnd monie a night we ve merry\\nbeen,\\nAnd monie mae we hope to be\\nIII.\\nIt is the moon, I ken her horn.\\nThat s blinkin in the lift sae hie\\nShe shines sae bright to wyle us\\nhame.\\nBut, by my sooth, she 11 wait a\\nwee\\nIV.\\nWha first shall rise to gang awa,\\nA cuckold, coward loun is he\\nWha first beside his chair shall fa\\nHe is the King amang us three\\nC/ionts.\\nWe are na fou, we re nae that fou,\\nBut just a drappie in our e e\\nThe cock may craw, the day may daw,\\nAnd ay we 11 taste the barley-bree\\nKILLIECRANKIE.\\nTlie battle of Killiecrankie wasthe last\\nstand made by the clans for James after his\\nabdication. Here the gallant Lord Dun-\\ndee fell in the moment of victory. (R. B.)\\nThe battle was fought on July 17, 1689.]\\nC/ion/s.\\nAn ye had been whare I hae been.\\nYe wad na been sae cantie. O\\nAn ye had seen what I hae seen\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O\\nWhare hae ye been sae braw, lad\\nWhare hae ye been sae brankie, O?\\nWhare hae ye been sae braw, lad.?\\nCam ye by Killiecrankie, O\\nI faiight at land, I faught at sea,\\nAt hame I faught my auntie, O\\nBut I met the^ Devil and Dundee\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O\\nThe bauld Pitcur fell in a furr.\\nAn Clavers gat a clankie, O,\\nOr 1 had fed an Athole gled\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie,\\nO!\\nClionis.\\nAn ye had been wliare I hae been,\\nYe wad na been sae cantie, O!\\nAn ye had seen what 1 hae seen\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0299.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "252\\nTHE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. TAM GLEN.\\nTHE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.\\n[Burns enclosed this song in a letter to\\nMrs. Dunlop, Oct. 2, 1788, writing: How\\ndo you like the following song, designed\\nfor and composed by a friend of mine, and\\nwhich he has christened The Blue-Eyed\\nLassie\\nI GAED a waefu gate yestreen,\\nA gate I fear 1 11 dearly rue\\nI gat my death frae twa sweet een,\\nTwa lovely een o bonie blue!\\nT was not her golden ringlets bright,\\nHer lips like roses wat wi dew,\\nHer heaving bosom lily-white\\nIt was her een sae bonie blue.\\nShe talk d, she smiPd, my heart she\\nwyPd,\\nShe charmed my soul I wist na\\nhow\\nAnd ay the stound, the deadly wound,\\nCam frae her een sae bonie blue.\\nBut spare to speak, and spare to\\nspeed\\nShell aiblins listen to my vow\\nShould she refuse, I 11 lay my dead\\nTo her twa een sae bonie blue.\\nTHE BANKS OF NITH.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum by\\nBurns. An early draft was sent to Mrs.\\nDunlop.]\\nThe Thames flows proudly to the sea,\\nWhere royal cities stately stand\\nBut sweeter flows the Nith to me,\\nWhere Cummins ance had high\\ncommand.\\nWhen shall I see that honored land,\\nThat winding stream 1 love so dear?\\nMu.st wayward Fortune s adverse\\nhand\\nFor ever ever keep me here\\nHow lovely, Nitli, thy fruitful vales.\\nWhere bounding hawthorns gaily\\nbloom,\\nAnd sweetly spread thy .sloping dales,\\nWhere lambkins wanton thro the\\nbroom\\nTho wandering now must be my\\ndoom\\nFar from thy bonie banks and braes.\\nMay there my latest hours consume\\nAmang my friends of early days\\nTAM GLEN.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum by\\nBurns.)\\nMy heart is a-breaking, dear tittie.\\nSome counsel unto me come len\\nTo anger them a is a pity.\\nBut what will I do wi Tarn Glen?\\nI m thinking, wi sic a braw fellow\\nIn poortith 1 might mak a fen\\nWhat care I in riches to wallow.\\nIf I mauna marry Tarn Glen?\\nIII.\\nThere s Lowrie the laird 0 Dumeller\\nGuid day to you, brute he comes\\nben.\\nHe brags and he blaws o his siller.\\nBut when will he dance like Tam\\nGlen?\\nIV.\\nMy minnie does constantly deave me,\\nAnd bids me beware o young men.\\nThey flatter, she says, to deceive me\\nBut wha can think sae o Tam Glen\\nMy daddie says, gin I 11 forsake him.\\nHe d gie me guid hunder marks ten.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0300.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "CRAIGIEBURN WOOD.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 253\\nBut if it s ordain d I maun take him,\\nO, wha will I set but Tarn Glen\\nYestreen at the valentines dealing,\\nMy heart to my mou gied a sten,\\nFor thrice I drew ane without failing,\\nAnd thrice it was written Tam\\nGlen\\nVII.\\nThe last Halloween I was waukin\\nMy droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken\\nHis likeness came up the house staukin,\\nAnd the very grey breeks o Tam\\nGlen!\\nVIII.\\nCome, counsel, dear tittie, don t tarry!\\n1 11 gie ye my bonie black hen,\\nGif ye will advise me to marry\\nThe lad I lo e dearly, Tam Glen.\\nCRAIGIEBURN WOOD.\\nThis son? was composed on a passion\\nwhich a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of\\nmine, had for a Miss Loiimer, afterwards a\\nMrs. Whelpdale. (R. B.)]\\nC]ior7is.\\nBeyond thee, dearie, beyond thee,\\ndearie.\\nAnd O, to be lying beyond thee!\\nO, sweetly, soundly, weel may he\\nsleep\\nThat s laid in the bed beyond\\nthee\\nSweet closes the ev ning on Craigie-\\nburn Wood\\nAnd blythelyawaukens the morrow;\\nBut the pride o the spring on the\\nCraigieburn Wood\\nCan yield me naught but sorrow.\\nI see the spreading leaves and flowers,\\nI hear the wild birds singing;\\nBut pleasure they hae nane for me.\\nWhile care my heart is wringing.\\nI can na tell, I maun na tell,\\nI daur na for your anger\\nBut secret love will break my heart,\\nIf I conceal it langer.\\nI see thee gracefu straight, and tall,\\nI see thee sweet and bonie\\nBut O, what will my torment be.\\nIf thou refuse thy Johnie\\nTo see thee in another s arms\\nIn love to lie and languish,\\nT wad be my dead, that will be seen\\nMy heart wad burst wi anguish\\nVI.\\nBut, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine.\\nSay thou lo es nane before me,\\nAnd a my days o life to come\\nI U gratefully adore thee.\\nChonis.\\nBeyond thee, dearie, beyond thee,\\ndearie.\\nAnd O, to be lying beyond thee!\\nO, sweetly, soundly, weel may he\\nsleep\\nThat s laid in the bed beyond\\nthee\\nFRAE THE FRIENDS AND\\nLAND I LOVE.\\nI added the four Inst lines by way of\\ngiving a turn to the theme of the poem,\\nsuch as it is. (R. B.)]\\nFrae the friends and land I love\\nDriv n by Fortune s felly spite,\\nFrae my best belov d I rove.\\nNever mair to taste delight", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0301.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "254 O JOHN, COME KISS ME NOW. MY TOCHER S THE JEWEL.\\nNever mair maun hope to find\\nEase frae toil, relief frae care.\\nWhen remembrance wracks the mind,\\nPleasures but unveil despair.\\nBrightest climes shall mirk appear,\\nDesert ilka blooming shore.\\nTill the Fates, nae mair severe.\\nFriendship, love, and peace restore\\nTill Revenge vvi laurellid head\\nBring our banish d hame again.\\nAnd ilk loyal, bonie lad\\nCross the seas, and win his ain\\nO JOHN, COME KISS ME NOW.\\n[Altered and expanded from a fragment\\nin Herd.]\\nChorus.\\nO John, come kiss me now, now,\\nnow\\nO John, my love, come kiss me\\nnow\\nO John, come kiss me by and by,\\nFor weel ye ken the way to woo\\nO, SOME will court and compliment.\\nAnd ither some will kiss and daut\\nBut I will mak o my guidman.\\nMy ain guidman it is nae faut\\nO, some will court and compliment.\\nAnd ither some will prie their mou\\nAnd some will hause in ither s arms,\\nAnd that s the way I like to do\\nChorus.\\nO John, come kiss me now, now,\\nnow\\nO John, my love, come kiss me\\nnow\\nO John, come kiss me by and by.\\nFor weel ye ken the way to woo\\nCOCK UP YOUR BEAVER.\\n[Redacted from the older set in Herd.]\\nI.\\nWhen first my brave Johnie lad\\ncame to this town.\\nHe had a blue bonnet that wanted\\nthe crown,\\nBut now he has gotten a hat and a\\nfeather\\nHey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your\\nbeaver!\\nCock up your beaver, and cock it fu^\\nsprush\\nWe 11 over the border and gie them a\\nbrush\\nThere s somebody there we 11 teach\\nbetter behaviour\\nHey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your\\nbeaver\\nMY TOCHER S THE JEWEL.\\n[The last half of stanza 11., according to\\nCromek, was found in Burns s holograph\\nas part of an old song.]\\nO, MEIKLE thinks my luve o my\\nbeauty,\\nAnd meikle thinks my luve o my\\nkin\\nBut little thinks my luve I ken brawlie\\nMy tocher s the jewel has charms\\nfor him.\\nIt s a for the apple he 11 nourish the\\ntree,\\nIt s a for the hiney he 11 cherish the\\nbee\\nMy laddie s sae meikle in luve wi\\nthe siller.\\nHe canna hae luve to spare for me", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0302.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "THERE LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME. 255\\nYour proffer o luve s an airle-penny,\\nMy tocher s the bargain ye wad\\nbuy\\nBut an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,\\nSae ye wi anither your fortune may\\ntry.\\nYe re Hke to the timmer o yon rotten\\nwood.\\nYe re Hke to the bark o yon rotten\\ntree\\nYe 11 slip frae me like a knotless\\nthread,\\nAn ye 11 crack your credit wi\\nmair nor me\\nGUIDWIFE, COUNT THE\\nLAWIN.\\nThe chorus of this is part of an old\\nsong. (R. B.)]\\nChorus.\\nThen, guidwife, count the lawin,\\nThe lawin, the lawin\\nThen, guidwife, count the lawin,\\nAnd bring a coggie mair\\nGane is the day, and mirk s the\\nnight,\\nBut we 11 ne er stray for faut o light.\\nFor ale and brandy s stars and moon,\\nAnd blude-red wine s the risin sun.\\n11.\\nThere s wealth and ease for gentle-\\nmen,\\nAnd semple folk maun fecht and fen\\nBut liere we Ye a in ae accord.\\nFor ilka man that s drunk s a lord.\\nMy coggie is a haly pool,\\nThat heals the wounds o care and\\ndool,\\nAnd Pleasure is a wanton trout\\nAn ye drink it a ye 11 find him out\\nC/iones.\\nThen, guidwife, count the lawin.\\nThe lawin, the lawin\\nThen, guidwife, count the lawin,\\nAnd bring a coggie mair!\\nTHERE LL NEVER BE PEACE\\nTILL JAMIE COMES HAME.\\nThis tune is sometimes called There\\nare Few Gude Fellows when Willie s Awa.\\nBut I have never been able to meet with\\nanything else of the song than the title.\\n(R. B.)]\\nI.\\nBy yon castle wa at the close of the\\nday,\\nI heard a man sing, tho his head it\\nwas grey,\\nAnd as he was singing, the tears doon\\ncame\\nThere 11 never be peace till Jamie\\ncomes hame\\nThe Church is in ruins, the State is\\nin jars,\\nDelusions, oppressions, and murder-\\nous wars.\\nWe dare na weel say t, but we ken\\nwha s to blame\\nThere 11 never be peace till Jamie\\ncomes hame\\nMy seven braw sons for Jamie drew\\nsword.\\nBut now I greet round their green\\nbeds in the yerd\\nIt brak the sweet heart o my faithfu\\nauld dame\\nThere ll never be peace till Jamie\\ncomes hame", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0303.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "256\\nTHE BONIE LAD THAT S FAR AWA.\\nIV.\\nIV.\\nNow life is a burden that bows\\nme\\nMy auld auntie Katie\\ndown,\\nUpon me taks pity,\\nSin I tint my bairns, and lie tint\\nliis\\nI 11 do my endeavour\\ncrown\\nTo follow her plan\\nPuit till my last moments my words\\nI 11 cross him an wrack him\\nare the same\\nUntil I heartbreak him.\\nThere 11 never be peace till Jamie\\nAnd then his auld brass\\ncomes hame\\nWill buy me a new pan.\\nWHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE\\nTHE BONIE LAD THAT S FAR\\nAWA.\\n[A derivative, The Old Man Killed\\nwith the Cough. This derivative B\\njrns\\n[It is supjjosed to refer to old Armour s\\nseems to have known, and to have borrowed\\nextrusion ol his daughter in the winter of\\nits rhythmus, as well as its general tone\\nand\\n1788.]\\nsentiment.]\\nI,\\nI.\\n0, HOW can I be blythe and glad.\\nWhat can a young lassie.\\nOr how can I gang brisk and braw,\\nWhat shall a young lassie,\\nWhen the bonie lad that I lo e best\\nWhat can a young lassie\\nIs o er the hills and far awa\\nDo wi an auld man?\\nBad luck on the penny\\nThat tempted my minnie\\nII.\\nTo sell her puir Jenny\\nIt s no the frosty winter wind.\\nFor siller an Ian\\nIt s no the driving drift and snaw;\\nBut ay tiie tear comes in my e e\\nII.\\nTo think on him that s far awa.\\nHe s always compleenin\\nFrae mornin to eenin\\nIII.\\nHe hoasts and he hirples\\nMy father pat me frae his door,\\nThe weary day lang\\nMy friends they hae disown d me a\\nHe s doylt and he \\\\s dozin\\nBut i hae ane will tak my part\\nHis blude it is frozen\\nThe bonie lad that s far awa.\\n0, dreary Is the night\\nWi a crazy auld man\\nIV.\\nIII.\\nA pair 0 glooves he bought to me\\nAnd silken snoods he gae me twa.\\nHe hums and he hankers,\\nAnd I will wear them for his sake,\\nHe frets and he cankers.\\nThe bonie lad that s far awa.\\nI never can please him\\nDo a that I can.\\nV.\\nHe s peevish an jealous\\nOf a the young fellows\\n0, weary Winter soon will )ass,\\n0, dool on the day\\nAnd Spring will deed t le birken\\nI met wi an auld man\\nshaw.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0304.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "I DO CONFESS. \u00e2\u0080\u0094YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.\\n257\\nAnd my sweet babie will be born,\\nAnd he 11 be hame that s far awa\\nI DO CONFESS THOU ART\\nSAE FAIR.\\nThis song is altered from a poem by\\nSir Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary\\nand Anne, queens of Scotland. (R. B.)]\\nI DO confess thou art sae fair,\\nI wad been o er the lugs in luve.\\nHad I na found the slightest prayer\\nThat lips could speak thy heart\\ncould inuve.\\nI do confess thee sweet, but find\\nThou art so thriftless o thy sweets,\\nTliy favours are the silly wind\\nThat Icisses ilka thing it meets.\\nSee yonder rosebud rich in dew,\\nAmang its native briers sae coy,\\nHow sune it tines its scent and hue.\\nWhen pu d and worn a common toy\\nSic fate ere lang shall thee betide,\\nTho thou may gaily bloom awhile,\\nAnd sune thou shalt be thrown aside.\\nLike onie common weed, an vile.\\nSENSIBILITY HOW CHARM-\\nING.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum by\\nBurns.]\\nSensibility how charming.\\nThou, my friend, can st truly tell\\nBat Distress with horrors arming\\nThou alas hast known too well\\nn.\\nFairest flower, behold the lily\\nBlooming in the sunny ray\\ns\\nLet the blast sweep o er the valley,\\nSee it prostrate in the clay.\\nHear the woodlark charm the forest.\\nTelling o er his little joys\\nBut alas a prey the surest\\nTo each pirate of the skies\\nDearly bought the hidden treasure\\nFiner feelings can bestow\\nChords that vibrate sweetest pleasure\\nThrill the deepest notes of woe.\\nYON WILD MOSSY MOUN-\\nTAINS.\\nThe song alludes to a part of my pri-\\nvate history which is of no consequence to\\nthe world to know. (R. B.)]\\nYon wild mossy mountains sae lofty\\nand wide,\\nThat nurse in their bosom the youth\\no the Clyde,\\nWhere the grouse lead their coveys\\nthro the heather to feed.\\nAnd the shepherd tents his flock as\\nhe pipes on his reed.\\nNot Cowrie s rich valley nor Forth s\\nsunny shores\\nTo me hae the charms o yon wild,\\nmossy moors\\nFor there, by a lanely, sequestered\\nstream.\\nResides a sweet lassie, my thought\\nand my dream.\\nIII.\\nAmang thae wild mountains shall still\\nbe my path.\\nIlk stream foaming down its ain green,\\nnarrow strath", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0305.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "258\\nIT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE.\\nFor there \\\\vi my lassie the lang day\\nI rove,\\nWhile o er us unheeded flie the swift\\nhours o love.\\nShe is not the fairest, altho she is\\nfair;\\nO nice education but sma is her\\nshare\\nHer parentage humble as humble\\ncan be\\nBut I lo e the dear lassie because\\nshe lo es me.\\nTo Beauty what man but maun yield\\nhim a prize.\\nIn her armour of glances, and blushes,\\nand sighs\\nAnd when Wit and Refinement hae\\npolishYl her darts,\\nThey dazzle our een, as they flie to\\nour hearts.\\nVI.\\nBut kindness, sweet kindness, in the\\nfond-sparkling e e\\nHas lustre outshinin j the diamond to\\nme.\\nAnd the heart beating love as I m\\nclasp d in her arms,\\nO, these are my lassie s all-conquer-\\ning charms\\nI HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN.\\n[Founded on an old Jacobite rhyme.]\\nI HAE been at Crookieden\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nViewing Willie and his men\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nThere our foes that burnt and slew\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nThere at last tliey gat their due\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nn.\\nSatan sits in his black neuk\\nMy bonie laddie. Highland laddie\\nBreaking sticks to roast the Duke\\nMy bonie laddie. Highland laddie!\\nThe bloody monster gae a yell\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nAnd loud the laugh gaed round a\\nHell\\nMy bonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nIT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE\\nFACE.\\nOriginally English verses I gave them\\ntheir Scots dress. (R. B.)]\\nIt is na, Jean, thy bonie face\\nNor shape that I admire,\\nAltho thy beauty and thy grace\\nMight weel awauk desire.\\nSomething in ilka part o thee\\nTo praise, to love, I find\\nBut. dear as is thy form to me,\\nStill dearer is thy mind.\\nNae mair ungen rous wish I hae,\\nNor stronger in my breast.\\nThan, if I canna mak thee sae.\\nAt least to see thee blest\\nContent am I, if Heaven shall\\ngive\\nBut happiness to thee.\\nAnd, as wi thee I wish to live,\\nFor thee I d bear to dee.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0306.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "MY EPPIE MACNAB. BONIE WEE THING.\\n259\\nMY EPPIE MACNAB.\\nThe old song with this title has more\\nwit than decency. (R. B.)]\\nO, SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie\\nMacnab\\nO, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Mac-\\nnab\\nSlie s down in the yard, she s\\nkissin the laird.\\nShe wiima come hame to her ain Jock\\nRab!\\nO, come thy ways to me, my Eppie\\nMacnab\\nO, come thy ways to me, my Eppie\\nMacnab\\nWhatever thou hast done, be it late,\\nbe it soon,\\nThou s welcome again to thy ain\\nJock Rab.\\nWhat says she, my dearie, my Eppie\\nMacnab?\\nWhat says she, my dearie, my Eppie\\nMacnab?\\nShe lets thee to wit that she has\\nthee forgot.\\nAnd for ever disowns thee, her ain\\nJock Rab.\\nO, had I ne er seen thee, my Eppie\\nMacnab\\nO, had I ne er seen thee, my Eppie\\nMacnab\\nAs light as the air and as fause as\\nthou s fair.\\nThou \\\\s broken the heart o thy ain\\nJock Rab\\nWHA IS THAT AT MY\\nBOVVER DOOR.\\n[Without any manner of doubt, Burns s\\noriginal was Who But I, Quoth Finlay,\\nA new song, much in request, sung with\\nits own proper tune.\\nWha is that at my bower door?\\nO, wha is it but Fiiidlay\\nThen gae your gate, ye se nae be\\nhere.\\nIndeed maun I quo Findlay.\\nWhat mak ye, sae like a thief?\\nO, come and see quo Findlay.\\nBefore the morn ye 11 work mis-\\nchief?\\nIndeed will I quo Findlay.\\nGif I rise and let you in\\nLet me in quo Findlay\\nYe 11 keep me wauken wi your din?\\nIndeed will I quo Findlay.\\nIn my bower if ye should stay\\nLet me stay quo Findlay\\nI fear ye 11 bide till break o day?\\nIndeed will I quo Findlay.\\nHere this night if ye remain\\nI 11 remain quo Findlay\\nI dread ye 11 learn the gate again\\nIndeed will I quo Findlay.\\nWhat may pass within this bower\\nLet it pass quo Findlay\\nYe maun conceal till your last hour\\nIndeed will I quo Findlay.\\nBONIE WEE THING.\\nComposed on my little idol, the\\ncharming lovely Davies. (R. B.)]\\nCI torus.\\nBonie wee thing, cannie wee thing.\\nLovely wee thing, wert thou mine,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0307.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "26o\\nTHE TITIIER MORN. AE FOND KISS.\\nI wad wear thee in my bosom\\nLest my jewel it should tine.\\nWishfully I look and languish\\nIn that bonie face o thine,\\nAnd my heart it stounds wi anguish,\\nLest my wee thing be na mine.\\nWit and Grace and Love and Beauty\\nIn ae constellation shine\\nTo adore thee is my duty,\\nGoddess o^ this soul o mine\\nChorus.\\nBonie wee thing, cannie wee thing.\\nLovely wee thing, wert thou mine,\\nI wad wear thee in my bosom\\nLest my jewel it should tine.\\nTHE TITHER MORN.\\nThis tune is originally from the High-\\nlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it,\\nwhich I was told was very clever, but not\\nby any means a lady s song. (R. B.)]\\nThe tither mom, when I forlorn\\nAneath an aik sat moaning,\\nI did na trow I d see my jo\\nBeside me gin the gloaming,\\nBut he sae trig lap o er the rig,\\nAnd dawtingly did clieer me.\\nWhen 1, what reck, did least expeck\\nTo see my lad sae near me\\nHis bonnet he a thought ajee\\nCock d spunk when first he clasp d\\nme\\nAnd 1, I wat, wi fainness grat,\\nWhile in his grips he press d me.\\nDeil tak the war 1 late and air\\nHae wish xl since Jock departed\\nBut now as glad I m wi my lad\\nAs short syne broken-hearted.\\nFu aft at e en, wi dancing keen,\\nWhen a were blythe and merry,\\nI car d na by, sae sad was I\\nIn absence o my deary.\\nBut praise be blest my mind s\\nrest,\\nI m happy wi my Johnie\\nAt kirk and fair, 1 se ay be there,\\nAnd be as canty s onie.\\nat\\nAE FOND KISS.\\n[Burns wrote to Mrs. M Lehose Cla-\\nrinda Dec. 27, 1791 I have just ten\\nminutes before the post goes, and thc-se 1\\nshall employ in sending you some songs I\\nhave just been composing to different tunes\\nfor the Collection of Songs, of which you\\nhave three volumes, and of which you shall\\nhave the fourth. The germ of Ac Fond\\nKiss, is found in The Parting Kiss, by\\nRobert Dodsley (1703-1764).]\\nAe fond kiss, and then we sever\\nAe farewell, and then for ever\\nDeep in heart-wrung tears I 11 pledge\\nthee.\\nWarring sighs and groans l. ll wage\\nthee.\\nWho shall say that Fortune grieves\\nhim.\\nWhile the star of hope she leave?\\nhim\\nMe, nae cheerfu twinkle lights me.\\nDark despair around benights me.\\nI 11 ne er blame my partial fancy\\nNaething could resist my Nancy\\nBut to see her was to love her.\\nLove but her, and love for ever.\\nHad we never lov d sae kindly,\\nHad we never lov d sae blindly,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0308.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "LOVELY DAVIES. THE WEARY FUND O TOW.\\n261\\nNever met or never parted\\nWe had ne er been broken-hearted.\\nFare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest\\nFare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest\\nThine be ilka joy and treasure,\\nI eace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleas-\\nure\\nAe fond kiss and then we sever\\nAe farewell, alas, for ever\\nDeep in heart-wrung tears I 11 pledge\\nthee,\\nWarring sighs and groans 1 11 wage\\nthee.\\nLOVELY DAVIES.\\n{This was composed in honor of the\\nlady who inspired The Bonie Wee Thing.\\nWe know not much about the Lovely\\nDavies, but in Burns s stanzas she is the\\nvery sovereign of Nature. William\\nScott Douglas.]\\nO. HOW shall I, unskilfu try\\nThe Poet s occupation\\nThe tunefu Powers, in happy hours\\nThat whisper inspiration,\\nEven they maun dare an effort mair\\nThan auglit they ever gave us.\\nEre they rehearse in equal verse\\nThe charms o lovely Davies.\\nEach eye, it cheers, when she appears,\\nLike Phoebus in tlie morning,\\nWhen past the shower, and every\\nflower\\nThe garden is adorning\\nAs the wretch looks o er Siberia s\\nshore,\\nWiien winter-bound the wave is,\\nSae droops our heart, when we maun\\npart\\nFrae charming, lovely Davies.\\nHer smile s a gift frae boon the lift.\\nThat maks us mair than princes.\\nA sceptred hand, a king s command,\\nIs in her darting glances.\\nThe man in arms gainst female\\ncharms,\\nEven he her willing slave is\\nHe hugs his chain, and owns the\\nreign\\nOf conquering lovely Davies.\\nMy Muse to dream of such a theme\\nHer feeble powers surrenders\\nThe eagle s gaze alone surveys\\nThe sun s meridian splendours.\\nI wad in vain essay the strain\\nThe deed too daring brave is\\nI II drap the lyre, and, mute, admire\\nThe charms o lovely Davies.\\nTHE WEARY PUND O TOW.\\n[Buchan furnished Hogg and Mother-\\nwell with several stanzas of a very old\\nsong, which perhaps Burns had in view\\nwhen he composed the above.\\nChorus.\\nThe weary pund, the weary pund.\\nThe weary pund o tow\\nI think my wife will end her life\\nBefore she spin her tow.\\nI BOUGHT my wife a stane o lint\\nAs guid as e er did grow.\\nAnd a that she has made o that\\nIs ae puir pund o tow.\\nThere sat a bottle in a bole\\nBeyont the ingle low\\nAnd ay she took the tither souk\\nTo drouk the stourie tow-", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0309.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "262 I IIAE A WIFE O MY AIN. O, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM.\\nQuoth 1 For shame, ye dirty\\ndame,\\nGae spin your tap o tow\\nShe took the rock, and vvi a knock\\nShe brake it o er my povv.\\nAt last her feet I sang to see H\\nGaed foremost o er the knowe,\\nAnd or 1 wad anither jad,\\nI 11 wallop in a tow.\\nChorus.\\nThe weary pund, the weary pund,\\nThe weary pund o tow\\nI think my wife will end her life\\nBefore she spin her tow.\\nI HAE A WIFE O MY AIN.\\n[Composed a few days after Bunis s\\nmarriage.]\\nI HAE a wife o my ain,\\nI 11 partake wi naebody\\nI 11 take cuckold frae nane,\\nI 11 gie cuckold to naebody.\\nI hae a penny to spend,\\nThere thanks to naebody\\nI hae naething to lend,\\nI 11 borrow frae naebody.\\nI am naebody s lord,\\nI 11 be slave to naebody.\\nI hae a guid braid sword,\\nI 11 tak dunts frae naebody.\\nI 11 be merry and free,\\nI 11 be sad for naebody.\\nNaebody cares for me,\\nI care for naebody.\\nWHEN SHE CAM BEN, SHE\\nBOBBED.\\n[The first two stanzas differ very sliglitly\\nfrom the first two of an old set. The others\\nare pure Burns.]\\nI.\\nO, WHEN she cam ben, she bobbed\\nfu law\\nO, when she cam ben, she bobbed\\nfu law\\nAnd when she cam ben, she kiss d\\nCockpen,\\nAnd syne she deny d she did it at a\\nAnd was na Cockpen right saucy\\nwitha\\nAnd was na Cockpen right saucy\\nwitha\\nIn leaving the dochter o a lord,\\nAnd kissin a collier lassie an a\\nIII.\\nO, never look down, my lassie, at a\\nO, never look down, my lassie, at a\\nThy lips are as sweet, and thy figure\\ncomplete,\\nAs the finest dame in castle or ha\\nIV.\\nTho thou hast nae silk, and hol-\\nland sae sma\\nTho thou hast nae silk, and holland\\nsae sma\\nThy coat and thy sark are thy ain\\nhandywark.\\nAnd Lady Jean was never sae braw.\\nO, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY,\\nTAM.\\n[Perhaps suggested by a song in The\\nPretty Maiden s Amusement, and other\\nundated song-books.]", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0310.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "O, LEEZE ME ON MY SPINNIN-WHEEL.\\n263\\nChorus.\\nAn O, for ane-and-twenty. Tarn\\nAnd hey, sweet ane-and-twenty,\\nTam\\nI 11 learn my kin a rattlin sang\\nAn 1 saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.\\nThey snool me sair, and baud me\\ndown.\\nAnd gar me look like bluntie, Tam\\nBut tliree short years will soon wheel\\nroun\\nAnd then comes ane-and-twenty,\\nTam\\nII.\\nA gleib o Ian a claut o gear\\nWas left me by my auntie, Tam.\\nAt kith or kin I needna spier,\\nAn 1 saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.\\nTliey ll hae me wed a wealthy coof,\\nTho I mysel hae plenty, Tam\\nBut hear st thou, laddie there s my\\nloof:\\nI m thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam\\nChorus.\\nAn O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam\\nAnd hey, sweet ane-and-twenty,\\nTam!\\nI 11 learn my kin a rattlin sang\\nAn I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.\\nO, KENMURE S ON AND AWA,\\nWILLIE.\\n[William Gordon, sixth Viscount Ken-\\nmure, took up the Jacobite cause in 1715.\\nHe was taken prisoner at Preston Pans,\\nNov. 14, and beheaded on Tower Hill, Feb.\\n24, 1716.]\\nO, Kenmure s on and awa, Willie,\\nO, Kenmure s on and awa\\nAn Kenmure s lord s the bravest lord\\nThat ever Galloway saw\\nSuccess to Kenmure s band, Willie,\\nSuccess to Kenmure s band\\nThere s no a heart that fears a Whig\\nThat rides by Kenmure s hand.\\nHere s Kenmure s health in wine,\\nWillie,\\nHere s Kenmure s health in wine\\nThere ne er was a coward o Ken-\\nmure s blude,\\nNor yet o Gordon s line.\\nO, Kenmure s lads are men, Willie,\\nO, Kenmure s lads are men\\nTheir hearts and swords are metal\\ntrue,\\nAnd that their faes shall ken.\\nThey 11 live or die wi fame, Willie,\\nThey 11 live or die wi fame\\nBut soon wi sounding Victorie\\nMay Kenmure s lord come hame\\nHere s him that s far awa, Willie,\\nHere s him that s far awa\\nAnd here s the flower that I lo e\\nbest\\nThe rose that s like the snaw\\nO, LEEZE ME ON MY SPINNIN-\\nWHEEL.\\n[This charming song was no doubt\\nsuggested by The Loving Lass and Spin-\\nning-Wheel in Ramsay s Tea-Table Mis-\\ncellany.\\nO, LEEZE me on my spinnin-wheel\\nAnd leeze me on my rock and reel,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0311.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "264 MY COLLIER LADDIE. NITIISDALE S WELCOME HAME.\\nFrae tap to tae that deeds me l)ien.\\nAnd haps me tiel and warm at e en\\n1 11 set me down, and sing, and spin,\\nWhile laigh descends the summer\\nsun,\\nBlest \\\\vi content, and milk and\\nmeal\\nO, leeze me on my spinnin-wheel\\nOn ilka hand the burnies trot,\\nAnd meet below my theekit cot.\\nThe scented birk and hawthorn white\\nAcross the pool their arms unite.\\nAlike to screen the birdie s nest\\nAnd little fishes caller rest.\\nThe sun blinks kindly in the biel,\\nWhere blythe I turn my spinnin-\\nwheel.\\nIII.\\nOn lofty aiks the cushats wail,\\nAnd Echo cons the doolfu tale.\\nThe lintwhites in the hazel braes.\\nDelighted, rival ither s lays.\\nThe craik amang the claver hay,\\nThe paitrick whirrin o er the ley.\\nThe swallow jinkin round my shiel,\\nAmuse me at my spinnin-wheel.\\nIV,\\nWi sma to sell and less to buy,\\nAboon distress, below envy,\\nO, wha wad leave this humble state\\nFor a the pride of a the great\\nAmid their fiaring, idle toys,\\nAmid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,\\nCan they the peace and pleasure feel\\nOf Bessy at her spinnin-wheel\\nMY COLLIER LADDIE.\\nI do not know a blither old song than\\nthis. (R. B.)]\\nO, WHARE live ye, my bonie lass,\\nAnd tell me how thev ca ve\\nMy name, she says, *is Mistress\\nJean,\\nAnd I follow the collier laddie.\\nO, see you not yon hills and dales\\nThe sun shines on sae brawlie?\\nThey a are mine, and they shall be\\nthine.\\nGin ye 11 leave your collier laddie\\nAn ye shall gang in gay attire,\\nWeel buskit up sae gaudy.\\nAnd ane to wait on every hand.\\nGin ye 11 leave your collier laddie\\n*Tho ye had a the sun shines on.\\nAnd the earth conceals sae lowly,\\nI wad turn my back on you and it a\\nAnd embrace my collier laddie.\\nI can win my five pennies in a day,\\nAn spend it at night fu brawlie,\\nAnd make my bed in the collier s\\nneuk\\nAnd lie down wi my collier laddie.\\nLoove for loove is the bargain for\\nme,\\nTho the wee cot-house should hand\\nme,\\nAnd the warld before me to win my\\nbread\\nAnd fair fa my collier laddie\\nNITHSDALE S WELCOME\\nHAME.\\n[William Lord Maxwell, who was sen-\\ntenced to decapitation on Tower Hill, Feb.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0312.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "IN SIMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 FAIR ELIZA. 265\\n24, 1716, for his share in the Fifteen, but\\nescaped the night before the execution.]\\nThe noble Maxwells and their powers\\nAre coming o er the border;\\nAnd they 11 gae big Terreagles\\ntowers.\\nAnd set them a in order\\nAnd they declare Terreagles fair,\\nFor their abode they choose it\\nThere s no a heart in a the land\\nBut s lighter at the news o t\\nThe stars in skies may disappear,\\nAnd angry tempests gather,\\nThe happy hour may soon be near\\nThat brings us pleasant weather;\\nThe weary night o care and grief\\nMay hae a joyfu morrow\\nSo dawning day has brought relief\\nFareweel our night o sorrow\\nIN SIMMER, WHEN THE HAY\\nWAS MAWN.\\n[The stanza is modified from the ballad\\noctave. The Burns Ms. is in the Hastie\\nCollection.]\\nI.\\nIn simmer, when the hay was mawn\\nAnd corn wav d green in ilka field.\\nWhile claver blooms white o er the\\nley,\\nAnd roses blaw in ilka bield,\\nBIythe Bessie in the milking shiel\\nSays I 11 be wed, come o t what\\nwill\\nOut spake a dame in wrinkled\\neild\\nO guid advisement comes nae ill.\\nIt s ye hae wooers monie ane,\\nAnd lassie, ye re but young, ye ken!\\nThen wait a wee, and cannie wale\\nA routhie butt, a routhie ben.\\nThere Johnie o the Buskie-Glen,\\nFu is his barn, fu is his byre.\\nTak this frae me, my bonie hen\\nIt s plenty beets the luver s fire\\nFor Johnie o the Buskie-Glen\\nI dinna care a single flie\\nHe lo es sae weel his craps and kye,\\nHe has nae love to spare for me.\\nBut blythe s the blink o Robie s e e,\\nAnd weel I wat he lo es me dear\\nAe blink o him I wad na gie\\nFor Buskie-Glen and a his gear.\\nO thoughtless lassie, life s a faught!\\nThe canniest gate, the strife is sair.\\nBut ay fu -han t is fechtin best\\nA hungry care s an unco care.\\nBut some will spend, and some will\\nspare,\\nAn wilfu folk maun hae their will.\\nSyne as ye brew, my maiden fair.\\nKeep mind that ye maun drink the\\nyill\\nV.\\nO, gear will buy me rigs o land.\\nAnd gear will buy me sheep and\\nkye!\\nBut the tender heart o leesome loove\\nThe gowd and siller canna buy\\nWe may be poor, Robie and I\\nLight is the burden luve lays on\\nContent and loove brings peace and\\njoy:\\nWhat mair hae Queens upon a\\nthrone.\\nFAIR ELIZA.\\n[Two copies in Burns s hand are in the\\nHastie Collection. In the earlier the lady s\\nname is Robina.]\\nTurn again, thou fair Eliza\\nAe kind blink before we part", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0313.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "266\\nYE JACOBITES BY NAME. THE POSIE.\\nRew on thy despairing lover\\nCanst thou break his faithfu heart?\\nTurn again, thou fair Mliza\\nIf to love thy heart denies,\\nFor pity liide the cruel sentence\\nUnder friendship s kind disguise\\nThee, dear maid, hae I oiTended?\\nThe offence is loving thee.\\nCanst thou wreck his peace for ever,\\nWlia for thine wad gladly die?\\nWhile the life beats in my bosom.\\nThou shalt mix in ilka throe.\\nTurn again, thou lovely maiden,\\nAe sweet smile on me bestow\\nNot the bee upon the blossom\\nIn the pride o sinny noon.\\nNot the little sporting fairy\\nAll beneath the simmer moon,\\nNot the Poet in the moment\\nFancy lightens in his e e,\\nKens the pleasure, feels the rapture,\\nThat thy presence gies to me.\\nYE JACOBITES BY NAME.\\nIf a reference to the French Revolu-\\ntion is meant, it is extremely obscure. The\\nman undone, if Henry, Cardinal Duke of\\nYork, is intended, had, of course, no party,\\nexcept the Laird of Gask, in 1792, when the\\nsong was published. Andrew Lang.]\\nYe Jacobites by name.\\nGive an ear, give an ear\\nYe Jacobites by name,\\nGive an ear\\nYe Jacobites by name.\\nYour fautes I will proclaim,\\nYour doctrines I maun blame\\nYou shall hear\\nWhat is Right, and what is VVrang,\\nBy the law, by the law\\nWiiat is Right, and what is Wrang,\\nB y the law\\nWhat is Right, and what is Wrang\\nA short sword and a lang,\\nA weak arm and a Strang\\nF^or to draw\\nWhat makes heroic strife\\nFamed afar, famed afar\\nWhat makes heroic strife\\nFamed afar\\nWhat makes heroic strife\\nTo whet th assassin s knife,\\nOr hunt a Parent s life\\nWi bluidy war\\nThen let your schemes alone,\\nIn the State, in the State\\nThen let your schemes alone,\\nIn the State!\\nThen let your schemes alone.\\nAdore the rising sun.\\nAnd leave a man undone\\nTo his fate\\nTHE POSIE.\\nThe Posie in the Museum is my\\ncomposition the air was taken down from\\nMrs. Burns s voice. It is well known in the\\nwest country, but the old words are trash.\\n(R. B.)]\\nO, LUVE will venture in where it daur\\nna weel be seen\\nO, luve will venture in, where wisdom\\nance hath been\\nBut I will doun yon river rove amang\\nthe wood sae green.\\nAnd a to pu a posie to my ain\\ndear May", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0314.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "THE BANKS O DOON. WILLIE WASTLE.\\n267\\nThe primrose I will pu tlie firstling\\no the year,\\nAnd I will pu the pink, the emblem\\no my clear,\\nFor she s the pink o womankind, and\\nulooms without a peer\\nAnd a to be a posie to my ain dear\\nMay\\nI 11 pu the budding rose when Phoe-\\nbus peeps in view.\\nFor it s like a baumy kiss o her\\nsweet, bonie mou.\\nThe hyacinth s for constancy wi its\\nunchanging blue\\nAnd a to be a posie to my ain dear\\nMay\\nThe lily it is pure, and the lily it is\\nfair,\\nAnd in her lovely bosom I 11 place\\nthe lily there.\\nThe daisy s for simplicity and un-\\naffected air\\nAnd a to be a posie to my ain dear\\nMay\\nThe hawthorn I will pu wi its locks\\no siller gray.\\nWhere, like an aged man, it stands\\nat break o day\\nBut the songster s nest within the\\nbush I winna tak away\\nAnd a to be a posie to my ain dear\\nMay\\nThe woodbine I will pu when the\\ne ening star is near.\\nAnd tlie diamond dra]:)s o dew shall\\nbe her een sae clear\\nThe violet s for modesty, which weel\\nshe fa s to wear\\nAnd a to be a posie to my ain dear\\nMay\\nI 11 tie the posie round wi the silken\\nband o luve,\\nAnd I 11 place it in her breast, and\\nI II swear by a above.\\nThat to my latest draught o life the\\nband shall ne er remove.\\nAnd this will be a posie to my ain\\ndear May\\nTHE BANKS O DOON.\\nAn Ayrshire Legend, according to\\nAllan Cunningliam, says the heroine of\\nthis affecting song was Pegg Kennedy of\\nDaljavroch.\\nYe banks and braes o bonie Doon,\\nHow can ye bloom sae fresh and\\nHow can ye chant, ye little birds,\\nAnd I sae weary fu o care\\nThou 11 break my heart, thou war-\\nbling bird.\\nThat wantons thro the flowering\\nthorn\\nThou minds me o departed joys,\\nDeparted never to return.\\nAft hae I rov d by bonie Doon\\nTo see the rose and woodbine\\ntwine.\\nAnd ilka bird sang o its luve,\\nAnd fondly sae did I o mine.\\nWi lightsome heart I pu d a rose,\\nFu sweet upon its thorny tree\\nAnd my fause luver staw my rose\\nBut ah he left the thorn wi me.\\nWILLIE WASTLE.\\n[The heroine is said to have been the\\nwife of a farmer who lived near Ellisland.\\nA cottage in Peeblesshire was known by the", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0315.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "268\\nLADY MARY AN!^.\\nname of Linkumdoddie, but probably it was\\nso named after Burns wrote his song,]\\nWillie Wasti-e clwalt on Tweed,\\nThe spot they ca d it Linkumdoddie.\\nWillie was a wabster giiid\\nCould stown a clue wi onie bodie.\\nHe had a wile was dour and din,\\nO, Tinkler Maidgie was her mither\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nII.\\nShe has an e e (she has but ane),\\nThe cat has twa the very colour,\\nFive rusty teeth, forbye a stump,\\nA clapper-tongue wad deave a mil-\\nler\\nA whiskin beard about her mou.\\nHer nose and chin they threaten\\nither\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nShe s bow-hough d, she s hem-shin d,\\nAe limpin leg a hand breed\\nshorter\\nShe s twisted right, she s twisted left.\\nTo balance fair in ilka quarter;\\nShe has a hump upon her breast,\\nThe twin o that upon her shouther\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nAuld baudrans by the ingle sits.\\nAn wi her loof her face a-washin\\nBut Willie s wife is nae sae trig.\\nShe dights her grunzie wi a hush-\\nion\\nHer walie nieves like midden-creels.\\nHer face wad fyle the Logan Water\\nSic a wife as Wiilie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nLADY MARY ANN,\\n[An old ballad in the northern and western\\nparts of Scotland. Burns got the germ of\\nills song from a fragment in the Herd Ms.\\nO, Lady Mary Ann looks o ei the\\nCastle wa\\nShe saw three bonie boys playing at\\nthe ba\\nThe youngest he was the flower\\namang them a\\nMy bonie laddie s young, but he s\\ngrowin yet\\nO father, O father, an ye think it fit.\\nWe 11 send him a year to the college\\nyet\\nWe 11 sew a green ribbon round about\\nhis hat.\\nAnd that will let them ken he s to\\nmarry yet\\nIII.\\nLady Mary Ann was a flower in the\\ndew,\\nSweet was its smell and bonie was\\nits hue,\\nAnd the longer it blossom d the\\nsweeter it grew,\\nFor the lily in the bud will be\\nbonier yet.\\nIV.\\nYoung Charlie Cochran was the sprout\\nof an aik\\nBonie and blooinin and straucht was\\nits make\\nThe sun took delight to shine for its\\nsake.\\nAnd it will be the brag o the\\nforest yet.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0316.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES. KELLYBURN BRAES.\\n269\\nThe simmer is gane when the leaves\\nthey were green,\\nAnd the days are awa that we hae\\nseen\\nBut far better days I trust will come\\nagain.\\nFor my bonie laddie s young, but\\nhe s growin yet.\\nSUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES\\nIN A NATION.\\n[The refrain is borrowed from the name\\nof the old air to which it is adapted.]\\nFareweel to a our Scottish fame,\\nFareweel our ancient glory\\nFareweel ev n to the Scottish name,\\nSae famed in martial story\\nNow Sark rins over Solway sands.\\nAn Tweed rins to the ocean,\\nTo mark where England s province\\nstands\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation\\nWhat force or guile could not subdue\\nThro inany warlike ages\\nIs wrought now by a coward few\\nFor liireling traitor s wages.\\nThe English steel we could disdain.\\nSecure in valour s station\\nBut English gold has been our bane\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation\\nO, would, or I had seen the day\\nThat Treason thus could sell us.\\nMy auld grey head had lien in clay\\nWi Bruce and loyal Wallace.!\\nBut pith and power, till my last hour\\nI 11 mak this declaration\\nWe re l^ought and sold for English\\ngold\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation\\nKELLYBURN BRAES.\\n[The Kelly burn {i.e., brook) forms the\\nnorthern boundary of Ayrshire, and the\\nballad has no connection with Nithsdale\\nor G.illoway. Burns derived his material,\\nprobably, from an old English blackletter\\nballad, The Devil and the Scold.\\nThere lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nAnd he had a wife was the plague o\\nhis days\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nAe day as the carl gaed up the lang\\nglen\\n.(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nHe met wi the Devil, says How\\ndo you fen\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nHI.\\nI ve got a bad wife, sir, that s a my\\ncomplaint\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nFor, saving your presence, to her ye re\\na saint\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nIt s neither your stot nor your staig\\nI shall crave\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nBut gie me your wife, man, for her I\\nmust have\\n(And the thyme it is wither d,\\nand rue is in prime", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0317.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "270\\nKELLYBURN BRAES.\\nO welcome most kindly the bl ytlie\\ncarl said\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nBut if ye can match her ye re waur\\nthan ye re ca d\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nVI.\\nThe Devil has got the auld wife on\\nhis back\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nAnd like a poor pedlar he s carried\\nhis pack\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nHe s carried her hame to his ain hal-\\nlan-door\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nSyne bade her gae in for a bitch and\\na whore\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nThen straight he makes fifty, the pick\\no his band\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nTurn out on her guard in the clap o\\na hand\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nIX.\\nThe carlin gaed thro them like onie\\nwud bear\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nWhae er she gat hands on cam ne er\\nher nae mair\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nA reekit wee deevil looks over the wa\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nO lieip, maister, help, or she 11 ruin\\nus a\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nThe Devil he swore by the edge o his\\nknife\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nHe pitied the man that was tied to a\\nwife\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nThe Devil he swore by the kirk and\\nthe bell\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nHe was not in wedlock, thank Heav n,\\nbut in Hell\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nThen Satan has travell d again wi his\\npack\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme\\nAnd to her auld husband he s carried\\nher back\\n(And the thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2I hae been a Devil the feck o my\\nlife\\n(Hey and the rue grows bonie wi\\nthyme", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0318.jp2"}, "317": {"fulltext": "THE SLAVE S LAMENT. SWEET AFTON.\\n271\\nBut ne er was in Hell till I met wi a\\nwife\\n(And tlie thyme it is wither d, and\\nrue is in prime\\nTHE SLAVE S LAMENT.\\n[The original is probably a blackletter\\nbroadside, The Trappan d Maiden, or\\nThe Distressed Damsel.\\nIt was in sweet Senegal\\nThat my foes did me enthral\\nFor the lands of Virginia, -ginia, O\\nTorn from that lovely shore,\\nAnd must never see it more,\\nAnd alas I am weary, weary, O\\nAll on that charming coast\\nIs no bitter snow and frost,\\nLike the lands of Virginia, -ginia, O!\\nThere streams for ever flow.\\nAnd the flowers for ever blow,\\nAnd alas I am weary, weary, O\\nThe burden I must bear.\\nWhile the cruel scourge I fear.\\nIn the lands of Virginia, -ginia, O\\nAnd I think on friends most dear\\nWith the bitter, bitter tear,\\nAnd alas I am weary, weary, O\\nTHE SONG OF DEATH.\\nI have just finished the following song,\\nwhich, to a lady, the descendant of many\\nheroes of her truly illustrious line, and her-\\nself the mother of several soldiers, needs\\nneither preface nor apology. (R. B.)]\\nFarewell, thou fair day, thou green\\nearth, and ye skies.\\nNow gay with the broad setting\\nsun\\nFarewell, loves and friendships, ye\\ndear tender ties\\nOur race of existence is mn\\nThou grim King of Terrors thou\\nLife s gloomy foe.\\nGo, frighten the coward and\\nslave\\nGo, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant,\\nbut know.\\nNo terrors hast thou to the brave\\nThou strik st the dull peasant he\\nsinks in the dark.\\nNor saves e en the wreck of a\\nname\\nThou strik st the young hero a\\nglorious mark,\\nHe falls in the blaze of his fame\\nIn the field of proud honour, our\\nswords in our hands.\\nOur king and our country to\\nsave.\\nWhile victory shines on Life s last\\nebbing sands,\\nO, who would not die with the\\nbrave\\nSWEET AFTON.\\n[There has been no little discussion as to\\nthe date, the heroine, and the scene of this\\nsong. Burns, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop,\\nFeb. 5, 1789, declares that it was written as\\na compliment to the small river Afton,\\nthat flows into Nith, near New Cumnock,\\nwhich has some charming, wild romantic\\nscenery on its banks.\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, among thy\\ngreen braes\\nFlow gently, I 11 sing thee a song in\\nthy praise\\nMy Mary s asleep by thy murmuring\\nstream\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not\\nher dream", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0319.jp2"}, "318": {"fulltext": "272\\nBONIE BEJX. THE GALLANT WEAVER.\\nThou stock dove whose echo resounds\\nthro the glen,\\nYe wiid whistling blackbirds in yon\\nthorny den.\\nThou green-crested lapwing, thy\\nscreaming forbear\\nI charge you, disturb not my slumber-\\ning fair\\nIII.\\nHow lofty, sweet Afton, thy neigh-\\nbouring hills.\\nFar markVl with the courses of clear,\\nwinding rills\\nThere daily I wander, as noon rises\\nhigh,\\nMy flocks and my Mary s sweet cot\\nin my eye.\\nIV.\\nHow pleasant thy banks and green\\nvallies below,\\nWhere wild in the woodlands the\\nprimroses blow\\nThere oft, as mild Ev ning. weeps over\\nthe lea.\\nThe sweet-scented birk shades my\\nMary and me\\nThy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely\\nit glides,\\nAnd winds by the cot where my\\nMary resides\\nHow wanton thy waters her snowy\\nfeet lave,\\nAs, gathering sweet flowerets, she\\nstems thy clear wave\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, among thy\\ngreen braes\\nFlow gently, sweet river, the theme of\\nmy lays\\nMy Mary s asleep by thy murmuring\\nstream\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not\\nher dream\\nBONIE BELL.\\n[Written for Jolinson s Museum by\\nBurns. Nothing is known of the heroine.]\\nThe smiling Spring comes in rejoic-\\ning,\\nAnd surly Winter grimly flies.\\nNow crystal clear are the falling\\nwaters,\\nAnd bonie blue are the sunny skies.\\nFresh o er the mountains breaks forth\\nthe morning.\\nThe evening gilds the ocean s swell\\nAll creatures joy in the sun s return-\\ning,\\nAnd I rejoice in my bonie Bell.\\nThe flowery Spring leads sunny\\nsummer.\\nThe yellow Autumn presses near\\nThen in his turn comes gloomy\\nWinter,\\nTill smiling Spring again appear.\\nThus seasons dancing, life advancing,\\nOld Time and Nature their chances\\ntell;\\nBut never ranging, still unchanging,\\nI adore my bonie Bell.\\nTHE GALLANT WEAVER.\\n[Supposed by some to refer to Armour s\\nvisit to Paisley in the spring of 1786. Pub-\\nlished in Thomson, with sailor substi-\\ntuted for weaver.\\nWhere Cart rins rowin to the sea\\nBy monie a flower and spreading tree,\\nThere lives a lad, the lad for me\\nHe is a gallant weaver", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0320.jp2"}, "319": {"fulltext": "HEY, CA THRO O, CAN YE LABOUR LEA.\\n273\\nO, I had wooers aught or nine,\\nThey gied me rings and ribbons fine,\\nAnd I was fear d my lieart wad tine,\\nAnd I gied it to the weaver.\\nMy daddie sign d my tocher-band\\nTo gie the lad that has the land\\nBut to my heart I 11 add my hand,\\nAnd give it to the weaver.\\nWhile birds rejoice in leafy bowers,\\nWhile bees delight in opening flowers.\\nWhile corn grows green in summer\\nshowers,\\nI love my gallant weaver.\\nHEY, CA THRO\\n[Probably suggested by some old rhymes\\non the coast towns of Fife, which Burns\\npicked up in Edinburgh.]\\nChorus.\\nHey, ca thro ca thro\\nFor we hae raickle ado\\nHey, ca thro ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado\\nUp wi the carls of Dysart\\nAnd the lads o Buckhaven,\\nAnd the kimmers o Largo\\nAnd the lassies o Leven\\nWe hae tales to tell,\\nAnd we hae sangs to sing\\nWe hae pennies to spend.\\nAnd we hae pints to bring.\\nWe 11 live a our days,\\nAnd them that comes behin\\nLet them do the like,\\nAnd spend the gear they win\\nT\\nChorus.\\nHey, ca thro ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado\\nHey, ca tliro ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado\\nO, CAN YE LABOUR LEA.\\n[An old song preserved in The Merry\\nMuses, retouched and enlarged by Burns.]\\nChorus.\\nO, can ye labour lea, young man,\\nO, can ye labour lea\\nGae back the gate ye came again\\nYe se never scorn me\\nI fee d a man at Martinmas\\nWi airle-pennies three\\nBut a the faut I had to him\\nHe couldna labour lea.\\nO, clappin s guid in Febarwar,\\nAn kissin s sweet in May\\nBut what signifies a young man s\\nlove.\\nAn t dinna last for ay\\nO, kissin is the key o love\\nAn clappin is the lock\\nAn makin of s the best thing\\nThat e er a young thing got\\nChorus.\\nO, can ye labour lea, young man,\\nO, can ye labour lea\\nGae back the gate ye came again\\nYe se never scorn me", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0321.jp2"}, "320": {"fulltext": "274\\nTHE DEIL S AWA WI TH EXCISEMAN.\\nTHE DEUK S DANG O^ER MY\\nDADDIE.\\n[Adapted by Burns from an old song.]\\nThe bairns gat out vvi an unco\\nshout\\nThe deuk s dansr o er my dad-\\ndie, O\\nThe fien-ma-care, quo the feirrie\\nauld wife,\\nHe was but a paidlin body, O\\nHe paidles out, and he paidles in,\\nAn he paidles late and early, O\\nThis seven lang years I hae lien by\\nhis side.\\nAn he is but a fusionless carlie. O\\nO, haud your tongue, my feirrie auld\\nwife,\\nO, haud your tongue, now Nan-\\nsie, O\\nI ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,\\nYe wad na been sae donsie, O.\\nI ve seen the day ye butter d my\\nbrose,\\nAnd cuddl d me late and early, O\\nBut downa-do s come o er me now,\\nAnd och, I find it sairly, O\\nSHE S FAIR AND FAUSE.\\n[The general allusion is to the girl who\\njilted Alexander Cunningham.]\\nShe s fair and fause that causes my\\nsmart\\nI lo ed her meikle and lang;\\nShe s broken her vow, she s broken\\nmy heart\\nAnd I may e en gae hang.\\nA coof cam in wi routh o gear,\\nAnd I hae tint my dearest dear\\nBut Woman is but warld s gear,\\nSae let the bonie lass gang\\nWhae er ye be that Woman love,\\nTo this be never blind\\nNae ferlie t is, tho fickle she prove,\\nA woman has t by kind.\\nO Woman lovely. Woman fair,\\nAn angel form s faun to thy share.\\nT wad been o er meikle to gien thee\\nmair!\\nI mean an angel mind.\\nTHE DEIL S AWA WI TH\\nEXCISEMAN.\\n[Burns states that he composed and sung\\nthis song at an Excise dinner in Dumfries.]\\nChoriis.\\nThe Deil s awa, the Deil s awa.\\nThe Deil s awa wi th Exciseman!\\nHe s danc d awa, he s danc d awa.\\nHe s danc d awa wi th Exciseman\\nThe Deil cam fiddlin thro the town,\\nAnd danc d awa wi th Exciseman,\\nAnd ilka wife cries Auld Mahoun,\\nI wish you luck o the prize, man\\nWe 11 mak our maut, and we ll brew\\nour drink.\\nWe ll laugh, sing, and rejoice,\\nman.\\nAnd monie braw thanks to the meikle\\nblack Deil,\\nTliat danc d awa wi th Excise-\\nman\\nThere s threesome reels, there s four-\\nsome reels.\\nThere s hornpipes and strathspeys,\\nman,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0322.jp2"}, "321": {"fulltext": "AS I STOOD BY YON ROOFLESS TOWER.\\n275\\nBut the ae best dance ere cam to the\\nland\\nWas The Deil V Awa wP tJi Excise-\\nman.\\nC/ionis.\\nThe Deil s awa, the Deil s awa,\\nThe Deil s awa wi th Exciseman\\nHe s danc d awa, he s danc d awa.\\nHe s danc d awa wi th Excise-\\nman\\nTHE LOVELY LASS OF\\nINVERNESS.\\n[The song commemorates CuUoden,\\nApril i6, 1746.]\\nThe lovely lass of Inverness,\\nNae joy nor pleasure can she see\\nFor e en to morn she cries Alas\\nAnd ay the saut tear blin s her\\ne e:\\nDrumossie moor, Drumossie day\\nA waefu day it was to me\\nFor there I lost my father dear.\\nMy father dear and brethren three.\\nIII.\\nTheir winding-sheet the bluidy clay.\\nTheir graves are growin green to\\nsee,\\nAnd by them lies the dearest lad\\nThat ever blest a woman s e e.\\nNow wae to thee, tliou cruel lord,\\nA bluidy man I trow thou be,\\nFor monie a heart thou hast made\\nsair\\nThat ne er did wrang to thine or\\nthee\\nA RED, RED ROSE.\\n[Derived by Burns from old blackletter\\nballads.]\\nO, MY luve is like a red, red rose,\\nThat s newly sprung in June.\\nO, my luve is like the melodic,\\nThat s sweetly play d in tune.\\nII.\\nAs fair art thou, my bonie lass.\\nSo deep in luve am I,\\nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear.\\nTill a the seas gang dry.\\nTill a the seas gang dry, my dear,\\nAnd the rocks melt wi the sun!\\nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear.\\nWhile the sands o life shall run.\\nAnd fare thee weel, my only luve.\\nAnd fare thee weel a while\\nAnd I will come again, my luve,\\nTho it were ten thousand mile\\nAS I STOOD BY YON ROOF-\\nLESS TOWER.\\n[The roofless tower was part of the\\nruins of Lincluden Abbey, situated at the\\njunction of the Cluden with the Nith.]\\nC/ion/s.\\nA lassie all alone was making her\\nmoan.\\nLamenting our lads beyond the\\nsea\\nIn the bluidy wars they fa and our\\nhonor \\\\s gane an a\\nAnd broken-hearted we maun die.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0323.jp2"}, "322": {"fulltext": "276\\nO, AN YE WERE DEAD, GUI DM AN.\\nAs I stood by yon roofless tower,\\nWhere the wa flow r scents the\\ndewy air,\\nWhere tlie houlet mourns in her ivy\\nbower.\\nAnd tells the midnight moon her\\ncare\\nThe winds were laid, the air was still,\\nThe stars they shot along the sky,\\nThe tod was howling on the hill,\\nAnd the distant-echoingglens reply.\\nThe burn, adown its hazelly path.\\nWas rushing by the ruin d wa\\nHasting to join the sweeping Nith,\\nWhase roarings seem d to rise\\nand fa\\\\\\nThe cauld blae North was streaming\\nforth\\nHer lights, wi hissing, eerie din\\nAthort the lift they start and shift,\\nLike Fortune s favours, tint as win.\\nNow, looking over firth and fauld,\\nHer horn the pale-faced Cynthia\\nrear d,\\nWhen low in form of minstrel auld\\nA stern and stalwart ghaist appeared.\\nAnd frae his harp sic strains did flow,\\nMight rous d the slumbering Dead\\nto hear,\\nBut O, it was a tale of woe\\nAs ever met a Briton s ear\\nHe sang wi joy his former day.\\nHe, weeping, wail d his latter times\\nBut what he said it was nae play\\nI winna ventur t in my rhymes.\\nCho7 us.\\nA lassie all alone was making her\\nmoan.\\nLamenting our lads beyond the\\nsea\\nIn the bluidy wars they fa and our\\nhonor s gane an a\\nAnd broken-hearted we maun die.\\nO, AN YE WERE DEAD,\\nGUIDMAN.\\n[Revised and shortened from an old set in\\nHerd.]\\nChorus.\\nSing, round about the fire wi a rung\\nshe ran.\\nAn round about the fire wi a rung\\nshe ran\\nYour horns shall tie you to the staw.\\nAn I shall bang your hide, guidman\\nAN ye were dead, guidman,\\nA green turf on your head, guidman\\n1 wad bestow my widowhood\\nUpon a rantin Highlandman\\nThere s sax eggs in the pan, guidman,\\nThere s sax eggs in the pan, guidman\\nThere s ane to you, and twa to me.\\nAnd three to our John Highlandman\\nA sheep-head s in the pot, guidman,\\nA sheep-head s in the pot, guidman\\nThe flesh to him, the broo to me.\\nAn the horns become your brow,\\nguidman\\nClwnis.\\nSing, round about the fire wi a rung\\nshe ran.\\nAn round about the fire wi a rung\\nshe ran\\nYour horns shall tie you to the staw.\\nAn I shall bang your hide, guidman", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0324.jp2"}, "323": {"fulltext": "AULD LANG SYNE. HAD I THE WYTE.\\n277\\nAULD LANG SYNE.\\n[Sent to Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 17, 1788:\\nApropos, is not the Scotch phrase Auld\\nLaiigsyne exceedingly expressive There\\nis an old song and tune which has often\\nthrilled through my soul, etc.\\nBurns said that this famous lyric was\\ntraditional. The chorus lang syne does\\noccur in a Jacobite ditty, attributed to a\\nskulker in the year 1746. Why Burns\\nshould have disclaimed the poem, if it was\\nhis, is hard to conjecture. ANDREW\\nLang.]\\nChorus.\\nFor auld lang syne, my dear,\\nFor auld lang syne,\\nWe 11 tak a cup o kindness yet\\nFor auld lang syne\\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\\nAnd never brought to mind?\\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\\nAnd auld lang syne.\\nAnd surely ye 11 be your pint-stowp,\\nAnd surely 1 11 be mine.\\nAnd we 11 tak a cup o kindness yet\\nFor auld lang syne\\nin.\\nWe twa hae run about the braes,\\nAnd pou d the gowans fine.\\nBut we ve wander d monie a weary fit\\nSin auld lang syne\\nWe twa hae paidPd in the burn\\nFrae morning sun till dine.\\nBut seas between us braid hae roar d\\nSin auld lang syne.\\n.Vnd there s a hand, my trusty fiere.\\nAnd gie s a hand o thine,\\nAnd we ll tak a right guid-willie\\nwauglit\\nFor auld lang syne\\nChorjis.\\nFor auld lang syne, my dear,\\nFor auld lang syne,\\nWe 11 take a cup o kindness yet\\nFor auld lang syne\\nLOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY\\nTHEE.\\n[Probably made soon after his mar-\\nriage, and certainly before the Revolution\\nof 1795.]\\nLouis, what reck I by thee,\\nOr Geordie on his ocean?\\nDyvor beggar iouns to me\\nI reign in Jeanie s bosom.\\nLet her crown iny love her law,\\nAnd in her breast enthrone me,\\nKings and nations swith awa\\nReif randies, I disown ye.\\nHAD I THE WYTE.\\n[Burns s original was certainly a frag-\\nment in the Herd Ms. The inference is\\nirresistible that the fragment in Herd sug-\\ngested two songs to Burns, one for publi-\\ncation, and the other not^\\nHad I the wyte? had I the wyte?\\nHad I the wyte? she bade ine\\nShe watch d me by the hie-gate side.\\nAnd up the loan she shaw d me\\nAnd when I wadna venture in,\\nA coward loon she ca d me\\nHad Kirk and State been in the gate,\\n1 d lidited when she bade me.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0325.jp2"}, "324": {"fulltext": "2-^8\\nCOMIN THRU THE RYE. YOUNG JAMIE.\\nSae craftilie she took me ben\\nAnd bade me mak nae clatter\\nFor our ran\\\\2;unsh()cli. glum guidman\\nIs o er ayont the water.\\nWhae er shall say I wanted grace\\nWhen I did kiss and dawte her,\\nLet him be planted in my place,\\nSyne say 1 was the fautor\\nCould I for shame, could I for shame,\\nCould I for shame refused her?\\nAnd wadna manhood been to blame\\nHad I unkindly used her?\\nHe claw d her wi the ripplin-kame,\\nAnd blae and bluidy bruis d her\\nWhen sic a husband was frae hame,\\nWhat wife but wad excused her\\nIV.\\nI dighted ay her een sae blue.\\nAn bann d the cruel randy.\\nAnd, weel I wat, her willin mou\\nWas sweet as sugarcandie.\\nAt gloamin-shot, it was, I wot,\\nI lighted on the Monday,\\nBut 1 cam thru tiie Tyseday s dew\\nTo wanton WiUie s brandy.\\nCOMIN THRO THE RYE.\\n[This is an old song dressed up a little\\nby the poet.]\\nChonis.\\nO, Jenny s a weet, poor body,\\nJenny s seldom dry:\\nShe draigl t a her petticoatie,\\nComin thro the rye\\nCoMiN thro the rye, poor body,\\nComin thro the rye,\\nShe draigl t a her petticoatie,\\nComin thro the rye\\nGin a body meet a body\\nComin thro the rye,\\nGin a body kiss a body,\\nNeed a body cry?\\nGin a body meet a body\\nComin thro the glen,\\nGin a body kiss a body,\\nNeed the warld ken?\\nChorus.\\nO, Jenny s a weet, poor body,\\nJenny s seldom dry:\\nShe draigl t a her petticoatie,\\nComin thro the rye\\nYOUNG JAMIE.\\nConceivably an appeal to the offended\\nMrs. Riddell. Andrew Lang.]\\nYoung Jamie, pride of a the plain,\\nSae gallant and sae gay a swain.\\nThro a our lasses he did rove.\\nAnd reign d resistless King of Love.\\nBut now, wi sighs and starting tears.\\nHe strays amang the woods and\\nbreers\\nOr in the glens and rocky caves\\nHis sad complaining- dowie raves\\nI, wha sae late did range and rove.\\nAnd chang d with every moon my\\nlove\\nI little thought the time was near,\\nRepentance I should buy sae dear.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0326.jp2"}, "325": {"fulltext": "OUT OVER THE FORTH. CHARLIE HE S !(tY DARLING. 279\\nIV.\\nmaids\\nmy torments\\nThe slighted\\nsee,\\ny\\\\nd laugh at a the pangs I dree\\nWliile she, my cruel, scornful Fair,\\nForbids me e er to see her mair.\\nOUT OVER THE FORTH.\\nHow do you like this thought in a\\nballad which I have just now on the tapis,\\nI look to the west (R. B. to Alexan-\\nder Cunningham, March 12, 1791.)]\\nOut over the Forth, I look to the\\nnorth\\nBut what is the north, and its\\nHighlands to me\\nThe south nor the east gie ease to\\nmy breast.\\nThe far foreign land or the wide\\nrolling sea\\nBut I look to the west, when I gae to\\nrest,\\nThat happy my dreams and my\\nslumbers may be\\nFor far in the west lives he I loe\\nbest,\\nThe man that is dear to my babie\\nand me.\\nWANTONNESS FOR EVER-\\nMAIR.\\nThe triolet is not uncommon in old\\nScots verse, and Wantonness for Ever-\\nmair, as passed through Burns, has an odd\\nlook of a triolet Once upon a Time\\nwhich has been violently carried away from\\nthe grace of its first state by a ravisher who\\nknew nothing of the form.\\nWantonness for evermair.\\nWantonness has been my ruin.\\nYet for a my dool and care\\nIt s wantonness for evermair.\\nI hae lo ed the Black, the Brown\\nI hae lo ed the Fair, the Gowden\\nA the colours in the town\\n1 hae won their wanton favour.\\nCHARLIE HE S MY DARLING.\\n[The song was probably suggested by\\nsome Jacobite fragment. There is another\\nset by Lady Nairne.]\\nChorus.\\nAn Charlie he s my darling,\\nMy darling, my darling,\\nCharlie he s my darling\\nThe Young Chevalier\\nT WAS on a Monday morning\\nRight early in the year,\\nThat Charlie came to our town\\nThe Young Chevalier\\nAs he was walking up the street\\nThe city for to view,\\nO, there he spied a bonie lass\\nThe window looking thro^\\nSae light s he jumped up the stair.\\nAnd tirl d at the pin\\nAnd wha sae ready as hersel\\nTo let the laddie in\\nHe set his Jenny on his knee,\\nAll in his Highland dress\\nFor brawlie weel he kend the way\\nTo please a bonie lass.\\nIt s up yon heathery mountain\\nAnd down yon scroggy glen,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0327.jp2"}, "326": {"fulltext": "28o THE LASS 0%CCLEFECHAN. FOR THE SAKE O SOMEBODY.\\nWe daurna gang a-milking\\nFor Charlie and his men\\nCJionis.\\nAn Charlie he s my darling,\\nMy darling, my darling,\\nCharlie he s my darling\\nThe young Chevalier\\nTHE LASS 0 ECCLEFECHAN.\\n[Bums, in the course of his duty as\\nsupervisor, was accustomed to visit this\\nunfortunate wicked little village, and slept\\nin it on Feb. 7, 1795 (R. B. to Thomson),\\nabout two months after the birth of Thomas\\nCarlyle. It was long a favorite resoit of\\nsuch vagabonds as are pictured in The\\nJolly Beggars, which may or may not\\naccount in some measure for Carlyle s affec-\\ntion for that admirable piece.]\\nGat ye me, O, gat ye tne,\\n(iat ye me wi naething\\nRock an reel, an .spinning wheel,\\nA mickle quarter basin\\nBye attour, my gutcher has\\nA heich house and a laich ane,\\nA forbye my bonie sel,\\nThe toss o Ecclefechan\\nO, hand your tongue now. Lucky\\nLang,\\nO, hand your tongue and jauner\\nI held the gate till you I met.\\nSyne I began to wander:\\nI tint my whistle and my sang,\\nI tint my peace and pleasure\\nBut your green graff, now Lucky\\nLang,\\nWad airt me to my treasure.\\nTHE COOPER O CUDDY.\\n[In the Ms. (Hastie Collection) Burns\\ndirects it to be sung to the tune, Bab at\\nthe Bowster, which he states is to be met\\nwith everywhere.\\nChorus.\\nWe ll hide the cooper behint the\\ndoor,\\nBehint the door, behint the door.\\nWe 11 hide the cooper behint the\\ndoor.\\nAnd cover himunder a mawn, O.\\nThe Cooper o Cuddy came here awa,\\nHe ca d the girrs out o er us a\\nAn our guidwife has gotten a ca\\nThat s anger d the silly guidman, O.\\nHe sought them out, he sought them\\nin,\\nWi Deil hae her! an Deil hae\\nhim\\nBut the body he was sae doited and\\nblin\\nHe wist na where he was gaun, O.\\nThey cooper d at e en, they cooper d\\nat morn,\\nTill our guidman has gotten the\\nscorn\\nOn ilka brow she s planted a horn.\\nAnd swears that there they sail\\nStan O\\nChorus.\\nWe 11 hide the cooper behint the\\ndoor,\\nBehint the door, behint the door.\\nWe 11 hide the cooper behint the\\ndoor\\nAnd cover him under a mawn, O.\\nFOR THE SAKE O\\nBODY.\\nSOME-\\n[It is evident tliat the idea of this charm-\\ng lyric came to Burns tlirough Allan", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0328.jp2"}, "327": {"fulltext": "THE CARDIN O T. SAE FLAXEN WERE\\nRINGLETS. 2S1\\nRamsay\\nlany.\\nand The Tea-Table Miscel-\\nMy heart is sai.r I dare na tell\\nMy heart is sair for Somebody\\n1 could wake a winter niglit\\nFor the sake o Somebody.\\nO-hon for Somebody\\n0-hey for Somebody\\nI could range the world around\\nFor the sake o Somebody.\\nII.\\nYe\\nPowers that smile on virtuous\\nlove,\\nO, sweetly smile on Somebody\\nFrae ilka danger keep him free,\\nAnd send me safe my Somebody\\nO-hon for Somebody\\n0-hey for Somebody\\nI wad do what wad I not\\nFor the sake o Somebody\\nTHE CARDIN O T.\\n[Suggested, perhaps, by Alexander Ross s\\nThere was a wife had a wee pickle tow,\\nAnd she wad gae try the spinning o t.\\nChonis.\\nThe cardin o t, the spinnin t.\\nThe warpin o t, the winnin o t\\nWhen ilka ell cost me a groat,\\nThe tailor staw the lynin o t.\\nI COFT a stane o haslock woo,\\nTo mak a wab to Johnie o t,\\nFor Johnie is my only jo\\nI lo e him best of onie yet\\nII.\\nFor tho his locks be lyart gray.\\nAnd tho his brow be held aboon,\\nYet I hae seen him on a day\\nThe pride of a the parishen.\\nC/ionis.\\nThe cardin o the spinnin o t.\\nThe warpin o t. the winnin o t\\nWhen ilka ell cost me a groat.\\nThe tailor staw the lynin o t.\\nTHERE S THREE TRUE GUID\\nFELLOWS.\\n[The stanza following the chorus, says\\nStenhouse, was hastily penned by Burns\\nat the request of the publisher (Johnson),\\nto enable him to include it.]\\nThere s three true guid fellows,\\nThere s three true guid fellows,\\nThere s three true guid fellows,\\nDown ayont yon glen\\nIt s now the day is dawin.\\nBut or night do fa in,\\nWhase cock s best at crawin,\\nWillie, thou sail ken\\nSAE FLAXEN WERE HER\\nRINGLETS.\\nDo you know, my dear sir, a black-\\nguard Irish song called Oonagh s Water-\\nfall The air is charming, and I\\nliave often regretted the want of decent\\nverses to it. It is too much, at least for tiiy\\nhumble, rustic muse, to expect that every\\neffort of hers must have merit; still I think\\nthat it is better to have mediocre verses to a\\nfavorite air, than none at all. (R. B.)\\nThe heroine was Miss Lorimer.]\\nSae flaxen were her ringlets,\\nHer eyebrows of a darker hue,\\nBewitchingly o er-arching\\nTwa laughing; een o bonie blue.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0329.jp2"}, "328": {"fulltext": "282\\n[fe\\nTifE LASS THAT MADE THE BED.\\nHer smiling, sae wyling,\\nWad make a wretch forget liis woe i\\nWhat pleasure, what treasure,\\nUnto those rosy lips to grow\\nSuch was my Chloris bonie face,\\nWhen first that bonie face I sA\\\\v,\\nAnd ay my Chloris dearest charm\\nShe says she lo es me best of a\\nLike harmony her motion.\\nHer pretty ankle is a spy\\nBetraying fair proportion\\nWad make a saint forget the sky\\nSae warming, sae charming.\\nHer faultless form and gracefu air,\\nIlk feature auld Nature\\nDeclared that she could dae nae\\nmair\\nHers are the willing chains o love\\nBy conquering beauty s sovereign\\nlaw.\\nAnd ay my Chloris dearest charm\\nShe says she lo es me best of a\\nIII.\\nLet others love the city,\\nAnd gaudy show at sunny noon\\nGie me the lonely valley.\\nThe dewy eve, and rising moon,\\nFair beaming, and streaming\\nHer silver light the boughs amang.\\nWhile falling, recalling.\\nThe amorous thrush concludes his\\nsang\\nThere, dearest Chi oris, wilt thou rove\\nBy wimpling burn and leafy shaw,\\nAnd hear my vows o truth and love,\\nAnd say thou lo es me best of a\\nTHE LASS THAT MADE THE\\nBED.\\n[Composed on an amour of Charles\\nIL, when skulking in the North about\\nAberdeen in the time of the Common-\\nwealth.]\\nWhen Januar wind was blawin cauld.\\nAs to the North I took my way,\\nThe mirksome night did me enfauld,\\nI knew na where to lodge till day.\\nBy my guid luck a maid I met\\nJust in the middle o my care.\\nAnd kindly she did me invite\\nTo walk into a chamber fair.\\n11.\\nI bow d fu low unto this maid.\\nAnd thank d her for her courtesie\\nI bow d fu low unto this maid,\\nAn bade her mak a bed to me.\\nShe made the bed baith large and\\nwide,\\nWi twa white hands she spread it\\ndown.\\nShe put the cup to her rosy lips.\\nAnd drank Young man, now\\nsleep ye soun\\nShe snatch d the candle in her hand.\\nAnd frae my chamber went wi\\nspeed.\\nBut I caird her quickly back again\\nTo lay some mair below my head\\nA cod she lay below my head.\\nAnd served me with due respeck,\\nAnd, to salute her wi a kiss,\\nI put my arms about her neck.\\nHand aff your hands, young man,\\nshe said,\\nAnd dinna sae uncivil be;\\nGif ye hae onie luve for me,\\nO, wrang na my virginitie\\nHer hair was like the links o gowd,\\nHer teeth were like the ivorie.\\nHer cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,\\nThe lass that made the bed to me", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0330.jp2"}, "329": {"fulltext": "SAE FAR AWA. I LL AY CA IN BY YON TOWN.\\n283\\nHer bosom was the driven snaw,\\nTwa drifted heaps sae fair to see\\nHer limbs the poHsh d marble stane,\\nThe lass that made the bed to me\\nI kiss d her o er and o er again,\\nAnd ay she wist na what to say,\\nI laid her tween me an the wa\\nThe lassie thocht na lang till day.\\nUpon the morrow, when we raise,\\nI thank d her for her courtesie,\\nBut ay she blush d, and ay she sigh d.\\nAnd said Alas, ye ve ruin d\\nme\\nI clasp d her waist, and kiss d her\\nsyne.\\nWhile the tear stood twinklin in\\nher e e.\\nI said My lassie, dinna cry,\\nFor ye ay shall mak the bed to me.\\nShe took her mither s holland sheets,\\nAn made them a in sarks to me.\\nBlythe and merry may she be.\\nThe lass that made the bed to me\\nThe bonie lass made the bed to me.\\nThe braw lass made the bed to me\\nI 11 ne er forget till the day I die,\\nThe lass that made the bed to me.\\nSAE FAR AWA.\\nBurns s name is attached to this pretty\\nlittle song, which would seem to have been\\ncomposed for the old air O er the Hills,\\nand Far Awa but as that tune had already\\nbeen given in an early volume of the Mu-\\nseum, set to its well-known Anglo-Scottish\\nverses, another air was found to fit the poet s\\nwords. William Scott Douglas.]\\nI.\\nO, SAD and heavy should I part\\nBut for her sake sae far awa,\\nUnknowing what\\nthwart\\nMy native land sae far awa\\nmy way may\\nThou that of a things Maker art.\\nThat forrned this Fair sae far awa,\\nGie body strength, then I 11 ne er start\\nAt this my way sae far awa\\nHow true is love to pure desert\\nSo mine in her sae far awa.\\nAnd nocht can heal my bosoin s smart,\\nWhile, O, she is sae far awa\\nIV.\\nNane other love, nane other dart\\nI feel, but hers sae far awa\\nBut fairer never touched a heart.\\nThan hers, the Fair sae far awa.\\nTHE REEL O STUMPIE.\\nThe exact share of Burns in this song\\nis not now to be determined.\\nWap and rowe, wap and rowe,\\nWap and rowe the feetie o t\\nI thought I was a maiden fair.\\nTill I heard the greetie o t\\nMy daddie was a fiddler fine.\\nMy minnie she made mantie, O,\\nAnd I myself a thumpin quine.\\nAnd danc d the Reel o Stumpie, O.\\nI LL AY CA IN\\nTOWN.\\nBY YON\\n[Adapted by Burns from an old song.]\\nChortis.\\nI 11 ay ca in by yon town\\nAnd by yon garden green again", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0331.jp2"}, "330": {"fulltext": "284\\nO, WAT YE WIIA S IN YON TOWN.\\nI 11 ay ca in by yon town,\\nAnd see my bonie Jean again.\\nThere s nane shall ken, there s nane\\ncan guess\\nWhat brings me back the gate again,\\nBut she, my fairest faithfu lass.\\nAnd stow nlins we sail meet aafain.\\nShe ll wander by the aiken tree,\\nWhen trystin time draws near again\\nAnd when her lovely form I see,\\nhaith she s doubly dear again.\\nChortts.\\n1 11 ay ca in by yon town\\nAnd by yon garden green again\\n1 11 ay ca in by yon town.\\nAnd see my bonie Jean again.\\nO, WAT YE WHA S IN YON\\nTOWN.\\n[Begun at Ecclefechan, where Burns was\\nstorm-stayed, Feb. 7, 1795. Some time\\nafterwards Burns produced a complete\\ncopy, at Brechin Castle. In the set sent to\\nJohnson, Jeanie either Jean Armour or\\nJean Lorimer is the heroine. In that\\nsent to Thomson the name is Lucy, who\\nwas the wife of Mr. Richard Oswald.]\\nChorus.\\nO, wat ye wha s in yon town\\nYe see the e enin sun upon\\nThe dearest maid s in yon town\\nThat e enin sun is shining on\\nNow haply down yon gay green shaw\\nShe wanders by yon spreading tree.\\nHow blest ye flowers that round her\\nblaw\\nYe catch the glances o her e e.\\nHow blest ye birds that round her sing,\\nAnd welcome in the blooming year\\nAnd doubly welcome be the Spring,\\nThe season to my Jeanie dear\\nTlic sun blinks blythe in yon town,\\nAmong the broomy braes sae green\\nBut my delight in yon town.\\nAnd dearest pleasure, is my Jean.\\nIV.\\nWithout my Love, not a the charms\\nO Paradise could yield me joy\\nBut gie me Jeanie in my arms.\\nAnd welcome Lapland s dreary sky\\nV.\\nMy cave wad be a lover s bower,\\nTho raging Winter rent the air,\\nAnd she a lovely little flower.\\nThat I wad tent and shelter there.\\nO, sweet is she in yon town\\nThe sinkin sun s gane down upon\\nA fairer than s in yon town\\nHis setting beam ne er shone upon.\\nIf angry Fate be sworn my foe.\\nAiid sutf ring I am dooin d to bear,\\nI d careless quit aught else below.\\nBut spare, O, spare me Jeanie\\ndear\\nVIII.\\nFor, while life s dearest blood is\\nwarm,\\nAe tliought frae her shall ne er\\ndepart.\\nAnd she, as fairest is her form.\\nShe has the truest, kindest heart.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0332.jp2"}, "331": {"fulltext": "WHEREFORE SIGHING ART THOU? HIGHLAND LADDIE. 2S5\\nCkori/s.\\nO, wat ye wha s in yon town\\nYe see the e enin sun upon\\nThe dearest maid \\\\s in yon town\\nThat e enin sun is shining on.\\nWHEREFORE SIGHING ART\\nTHOU, PHILLIS\\n[Suggested, probably, by an old English\\nsong beginning\\nDo not ask me, charming Phillis.\\nWherefore sighing art thou, Phillis\\nHas thy prime unheeded past?\\nHast thou found that beauty s lilies\\nWere not made for ay to last\\nKnow, thy form was once a treasure\\nThen it was thy hour of scorn\\nSince thou then denied the pleasure,\\nNow t is fit that thou should st\\nO MAY, THY MORN.\\n[Supposed to commemorate the parting\\nwith Clarinda.]\\nO May, thy morn was ne er sae sweet\\nAs the mirk night o December\\nFor sparkling was the rosy wine.\\nAnd private was the chamber,\\nAnd dear was she I dare na name\\nBut I will ay remember.\\nAnd here s to them that, like oursel.\\nCan push about the jorum\\nAnd here s to them that wish us\\nweel\\nMay a that s guid watch o er em\\nAnd here s to them we dare na tell,\\nThe dearest o the quorum\\nAS I CAME O ER THE CAIR-\\nNEY MOUNT.\\n[Probably suggested by old Jacobite\\nballads, Highland Laddie, etc.]\\nChorits.\\nO, my bonie Highland lad\\nMy winsome, weel-faur d Highland\\nladdie\\nWha wad mind the wind and rain\\nSae weel row d in his tartan plaidie\\nAs I came o er the Cairney mount\\nAnd down among the blooming\\nheather,\\nKindly stood the milking-shiel\\nTo shelter frae the stormy weather.\\nNow Phoebus blinkit on the bent.\\nAnd o er the knowes the lambs\\nwere bleating\\nBut he wan my heart s consent\\nTo be his ain at the neist meeting.\\nC/ionts.\\nO, my bonie Highland lad\\nMy winsome, weel-faur d Highland\\nladdie\\nWha wad mind the wind and rain\\nSae weel row d in his tartan plaidie\\nHIGHLAND LADDIE.\\n[Chiefly an abridgment of the lacobite\\nditty, The Highland Lad and the High-\\nland Lass.\\nI.\\nThe bonniest lad that e er I saw\\nBonie laddie. Highland laddie", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0333.jp2"}, "332": {"fulltext": "286 WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? LOVELY POLLY STEWART.\\nWore a plaid and was fir braw\\nBonie Highland laddie\\nOn his head a bonnet blue\\nBonie laddie. Highland laddie\\nHis royal heart was firm and true-\\nBonie Hitjhland laddie\\nTrumpets sound and cannons roar,\\nBonie lassie, Lawland lassie\\nAnd a the hills wi echoes roar,\\nBonie Lawland lassie\\nGlory, Honour, now invite\\nBonie lassie, Lawland lassie\\nFor freedom and my King to fight,\\nBonie Lawland lassie\\nThe sun a backward course shall\\ntake,\\nBonie laddie, Highland laddie\\nEre aught thy manly courage shake,\\nBonie Highland laddie\\nGo, for yourseP procure renown,\\nBonie laddie, Highland laddie,\\nAnd for your lawful King his crown,\\nBonie Highland laddie\\nWILT THOU BE MY DEARIE\\n[Evidently made in honor of Miss Janet\\nMiller of Dalswinton.]\\nWilt thou be my dearie\\nWhen Sorrow wrings thy gentle\\nheart,\\nO, wilt thou let me cheer thee\\nBy the treasure of my soul\\nThat s the love I bear thee\\nI swear and vow that only thou\\nShall ever be my dearie\\nOnly thou, I swear and vow,\\nShall ever be my dearie\\nLassie, say thou lo^ es me,\\nOr. if thou wilt na be my ain,\\nSay na thou It refuse me\\nIf it winna, canna be,\\nThou for thine may choose me,\\nLet me, lassie, quickly die.\\nTrusting that thou lo es me\\nLassie, let me quickly die.\\nTrusting that thou lo es me\\nLOVELY POLLY STEWART.\\n[Polly or Mary Stewart was daughter\\nof William Stewart, factor at Closeburn.\\nShe died in Italy at the age of seventy-\\ntwo.]\\nChorus.\\nO lovely Polly Stewart,\\nO charming Polly Stewart,\\nThere s ne er a flower that blooms in\\nMay,\\nThat s half so fair as thou art\\nThe flower it blaws, it fades, it fa s,\\nAnd art can ne er renew it\\nBut Worth and Tnith eternal youth\\nWill gie to Polly Stewart\\nMay he whase arms shall fauld thy\\ncharms\\nPossess a leal and true heart\\nTo him be given to ken the heaven\\nHe grasps in Polly Stewart\\nChorus.\\nO lovely Polly Stewart,\\nO charming Polly Stewart,\\nThere s ne er a flower that blooms in\\nMay,\\nThat s half so fair as thou art", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0334.jp2"}, "333": {"fulltext": "THE HIGHLAND BALOU. WAE IS MY HEART.\\n287\\nTHE HIGHLAND BALOU.\\n[Stenhouse states that it is a versifica-\\ntion by Burns of a Gaelic nursery song, the\\nliteral import of which, as well as the air,\\nwere communicated to him by a Highland\\nlady.\\nHee balou, my sweet wee Donald,\\nPicture o the great Clanronald\\nBrawlie kens our wanton Chief\\nWha gat my young Highland thief.\\nLeeze me on thy bonie craigie\\nAn thou live, thou 11 steal a naigie,\\nTravel the country thro and thro\\nAnd bring hame a Carlisle cow\\nThro the Lawlands, o er the Border,\\nWeel, my babie, may thou furder.\\nHerry the louns o the laigh Coun-\\ntrie,\\nSyne to the Highlands hame to me\\nBANNOCKS O BEAR MEAL.\\n[No doubt suggested by a song on the\\nDuke of Argyll (the great Duke, born 1678,\\ndied 1743), entitled, The Highlandman\\nSpeaking of His Maggy and the Bannocks\\nof Barley Meal.\\nChorus.\\nBannocks o bear meal,\\nBannocks o barley,\\nHere s to the Highlandman s\\nBannocks o barley\\nWha in a brulyie\\nWill first cry a parley\\nNever the lads\\nWi the bannocks o barley\\nWha, in his wae days,\\nWere loyal to Charlie\\nWha but the lads\\nWi the bannocks o barley\\nCJwrus.\\nBannocks o bear meal.\\nBannocks o barley.\\nHere s to the Highlandman s\\nBannocks o barley\\nWAE IS MY HEART.\\n[The last stanza is closely imitated from\\nthe last of Lady Grizzel Bailie s Were Na\\nMy Heart Licht I Wad Die.\\nWae is my heart, and the tear s in\\nmy e e\\nLang, lang joy s been a stranger\\nto me\\nForsaken and friendless my burden\\nI bear.\\nAnd the sweet voice o pity ne er\\nsounds in my ear.\\nLove, thou hast pleasures and deep\\nhae I lov d\\nLove, thou has sorrows and sair hae\\nI prov d\\nBut this bruisfed heart that now bleeds\\nin my breast,\\nI can feel by its throbbings, will soon\\nbe at rest.\\nO, if I were where happy I hae been,\\nDown by yon stream and yon bonie\\ncastle green\\nFor there he is wand ring and musing\\non me,\\nWha wad soon dry the tear frae his\\nPhillis e e", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0335.jp2"}, "334": {"fulltext": "288\\nTHERE GROWS A BONIE liRlER-liUSlI.\\nHERE S HIS HEALTH IN\\nWATER.\\n[Framed on a Jacobite song for James\\nVIII. (the Old Pretender\\nAltho my back be at tlie wa\\nAnd tho he be the fautor,\\nAltho my back be at the \\\\va\\\\\\nYet here \\\\s his heahh in water\\nO, wae gae by his wanton sides,\\nSae brawly s he could flatter\\nTill for his sake I ni slighted sair\\nAnd dree the kintra clatter\\nBut, tho my back be at the wa\\\\\\nYet here s his health in water\\nTHE WINTER OF LIFE.\\n[Doubtless suggested by a song of the\\nsame title to be found in The Goldfinch,\\nEdinburgh, 1777.]\\nI.\\nBut lately seen in gladsome green,\\nThe woods rejoiced the day\\nThro gentle showers the laughing\\nflowers\\nIn double pride were gay\\nBut now our joys are fled\\nOn winter blasts awa,\\nYet maiden May in rich array\\nAgain shall bring them a\\nBut my white pow nae kindly thowe\\nShall melt the snaws of Age\\nMy trunk of eild, but buss and bield,\\nSinks in Time s wintry rage.\\nO, Age has weary days\\nAnd nights o sleepless pain\\nThou golden time o youthfu prime,\\nWhy coines thou not again?\\nTHE TAILOR.\\n[Suggested probably by The Tailor in\\nHerd s Collection.]\\nThe tailor he cam here to sew,\\nAnd weel he kend the way to woo,\\nFor ay he preexl the lassie s mou\\nAs he gaed but and ben. O.\\nFor weel he kcnd the way, O,\\nThe way, O, the way, O\\nFor weel he kend the way, O,\\nThe lassie s heart to win, O\\nThe tailor rase and shook his duds,\\nThe flaes they flew awa in cluds\\nAnd them that stay d gat fearfu\\nthuds\\nThe Tailor prov d a man, O\\nFor now it was the gloamin.\\nThe gloamin, the gloamin\\nFor now it was the gloamin,\\nWhen a the rest are gaun, O\\nTHERE GROWS A BONIE\\nBRIER-BUSH.\\n[Stenhouse states, that with the excep-\\ntion of a few lines, which are old, this\\nsong was written by Burns for Johnson s\\nIVIuseum.\\nI.\\nThere grows a bonie brier-bush in\\nour kail-yard,\\nThere grows a bonie brier-bush in\\nour kail-yard\\nAnd below the bonie brier-bush\\nthere s a lassie and a lad.\\nAnd they re busy, busy courting in\\nour kail-yard.\\nWe ll court nae mair below the buss\\nin our kail-yard,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0336.jp2"}, "335": {"fulltext": "IT WAS A FOR OUR RIGIITFU KING.\\n289\\nWe 11 court nae mair below the buss\\nin our kail-yard\\nWe 11 avva to Athole s green, and\\nthere we 11 no be seen,\\nWhere the trees and the branches will\\nbe our safeguard.\\nWill ye go to the dancin in Carlyle s\\nha7\\nWill ye go to the dancin in Carlyle s\\nha\\nWhere Sandy and Nancy I m sure\\nwill ding them a\\nI winna gang to the dance in Carlyle-\\nha\\nWhat will I do for a lad when Sandie\\ngangs avva\\nWhat will I do for a lad when Sandie\\ngangs awa\\nI will awa to Edinburgh, and win a\\npennie fee,\\nAnd see an onie lad will fancy me.\\nHe s comin frae the north that s to\\nmarry me,\\nHe s comin frae the north that s to\\nmarry me,\\nA feather in his bonnet and a ribbon\\nat his knee\\nHe s a bonie, bonie laddie, an yon\\nbe he\\nHERE S TO THY HEALTH.\\n[Regarded as traditional by Mrs. Begg\\n(Burns s sister) Mr. Scott Douglas accepts\\nit as a genuine contribution to Johnson s\\nMuseum, and internal evidence is in his\\nfavor.]\\nI.\\nHere s to thy health my bonie lass\\nGuid night and joy be wi thee\\nI 11 come nae mair to thy bower-door\\nTo tell thee that I lo e thee\\nO, dinna think, my pretty pink,\\nBut 1 can live without thee\\nI vow and swear I dinna care\\nHow lang ye look about ye\\nThou rt ay sae free informing me\\nThou hast nae mind to marry,\\nI 11 be as free informing thee\\nNae time hae I to tarry.\\nI ken thy freens try ilka means\\nFrae wedlock to delay thee\\n(Depending on some higher chance),\\nBut fortune may betray thee.\\nI ken they scorn my low estate.\\nBut that does never grieve me.\\nFor I m as free as any he\\nSma siller will relieve me\\nI 11 count my health my greatest wealth\\nSae lang as I 11 enjoy it.\\nI 11 fear nae scant, I 11 bode nae want\\nAs lang s I get employment.\\nBut far off fowls hae feathers fair,\\nAnd, ay until ye try them,\\nTho they seem fair, still have a care\\nThey may prove as bad as I am\\nBut at twel at night, when the moon\\nshines bright,\\nMy dear, I 11 come and see thee.\\nFor the man that loves his mistress\\nweel.\\nNae travel makes him weary.\\nIT WAS A FOR OUR RIGHT-\\nFU KING.\\nThe third verse of this beautiful song\\nis found in a stall-ballad (Mally Stewart),\\nbut the date of the ballad is not ascertained.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nIt was a for our rightfti king\\nWe left fair Scotland s strand", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0337.jp2"}, "336": {"fulltext": "290\\nTHE HIGHLAND WIDOW S LAMENT.\\nIt was a for our rightfu king,\\nWe e er saw Irish land,\\nMy dear\\nWe e er saw Irish land.\\nNow a is done that men can do,\\nAnd a is done in vain,\\nMy Love and Native Land fareweel,\\nFor I maun cross the main,\\nMy dear\\nFor I maun cross the main.\\nHe turn d him right and round about\\nUpon the Irish shore.\\nAnd gae his bridle reins a shake,\\nWith adieu for evermore.\\nMy dear\\nAnd adieu for evermore\\nThe soger frae the wars returns.\\nThe sailor frae the main.\\nBut I hae parted frae my love\\nNever to meet again,\\nMy dear\\nNever to meet again.\\nWhen day is gane, and night is come.\\nAnd a folk bound to sleep,\\nI think on him that s far awa\\nThe lee-lang night, and weep.\\nMy dear\\nThe lee-lang night and weep.\\nTHE HIGHLAND WIDOW S\\nLAMENT.\\n[Burns supplied the music for Johnson s\\nMuseum, which he got from a lady in the\\nnorth of Scotland. The refrain is borrowed\\nfrom an old song, said to have been a\\nlament for Glencoe.J\\nI.\\nO, I AM come to the low countrie\\nOchon, ochon, ochrie\\nWithout a penny in my purse\\nTo buy a meal to me.\\nII.\\nIt was na sae in the Highland hills\\nOchon, ochon, ochrie\\nNae woman in the country wide\\nSae happy was as me.\\nFor then I had a score o kye\\nOchon, ochon, ochrie!\\nFeeding on yon hill sae high\\nAnd iiivinsi milk to me.\\nAnd there I had three score o yowes\\nOchon, ochon, ochrie\\nSkipping on yon bonie knowes\\nAnd casting woo to me.\\nI was the happiest of a the clan\\nSair, sair may I repine\\nFor Donald was the brawest man,\\nAnd Donald he was mine.\\nVI.\\nTill Charlie Stewart cam at last\\nSae far to set us free\\nMy Donald s arm was wanted then\\nFor Scotland and for me.\\nTheir waefu fate what need I tell?\\nRight to the wrang did yield\\nMy Donald and his country fell\\nUpon Culloden field.\\nOchon O Donald, O\\nOchon, ochon, ochrie\\nNae woman in the warld wide\\nSae wretched now as me", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0338.jp2"}, "337": {"fulltext": "THOU GLOOMY DECEMBER. O, STEER HER UP.\\n291\\nTHOU GLOOMY DECEMBER.\\n[The first two stanzas were sent to Cla-\\nrinda on Dec. 27, 1791, as a song to a\\ncharming plaintive Scots tune.\\nAnce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy\\nDecember\\nAnce mair I hail thee \\\\vi sorrow\\nand care\\nSad was the parting thou makes me\\nremeinber\\nParting wi Nancy, O, ne er to meet\\nmair\\nFond lovers parting is sweet, painful\\npleasure,\\nHope beaming mild on the soft\\nparting hour\\nBut the dire feeling, O farewell for\\never\\nAnguish unmingled and agony\\npure\\nWild as the winter now tearing the\\nforest,\\nTill the last leaf o the summer is\\nflown\\nSuch is the tempest has shaken my\\nbosom.\\nTill my last hope and last comfort\\nis gone\\nIV.\\nStill as I hail thee, thou gloomy\\nDecember,\\nStill shall I hail thee wi sorrow and\\ncare\\nFor sad was the parting thou makes\\nme remember\\nParting wi Nancv, O, ne er to meet\\nMY\\nPEGGY S\\nPEGGY S\\nFACE,\\nFORM.\\nMY\\nWritten for Miss Margaret Chalmers.\\nBoth she and Miss Hamilton were probably\\nfriends rather than flames of Burns.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nMy Peggy s face, my Peggy s form\\nThe frost of hermit Age might warm.\\nMy Peggy s worth, my Peggy s mind\\nMight charm the first of human kind.\\nI love my Peggy s angel air.\\nHer face so truly heavenly fair.\\nHer native grace so void of art\\nBut I adore my Peggy s heart.\\nThe lily s hue, the rose s dye.\\nThe kindling lustre of an eye\\nWho but owns their magic sway?\\nWho but knows they all decay?\\nThe tender thrill, the pitying tear,\\nThe generous purpose nobly dear.\\nThe gentle look that rage disarms\\nThese are all immortal charms.\\nO, STEER HER UP, AN HAUD\\nHER GAUN.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum by\\nBurns. The first half stanza is Ramsay s,\\nfrom a set founded on an old improper\\nditty.]\\nO, STEER her up, an hand hergaun\\nHer mither s at the mill, jo,\\nAn gin she winna tak a man.\\nE en let her tak her will, jo.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0339.jp2"}, "338": {"fulltext": "292\\nWEE WILLIE GRAY. WE RE A NODDIN.\\nFirst shore her \\\\vi a gentle kiss,\\nAnd ca anither gill, jo,\\nAn gin she tak the thing amiss,\\nE en let her flyte her fill, jo.\\nO, steer her up, an be na blate,\\nAn gin she tak it ill, jo.\\nThen leave the lassie till her fate,\\nAnd time nae Linger spill, jo\\nNe er break your heart lor ae rebute.\\nBut think upon it still, jo,\\nThat gin the lassie winna do t.\\nYe 11 fin anither will, jo.\\nWEE WILLIE GRAY.\\nA child s song, witli an appearance of\\npopular antiquity. ANDREW Lang.]\\nWee Willie Gray an his leather\\nwallet.\\nPeel a willow-wand to be him boots\\nand jacket\\nThe rose upon the brier will be him\\ntrouse and doublet\\nThe rose upon the brier will be him\\ntrouse and doublet\\nWee Willie Gray and his leather wal-\\nlet.\\nTwice a lily-flower will be him sark\\nand gravat\\nFeathers of a flie wad feather up his\\nbonnet\\nFeathers of a flie wad feather up his\\nbonnet\\nWE RE A NODDIN.\\n[This ditty is a medley of two old songs\\nwith variations and amendments.]\\nCIior}{S.\\nWe re a noddin,\\nNid nid noddin,\\nWe re a noddin\\nAt our house at hame\\nGuiD e en to you, kimmer,\\nAnd how do ye do\\nHiccup quo kimmer,\\nThe better that I m fou\\nKate sits i the neuk,\\nSuppin hen-broo.\\nDeil tak Kate\\nAn she be na noddin too\\nHow s a wi you, kimmer\\nAnd how do you fare\\nA pint o the best o t,\\nAnd twa pints mair\\nHow s a wi you, kimmer\\nAnd how do ye thrive\\nHow nionie bairns hae ye?\\nOuo kimmer, I hae five.\\nAre they a Johnie s?\\nEh atweel na\\nTwa o them were gotten\\nWhen Johnie was awa\\nCats like milk.\\nAnd dogs like broo\\nLads like lasses weel,\\nAnd lasses lads too.\\nC/ion/s.\\nWe re a noddin,\\nNid nid noddin.\\nWe re a noddin\\nAt our house at hame", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0340.jp2"}, "339": {"fulltext": "O, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. O, GUID ALE COMES. 293\\nO, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG\\nME.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum to a\\ntune in Oswald s collection, My Wife She\\nDang Me. j\\nChorus.\\nO, ay my wife she dang me,\\nAn aft my wife she bang d me\\nIf ye gie a woman a her will,\\nGuid faith she 11 soon o er-gang ye.\\nOn peace an rest my mind was bent,\\nAnd, fool I was I married\\nBut never honest man s intent\\nSae cursedly miscarried.\\nSome sairie comfort at the last,\\nWhen a thir days are done, man\\nMy pains o hell on earth is past,\\nI m sure o bliss aboon, man.\\nCJiorus.\\nO, ay my wife she dang me.\\nAn aft my wife she bang d me\\nIf ye gie a woman a her will,\\nGuid faith she 11 soon o ergang ye.\\nSCROGGAM.\\n[Founded on an older ditty, or perhaps\\ngathered from more than one.]\\nThere was a wife wonn d in Cockpen,\\nScroggam\\nShe brew d guid ale for gentlemen\\nSing Auld Cowl, lay you down by\\nme\\nScroggam, my dearie, ruffum\\nThe guidwife s dochter fell in a fever,\\nScroggam\\nThe priest o the parish fell in anither\\nSing Auld Cowl, lay you down by me\\nScroggam, my dearie, ruffum\\nThey laid the twa i the bed thegither,\\nScroggam\\nThat the heat o the tane might cool\\nthe tither\\nSing Auld Cowl, lay you down by me\\nScroggam, my dearie, ruffum\\nO, GUID ALE COMES.\\n[Partly traditional. Stenhouse states that\\nonly the chorus is old.]\\nChor7is.\\nO, guid ale comes, and guid ale goes,\\nGuid ale gars me sell my hose,\\nSell my hose, and pawn my shoon\\nGuid ale keeps my heart aboon\\nI HAD sax owsen in a pleugh.\\nAnd they drew a weel eneugh\\nI sell d them a just ane by ane\\nGuid ale keeps the heart aboon\\nGuid ale bauds me bare and busy,\\nGars me moop wi the servant hizzie,\\nStand i the stool when I hae dune\\nGuid ale keeps the heart aboon\\nCJW7 US.\\nO, guid ale comes, and guid ale goes,\\n(luid ale gars me sell my hose.\\nSell my hose, and pawn my shoon\\nGuid ale keeps my heart aboon", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0341.jp2"}, "340": {"fulltext": "294\\nDOES HAUGHTY GAUL INVASION THREAT?\\nROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.\\n[Sent by Burns to Robert Ainslie with\\nthe remark I have brushed up the follow-\\ning old favorite song a little, with a view to\\nyour worship. I have only altered a word\\nhere and there but if you lilce the humor\\nof it, we shall think of a stanza or two to\\nadd to it.\\nChorus.\\nRobin shure in hairst,\\nI shure wi him\\nFient a hcuk had I,\\nYet I stack by him.\\nI GAED up to Dunse\\nTo warp a wab o plaiden\\nAt his daddie s yett\\nWha met me but Robin\\nWas na Robin bauld,\\nTho I was a cottar?\\nPlay d me sic a trick,\\nAn me the Ellers dochter\\nRobin promised me\\nA my winter vittle\\nFient haet he had but three\\nGuse feathers and a whittle\\nChoruss\\nRobin shure in hairst,\\nI shure wi him\\nFient a heuk had I,\\nYet I stack by him.\\nDOES HAUGHTY GAUL IN-\\nVASION THREAT?\\nWritten for the Dumfries Volunteers.\\nBurns, if sincere, changed his mind about\\nthe Revolution, like Coleridge and Words-\\nworth. ANDREW La.n g.]\\nDoes haughty Gaul invasion threat\\nThen let the loons beware, Sir\\nTliere s w^ooden walls upon our seas\\n.4.nd volunteers on shore. Sir!\\nThe Nith shall run to Corsincon,\\nAnd CriiTel sink in Solway,\\nEre we permit a foreign foe\\nOn British ground to rally\\nO, let us not, like snarling tykes,\\nIn wrangling be divided.\\nTill, slap come in an unco loun,\\nAnd vvi a nmg decide it\\nBe Britain still to Britain true,\\nAmang oursels united\\nFor never but by British hands\\nMaun British wrangs be righted\\nThe kettle o the Kirk and State,\\nPerhaps a clout may fail in t\\nBut Deil a foreign tinkler loon\\nShall ever ca a nail in t\\nOur fathers blude the kettle bought.\\nAnd wha wad dare to spoil it.\\nBy Heav ns the sacrilegious dog\\nShall fuel be to boil it\\nThe wretch that would a tyrant own,\\nAnd the wretch, his true-sworn\\nbrother.\\nWho would set the mob above the\\nthrone.\\nMay they be damn d together\\nWlio will not sing God stwe the King\\nShall hang as high s the steeple\\nBut while we sing God sai C tlie King,\\nWe 11 ne er forget the People", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0342.jp2"}, "341": {"fulltext": "O ONCE I LOV D. MY LORD A-HUNTING.\\n295\\nO ONCE I LOV D A BONIE\\nLASS.\\n[Of this song Burns says The following\\ncomposition was the tirst of my perform-\\nances and done at an early period of life,\\nwhen my heart glowed with honest warm\\nsimplicity unacquainted and uncorrupted\\nwith the ways of a wicked world. The\\nsubject of it was a young girl, who really\\ndeserved all the praises I have bestowed\\nupon her.]\\nO ONCE I lovM a bonie lass,\\nAy, and I love her still\\nAnd whilst that virtue warms my\\nbreast,\\nI 11 love my handsome NeU.\\nAs bonie lasses I hae seen,\\nAnd monie full as braw,\\nBut for a modest gracefu mien\\nThe like I never saw.\\nA bonie lass, I will confess,\\nIs pleasant to the e e\\nBut without some better qualities\\nShe s no a lass for me.\\nBut Nelly s looks are blythe and sweet,\\nAnd, what is best of a\\nHer reputation is complete\\nAnd fair without a flaw.\\nShe dresses ay sae clean and neat.\\nBoth decent and genteel\\nAnd then there s something in her\\ngait\\nGars onie dress look weel.\\nA gaudy dress and gentle air\\nMay slightly touch the heart\\nBut it \\\\s innocence and modesty\\nThat polishes the dart.\\nT is this in Nelly pleases me,\\nT is this enchants my soul\\nFor absolutely in my breast\\nShe reigns without controul.\\nMY LORD A-HUNTING.\\n[Stenhouse says Johnson long hesitated\\nto admit this song into his work but being\\nblamed for such fastidiousness, he at length\\ngave it a place there.\\nCJwnts.\\nMy lady s gown, there s gairs upon t.\\nAnd gowden flowers sae rare upon t\\nBut Jenny s jimps and jirkinet,\\nMy lord thinks meikle mair upon t\\nMy lord a-hunting he is gane,\\nBut hounds or hawks wi him are nane\\nBy Colin s cottage lies his game,\\nIf Colin s Jenny be at hame.\\nMy lady s white, my lady s red.\\nAnd kith and kin o Cassillis blude\\nBut her ten-pund lands o tocher guid\\nWere a the charms his lordship lo ed.\\nOut o er yon muir, out o er yon moss,\\nWhare gor-cocks thro the heather\\npass,\\nThere wons auld Colin s bonie lass,\\nA lily in a wilderness.\\nSae sweetly move her genty limbs,\\nLike music notes o lovers hymns\\nThe diamond-dew in her een sae blue,\\nWhere laughing love sae wanton\\nswims", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0343.jp2"}, "342": {"fulltext": "296 SWEETEST MAY. JOCKIE S TA EN THE PARTING KISS.\\nV.\\nMy lady s dink, my lady s drest,\\nThe flower and fancy o the west\\nBut the lassie that a man lo es best,\\nO. that s the lass to mak him blest\\nChorus.\\nMy lady s gown, there s gairs upon t.\\nAnd gowden flowers sae rare upon t,\\nBut Jenny s jimps and jirkinet.\\nMy lord thinks nieikle mair upon t\\nSWEETEST MAY.\\n[An imitation, open and unabashed, of\\nRamsay s My Sweetest May, let Love\\nincline Thee.\\nSweetest May, let Love inspire thee\\nTake a heart which he designs thee\\nAs thy constant slave regard it.\\nFor its faith and truth reward it.\\nProof o shot to birth or money,\\nNot the wealthy but the bonie,\\nNot the high-born but noble-minded,\\nIn love s silken band can bind it.\\nMEG O THE MILL.\\n[Suggested, doubtless, by an older ditty.]\\nO, KEN ye what Meg o the Mill has\\ngotten?\\nAn ken ye what Meg o the Mill has\\ngotten\\nA braw new naig wi the tail o a rottan,\\nAnd that s what Meg o the Mill has\\ngotten.!\\nO, ken \\\\e what Meg o the Mill lo es\\ndearly\\nAn ken ye what Meg o the Mill lo es\\ndearly\\nA dram o guid strunt in a morning\\nearly,\\nAnd that s what Mego the Mill Io es\\ndearly\\nO, ken ye how Meg o the Mill was\\nmarried\\nAn ken ye how Meg o the Mill was\\nmarried\\nThe priest he was oxter d, the dark\\nhe was carried.\\nAnd tliat s how Meg o the Mill was\\nmarried\\nIV.\\nO, ken ye how Meg o the Mill was\\nbedded\\nAn ken ye how INleg o the Mill was\\nbedded\\nThe groom gat sae fu he fell awald\\nbeside it,\\nAnd that s how Meg o the Mill was\\nbedded\\nJOCKIE S TA EN THE PART-\\nING KISS.\\nProbably written in sickness. AN-\\nDREW Lang.]\\nJOCKIE s ta en the parting kiss.\\nO er the mountains he is gane.\\nAnd with him is a my bliss\\nNought but griefs with me remain.\\nSpare my luve, ye winds that blaw,\\nPlashy sleets and beating rain\\nSpare my luve, thou feathery snaw.\\nDrifting o er the frozen plain", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0344.jp2"}, "343": {"fulltext": "O, LAY THY LOOF IN MINE.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THERE WAS A BONIE LASS. 297\\nWhen the shades of evening creep\\nO er the clay s fair gladsome e e,\\nSound and safely may lie sleep,\\nSweetly blythe his waukening be\\nHe will think on her he loves,\\nFondly he 11 repeat her name\\nFor where er he distant roves,\\nJockie s heart is still at hame.\\nO, LAY THY LOOF IN MINE,\\nLASS.\\nPerhaps Miss Lewars is the heroine.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nChorus.\\nO, lay thy loof in mine, lass,\\nIn mine, lass, in mine, lass,\\nAnd swear on thy white hand, lass.\\nThat thou wilt be my ain\\nA SLAVE to Love s unbounded sway,\\nHe aft has wrought me meikle wae\\nBut now he is my deadly fae,\\nUnless thou be my ain.\\nThere s monie a lass has broke my\\nrest.\\nThat for a blink I hae lo ed best\\nBut thou art queen within my breast,\\nFor ever to remain.\\nChoriis.\\nO, lay thy loof in mine, lass.\\nIn mine, lass, in mine, lass.\\nAnd swear on thy white hand, lass.\\nThat thou wilt be my ain\\nCAULD IS THE E ENIN\\nBLAST.\\n[The tune, Peggy Ramsay, is as old as\\nShal espeare s time. Sir Toby Belch in\\nTwelfth Night says Malvolio s a Peg-a-\\nRamsay.\\nCauld is the e enin blast\\nO Boreas o er the pool.\\nAn dawin, it is dreary,\\nWhen birks are bare at Yule.\\nO. cauld blaws the e enin blast,\\nWhen bitter bites the frost.\\nAnd in the mirk and dreary drift\\nThe hills and glens are lost\\nNe er sae murky blew the night\\nThat drifted o er the hill,\\nBut bonie Peg-a-Ramsay\\nGat grist to her mill.\\nTHERE WAS A BONIE LASS.\\n[A cento of old catchwords.]\\nThere was a bonie lass, and a bonie,\\nbonie lass.\\nAnd she loed her bonie laddie dear.\\nTill War s loud alarms tore her laddie\\nfi ae her arms\\nWi monie a sigh and a tear.\\nII.\\nOver sea, over shore, where the can-\\nnons loudly roar.\\nHe still was a stranger to fear.\\nAnd nocht could him quail, or his\\nbosom assail.\\nBut the bonie lass he loed sae dear.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0345.jp2"}, "344": {"fulltext": "298 THERE S NEWS, LASSES. M ALLY S MEEK, MALLY S SWEET.\\nTHERE S NEWS, LASSES,\\nNEWS.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum. The\\noriginal is evidently a fragment in the Herd\\nMs.]\\nChorus.\\nThe wean wants a cradle,\\nAnd the cradle wants a cod,\\nAn I 11 no gang to my bed\\nUntil I get a nod.\\nThere s news, lasses, news,\\nGuid news I ve to tell\\nThere s a boatfu o lads\\nCome to our town to sell\\nFather, quo she, Mither, quo she,\\nDo what you can\\nI 11 no gang to my bed\\nUntil I get a man\\nIII.\\nI hae as guid a craft rig\\nAs made o yird and stane\\nAnd waly fa the ley-crap\\nFor I maun till d again.\\nChorus.\\nThe wean wants a cradle,\\nAnd the cradle wants a cod,\\nAn I 11 no gang to my bed\\nUntil I get a nod.\\nO, THAT I HAD NE ER BEEN\\nMARRIED.\\n[Burns quotes all that is old of this song\\nin a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 1795. His quota-\\ntion includes stanza i. and the chorus.]\\nChorus.\\nAnce crowdie. twice crowdie.\\nThree times crowdie in a day!\\nGin ye crowdie onie mair.\\nYe 11 crowdie a my meal away.\\nO, THAT I had ne er been married,\\nI wad never had nae care\\nNow I ve gotten wife an bairns,\\nAn they cry Crowdie evermair.\\nWaefu Want and Hunger fley me,\\nGiowrin by the hallan en\\nSair I fecht them at the door,\\nBut ay I m eerie they come ben.\\nChorus.\\nAnce crowdie, twice crowdie.\\nThree times crowdie in a day!\\nGin ye crowdie onie mair.\\nYe 11 crowdie a my meal away.\\nMALLY S MEEK, MALLY S\\nSWEET.\\n[Written for Johnson s Museum.\\nChorus.\\nMally s meek, Mally s sweet,\\nMally s modest and discreet,\\nMally s rare, Mally s fair,\\nMally s ev ry way complete.\\nAs I was walking up the street,\\nA barefit maid 1 chanc d to meet\\nBut O. the road was very hard\\nFor that fair maiden s tender feet\\nIt were mair meet that those fine feet\\nWere weel laced up in silken shoon!\\nAn t were more fit that she should sit\\nWithin yon chariot gilt aboon", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0346.jp2"}, "345": {"fulltext": "WANDERING WILLIE. BRAW LADS O GALEA WATER. 299\\nHer yellow hair, beyond compare.\\nConies tumbling down her swan-\\nwhite neck,\\nAnd her twa eyes, like stars in skies,\\nWould keep a sinking ship frae\\nwreck.\\nCJiorits.\\nMally s meek, Mally s sweet,\\nMally s modest and discreet,\\nMally s rare, Mally s fair,\\nMally s ev ry way complete.\\nWANDERING WILLIE.\\n[Adapted by Burns from an old ballad.]\\nHere awa, there awa, wandering\\nWillie,\\nHere awa, there awa, baud awa\\nhame\\nCome to my bosom, my ae only\\ndearie,\\nAnd tell me thou bring st me my\\nWillie the same.\\nLoud tho the Winter blew cauld at\\nour parting,\\nT was na the blast brought the tear\\nin my e e\\nWelcome now Simmer, and welcome\\nmy Willie,\\nThe Simmer to Nature, my Willie\\nto me\\nRest, ye wild storms in the cave o\\nyour slumbers\\nHow your wild howling a lover\\nalarms\\nWauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye\\nbillows.\\nAnd waft my dear laddie ance mair\\nto my arms.\\nBut O, if he \\\\s faithless, and minds na\\nhis Nannie,\\nFlow still between us, thou wide-\\nroaring: mam\\nMay I never see it, may I never trow\\nit,\\nBut, dying, believe that my Willie s\\nmy ain\\nBRAW LADS O GALEA WATER.\\n[Sent to Thomson s Scottish Airs.\\nBurns got his lyrical idea from one of Five\\nE.Kcellent New Songs in a very old chap.]\\nBraw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,\\nThey rove amang the blooming\\nheather\\nBut Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws\\nCan match the lads o Galla Water.\\nBut there is ane, a secret ane,\\nAboon them a I loe him better;\\nAnd I 11 be his, and he 11 be mine,\\nThe bonie lad o Galla Water.\\nAltho his daddie was nae laird,\\nAnd tho I hae nae meikle tocher,\\nYet, rich in kindest, truest love,\\nWe 11 tent our flocks by Galla\\nWater.\\nIt ne er was wealth, it ne er was\\nwealth.\\nThat coft contentment, peace, and\\npleasure\\nThe bands and bliss o mutual love.\\nO, that s the chiefest warld s treas-", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0347.jp2"}, "346": {"fulltext": "AULD ROB MORRIS. OPEN THE DOOR TO MK,\\nAULD ROB MORRIS.\\n[Burns, writing to Thomson, savs I\\nhave partly taken your idea of Auid Rob\\nMorris. I have adopted the first two\\nverses, and am going on with the song on a\\nnew plan, which promises pretty well.\\nThere s Auld Rob Morris that wons\\nin ypn glen,\\nHe s the king o guid fellows and\\nwale of auld men\\nHe has gowd in his coffers, he has\\nowsen and kine.\\nAnd ae bonie lassie, his dautie and\\nmine.\\nShe s fresh as the morning the fairest\\nin May,\\nShe s sweet as the evening amang the\\nnew hay.\\nAs blythe and as artless as the lambs\\non the lea.\\nAnd dear to my heart as the light to\\nmy e e.\\nBut O, she s an heiress, auld Robin s\\na laird,\\nAnd my daddie has nocht but a cot-\\nhouse and yard\\nA wooer like ine maunna hope to\\ncome speed\\nThe wounds I must hide that will\\nsoon be my dead.\\nIV.\\nThe day comes to me, but delight\\nbrings me nane\\nThe night comes to me, but my rest\\nit is gane\\nI wander my lane like a night-troubled\\nghaist.\\nAnd I sigh as my heart it wad burst\\nin my breast.\\nO, had she but been of a lower de-\\ngree,\\nI then might hae hop d she wad smiPd\\nupon me\\nO, how past descriving had then l:)een\\nmy bliss.\\nAs now my distraction no words can\\nexpress\\nOPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O.\\n[It is doubtful how far Burns is indebted\\nto an original, for none has ever been\\nfound. In Thomson it is headed, As\\naltered for this work by Burns, and the\\nair is marked as Irish.]\\nO, OPEN the door some pity to shew,\\nIf love it may na be, O\\nTho thou hast been false, I 11 ever\\nprove true\\nO, open the door to me, O\\nCauld is the blast upon my pale\\ncheek,\\nBut caulder thy love for me, O\\nThe frost, that freezes the life at my\\nheart.\\nIs nought to my pains frae thee, O\\nIII.\\nThe wan moon sets behind the white\\nwave,\\nAnd Time is setting with me, O\\nFalse friends, false love, farewell for\\nmair\\nI 11 ne er trouble them nor thee. O\\nIV.\\nShe has open d the door, she has\\nopen d it wide.\\nShe sees the pale corse on the\\nplain, O,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0348.jp2"}, "347": {"fulltext": "WHEN WILD WAR S DEADLY BLAST,\\nMy true love she cried, and sank\\ndown by his side\\nNever to rise again, O\\nWHEN WILD WAR S DEADLY\\nBLAST.\\n[Sent to Thomson by Burns, who says,\\nI sentl vou also a ballad to the lune of\\nThe Mill and the Mill, O. Thomson\\nmade certain changes in the song; but on\\na copy sent to Miss Graham ot Fintry,\\nBurns restored the old readings.]\\nWhen wild War s deadly blast was\\nblawn.\\nAnd gentle Peace returning,\\nWi monie a sweet babe fatherless\\nAnd monie a widow mourning,\\nI left the lines and tented field.\\nWhere lang I d been a lodger.\\nMy humble knapsack a my wealth,\\nA poor and honest sodger.\\nA leal, light heart was in my breast,\\nMy hand unstained wi plunder.\\nAnd for fair Scotia, hame again,\\nI cheery on did wander:\\nI thought upon the banks o Coil,\\nI thought upon my Nancy,\\nAnd ay 1 mind t the witching smile\\nThat caught my youthful fancy.\\nIII.\\nAt length I reach d the bonie glen,\\nWhere early life I sported.\\nI pass d the mill and trysting thorn.\\nWhere Nancy aft I courted.\\nWha spied I but my ain dear maid,\\nDown by her mother s dwelling.\\nAnd turn d me round to hide \\\\he\\nflood\\nThat in my een was swelling\\nWi alter d voice, quoth I Sweet\\nlass.\\nSweet as yon hawthorn s blossom,\\nO, happy, happy may he be.\\nThat s dearest to thy bosom\\nMy purse is light, I ve far to gang,\\nAnd fain wad be thy lodger;\\nI ve serv dmyking and country lang\\nTake pity on a sodger.\\nSae wistfully she gaz d on me.\\nAnd lovelier was than ever.\\nQuo she A sodger ance I lo ed.\\nForget him shall I never.\\nOur humble cot, and hamely fare.\\nYe freely shall partake it\\nThat gallant badge the dear cock-\\nade\\nYe re welcome for the sake o t\\nShe gaz d, she redden d like a rose,\\nSyne, pale like onie lily.\\nShe sank within my arms, and cried\\nArt thou my ain dear Willie?\\nBy Him who made yon sun and sky,\\nBy whom true love s regarded,\\nI am the man And thus may still\\nTrue lovers be rewarded\\nVII.\\nThe wars are o er and I m come\\nhame.\\nAnd find thee still true-hearted.\\nTho poor in gear we re rich in love.\\nAnd mair, we se ne er be parted.\\nQuo she My grandsire left me\\ngowd,\\nA mailen plenish d fairly\\nAnd come, my faithfu sodger lad,\\nThou rt welcome to it dearly\\nFor gold the merchant ploughs the\\nmain,\\nThe farmer ploughs the manor", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0349.jp2"}, "348": {"fulltext": "302\\nDUNCAN GRAY. DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.\\nBut glory is the sodger s prize,\\nThe sodger s wealth is honour\\nThe brave poor sodger ne er despise,\\nNor count him as a stranger\\nRemember he s his country s stay\\nIn day and hour of danger.\\nDUNCAN GRAY.\\n[Of this song and Auld Rob Morris\\nBurns says to Thomson The foregoing I\\nsubmit, my dear sir, to your better judg-\\nment; acquit them or condemn them as\\nseemeth good in thy sight. Duncan Gray\\nis that kind of light-horse gallop of an air\\nwhich precludes sentiment. The ludicrous\\nis its ruling feature.\\nDuncan Gray cam here to woo\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t\\nOn biythe Yule-Night when we were\\nfou\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o\\\\\\nMaggie coost her head fu high,\\nLook d asklent and unco skeigh,\\nGart poor Duncan stand abeigh\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nDuncan fleech d, and Duncan pray d\\n(Ha. ha, the wooing o t\\nMeg was deaf as Ailsa Craig\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t\\nDuncan sigh d baith out and in,\\nfirat his een baith bleer t an blin\\nSpak o lowpin o er a linn\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nTime and Chance are but a tide\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nSlighted love is sair to bide\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t\\nShall I like a fool. quoth he,\\nFor a haughty hizzie die?\\nShe may gae to France for me\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nIV.\\nHow it comes, let doctors tell\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t)\\nMeg grew sick, as he grew hale\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t!).\\nSomething in her bosom wrings,\\nFor relief a sigh she brings,\\nAnd O! her een theyspaksicthings!-\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nDuncan was a lad o grace\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t\\nMaggie s was a piteous case\\n(Ha, ha, the wooing o t\\nDuncan could na be her death.\\nSwelling pity smoor d his wrath\\nNow they re crouse and canty baith\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t\\nDELUDED SWAIN,\\nPLEASURE..\\nTHE\\nPastiche of little merit on an old song.\\nANDREW Lang.\\nDeluded swain, the pleasure\\nThe fickle Fair can give thee\\nIs but a fairy treasure\\nThy hopes will soon deceive thee\\nThe billows on the ocean.\\nThe breezes idly roaming.\\nThe cloud s uncertain motion,\\nThey are but types of Woman\\nII.\\nO, art thou not ashamed\\nTo doat upon a feature?\\nIf Man thou wouldst be named,\\nDespise the silly creature\\nGo, find an honest fellow.\\nGood claret set before thee.\\nHold on till thou art mellow,\\nAnd then to bed in glory", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0350.jp2"}, "349": {"fulltext": "HERE IS THE GLEN. LORD GREGORY.\\n303\\nHERE IS THE GLEN.\\n[Burns, writing to Thomson, says of this\\nsong I know you value a composition\\nbecause it is made by one of the great ones\\nas little as I do. However, I got an air,\\npretty enough, composed by Lady Eliza-\\nbeth Heron of Heron, which she calls the\\nBanks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful, ro-\\nmantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a\\nparticular friend of mine, I have written the\\nioUovving song to it.\\nI.\\nHere is the glen, and here the bower\\nAll underneath the birchen shade,\\nThe village-bell has tolFd the hour\\nO, what can stay iny lovely maid.\\nT is not Maria s whispering call\\nT is but the balmy-breathing gale,\\nMixed with some warbler s dying fall\\nThe dewy star of eve to hail\\nIt is Maria s voice I hear\\nSo calls the woodlark in the grove\\nHis little faithful mate to cheer:\\nAt once t is music and t is love\\nAnd art thou come And art thou\\ntrue\\nO, welcome, dear, to love and me,\\nAnd let us all our vows renew\\nAlong the flowery banks of Cree\\nLET NOT WOMEN E ER\\nCOMPLAIN.\\n[Burns says These English songs\\ngravel me to death. I have not that com-\\nmand of the language that 1 have of my\\nnative tongue. In fact, I think my ideas\\nare more barren in English than in Scot-\\ntish. I have been at Duncan Gray, to\\ndress it in English, but all I can do is de-\\nplorably stupid.\\nLet not women e er complain\\nOf inconstancy in love\\nLet not women e er complain\\nFickle man is apt to rove\\nLook abroad thro Nature s range,\\nNature s mighty law is change\\nLadies, would it not be strange\\nMan should then a monster prove?\\nMark the winds, and mark the skies.\\nOcean s ebb and ocean s flow.\\nSun and moon but set to rise.\\nRound and round the seasons go.\\nWhy, then, ask of silly man\\nTo oppose great Nature s plan\\nWe 11 be constant, while we can\\nYou can be no more, you know\\nLORD GREGORY.\\n[Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcott) wrote Eng-\\nlish verses for Thoinson on the same\\ntheme. In relation to this, Burns wiites:\\nI have tried to give you a set of stanzas in\\nScots on the same subject, which are at\\nyour service. Not that I intend to enter\\nthe lists with Peter that would be pre-\\nsumption indeed My song, though much\\ninferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more\\nof the ballad simplicity in it.\\nO, MIRK, inirk is this midnight hour.\\nAnd loud the tempest s roar\\nA waefu wanderer seeks thy tower\\nLord Gregory, ope thy door.\\nAn exile frae her father s ha\\nAnd a for sake o thee.\\nAt least sotne pity on me shaw,\\nIf love it may na be.\\nLord Gregory mind st thou not the\\ngrove\\nBy bonie Irwine side,\\nWhere first I own d that virgin love\\nI lang, lang had denied?", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0351.jp2"}, "350": {"fulltext": "304\\nO, STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOOD-LARK.\\nIV.\\nHow aften didst thou pledge and vow,\\nThou wad for ay be mine\\nAnd my fond heart, itseP sae true,\\nIt ne er mistrusted thine.\\nHard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,\\nAnd flinty is thy breast\\nThou bolt of Heaven tiiat flashest by,\\nO, wilt thou bring me rest\\nYe mustering thunders from above.\\nYour willing victim see,\\nBut spare and pardon my fause love\\nHis wrang-s to Heaven and me\\nO POORTITH CAULD.\\n[Gilbert Burns told Thomson that Burns s\\nheroine was a Miss Jane Blackstock, after-\\nwards Mrs. Whittier of Liverpool. But it\\nwas probably Jean Lorimer, who was then\\ncontemplating the marriage of which she\\ninstantly repented.]\\nCho}-HS.\\nO, why .should Fate sic pleasure have\\nLife s dearest bands untwining?\\nOr why sae sweet a flower as love\\nDepend on Fortune s shining?\\nO PooRTiTH cauld and restless Love,\\nYe wrack my peace between ye\\nYet poortith a I could forgive.\\nAn t were na for my Jeanie.\\nThe warld s wealth when I think on,\\nIts pride and a the lave o t\\nMy curse on silly coward man,\\nThat he should be the slave o t\\nHer een sae bonie blue betray\\nHow she repays my passion\\nBut prudence is her o erword ay\\nShe talks o rank and fashion.\\nO, wha can prudence think upon.\\nAnd sic a lassie by him?\\nO, wha can prudence think upon,\\nAnd sae in love as I am\\nHow blest the wild-wood Indian\\\\s fate\\nHe woos his artless dearie\\nThe silly bogles, Wealth and State,\\nCan never make him eerie.\\nChorus.\\nO, why should Fate sic pleasure have.\\nLife s dearest bands untwining?\\nOr why sae sweet a flower as love\\nDepend on Fortune s shining?\\nO,\\nSTAY, SWEET WARBLING\\nWOOD-LARK.\\nIf this piece had an occasion, nothing\\nis known about it. ANDREW Lang.]\\nO, STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark,\\nstay.\\nNor quit for me the trembling spray\\nA hajiless lover courts thy lay,\\nThv soothing, fond complaining.\\nAgain, again that tender part.\\nThat I may catch thy melting art\\nFor surely that wad toucli her heart,\\nWha kills me wi disdaining.\\nSay, was thy little mate unkind,\\nAnd heard thee as the careless wind\\nO, nocht but love and sorrow join d\\nSic notes o woe could wauken", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0352.jp2"}, "351": {"fulltext": "SAW YE BONIE LESLEY. YOUNG JESSIE.\\n305\\nThou tells o never-ending care,\\nO speechless grief and dark despair\\nFor pity s sake, sweet bird, nae mair,\\nOr my poor heart is broken\\nSAW YE BONIE LESLEY.\\nBqnie Lesley was Miss Leslie Baillie,\\ndaugliter oi Mr. Baillie of Mayfield, Ayr-\\nshire. She married in June, 1799, Mr. Rob-\\nert Gumming of Logie, and died in July,\\n1843-]\\nO, SAW ye bonie Lesley,\\nAs she gaed o er the Border?\\nShe s gane. like Alexander,\\nTo spread her conquests farther\\nTo see her is to love her.\\nAnd love but her for ever\\nFor Nature made her what she is,\\nAnd never made anither\\nThou art a queen, fair Lesley\\nThy subjects, we before thee\\nThou art divine, fair Lesley\\nThe hearts o men adore thee.\\nThe Deil he could na skaith thee,\\nOr aught that wad belang thee\\nHe d look into thy bonie face.\\nAnd say I canna wrang thee\\nThe Powers aboon will tent thee,\\nMisfortune sha na steer thee\\nThou rt like themsel sae lovely,\\nThat ill they 11 ne er let near thee.\\nReturn again, fair Lesley,\\nReturn to Caledonie\\nThat we may brag we hae a lass\\nThere s nane arain sae bonie.\\nSWEET FA S THE EVE.\\nHow will the following do for Craig-\\nieburn Wood (Burns to Thomson,\\nJan. 15, 1795.) See Craigieburn Wood,\\nP- 253-J\\nSweet fa s the eve on Craigieburn,\\nAnd blythe awakes the morrow,\\nBut a the pride o Spring s return\\nCan yield me nocht but sorrow.\\nI see the flowers and spreading trees,\\nI hear the wild birds singing;\\nBut what a weary wight can please.\\nAnd Care his bosom is wringing\\nFain, fain would I my griefs impart,\\nYet dare na for your anger\\nBut secret love will break my heart,\\nIf I conceal it langer.\\nIf thou refuse to pity me.\\nIf thou shalt love another.\\nWhen yon green leaves fade frae the\\ntree.\\nAround my grave they 11 wither.\\nYOUNG JESSIE.\\n[The lady was Miss Jessie Staig (daughter\\nof Provost Staig of Dumfries, on whose re-\\ncovery from illness Burns wrote the epigram\\nTo Dr. Maxwell.\\nI.\\nTrue hearted was he, the sad swain\\no the Yarrow,\\nAnd fair are the maids on the banks\\nof the Ayr\\nBut by the sweet side o the Nith s\\nwinding; river", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0353.jp2"}, "352": {"fulltext": "3o6\\nADOWN WINDING NITH.\\nAre lovers as faithful and maidens\\nas fair\\nTo equal young Jessie seek Scotia all\\nover\\nTo equal young Jessie you seek it\\nin vain\\nGrace, beauty, and elegance fetter her\\nlover.\\nAnd maidenly modesty fixes the\\nchain.\\nFresh is the rose in the gay, dewy\\nmorning,\\nAnd sweet is the lily at evening\\nclose\\nBut in the fair presence o lovely\\nyoung Jessie\\nUnseen is the lily, unheeded the\\nrose.\\nLove sits in her smile, a wizard en-\\nsnaring;\\nEnthron d in her een he delivers\\nhis law\\nAnd still to her charms she alone is a\\nstranger\\nHer modest demeanour s the jewel\\nof a\\nADOWN WINDING NITH.\\nMiss Phillis is a Miss Phillis M Murdo,\\nsister to the Bonie Jean wiiich I sent you\\nsome time ago. (Burns to Tliomson, Au-\\ngust, 1793.)]\\nChorus.\\nAwa wi your belles and your beau-\\nties\\nThey never wi her can compare\\nWhaever hae met wi my Phillis\\nHas met wi the Queen o the Fair\\nAdown winding Nith I did wander\\nTo mark the sweet flowers as they\\nspring.\\nAdown winding Nitli I did wander\\nOf Phillis to muse and to sine.\\nThe Daisy anius d my fond fancy,\\nSo artless, so simple, so wild\\nThou emblem, said I, o my Phil-\\nlis\\nFor she is Simplicity s child.\\nIII.\\nThe rose-bud s the blush o my\\ncharmer.\\nHer sweet balmy lip when tis\\nprest.\\nHow fair and how pure is the lily\\nBut fairer and purer her breast.\\nYon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,\\nThey ne er wi my Phillis can vie\\nHer breath is the breath of the wood-\\nbine.\\nIts dew-drop o diamond her eye.\\nHer voice is the song o the morning.\\nThat wakes thro the green-spread-\\ning grove,\\nWhen Phebus peeps over the moun-\\ntains\\nOn music, and pleasure, and love.\\nBut Beauty, how frail and how fleet-\\ning\\nThe bloom of a fine summer s day\\nWhile Worth in the mind o my\\nPhillis\\nWill flourish without a decay.\\nChorus.\\nAwa wi your belles and your beau-\\nties\\nThey never wi her can compare\\nWhaever hae met wi my Phillis\\nHas met wi the Queen o the Fair", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0354.jp2"}, "353": {"fulltext": "A LASS Wr A TOCHER. BY ALLAN STREAM.\\n307\\nA LASS wr A TOCHER.\\nThe other day I strung up a kind of\\nrhapsody to another Hibernian melody\\nthat I admire much. (Burns to Thomson,\\nFebruary, 1796.) The Hibernian melody\\nwas Baiinamona Ora.\\nC horns.\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher,\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher,\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher,\\nThe nice yellow guineas for me\\nAwA wi your witchcraft o Beauty s\\nalarms,\\nThe slender bit beauty you grasp in\\nyour arms\\nO, gie me the lass that has acres o\\ncharms\\nO, gie me the lass wi the weel-stockit\\nfarms\\nYour Beauty s a flower in the morn-\\ning that blows.\\nAnd withers the faster the faster it\\ngrows\\nBut the rapturous charm o the bonie\\ngreen knowes,\\nIlk spring they re new deckit wi\\nbonie white yowes\\nAnd e en when this Beauty your\\nbosom has blest.\\nThe brightest o Beauty may cloy\\nwhen possessed\\nBut the sweet, yellow darUngs wi\\nGeordie impress d.\\nThe langer ye hae them, the mair\\nthey re carest\\nChorus.\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher,\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher.\\nThen hey for a lass wi a tocher.\\nThe nice yellow guineas for me\\nBLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON\\nYON HILL.\\n[Burns writes this is one of the finest\\nsongs I ever made in my hfe, and is com-\\nposed on a young lady, positively the most\\nbeautiful lovely woman in the world. She\\nwas Miss Leslie Baillie.]\\nBlythe hae I been on yon hill\\nAs the lambs before me.\\nCareless ilka thought, and free\\nAs the breeze flew o er me.\\nNow nae langer sport and play.\\nMirth or sang can please me\\nLesley is sae fair and coy,\\nCare and anguish seize me.\\nHeavy, heavy is the task,\\nHopeless love declaring\\nTrembling, I dow nocht but glow r\\nSighing, dumb despairing\\nIf she winna ease the thraws\\nIn my bosom swelling,\\nUnderneath the grass-green sod\\nSoon maun be my dwelling.\\nBY ALLAN STREAM.\\n[Written in August, 1793. The poem\\npleased Burns, who writes, I may be\\nwrong, but I think it is not in my worst\\nstyle.\\nBy Allan stream I chanc d to rove,\\nWhile Phebus sank beyond Ben-\\nledi\\nThe winds were whispering thro the\\ngrove.\\nThe yellow corn was waving ready\\nI listen d to a lover s sang.\\nAn thought on youthfu pleasures\\nmonie,\\nAnd ay the wild-wood echoes rang\\nO, my love Annie s very bonie", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0355.jp2"}, "354": {"fulltext": "3oS\\nCANST THOU LEAVE ME. CONTENTED V\\\\T LIITLE.\\nO, happy be the woodbine bower,\\nNae nightly bogle make it eerie\\nNor ever sorrow stain the hour,\\nThe place and time 1 met my dearie\\nHer head upon my throbbing breast.\\nShe, sinking, said I m thine\\nfor ever\\nWhile monie a kiss the seal imprest\\nThe sacred vow we ne er should\\nsever.\\nIII.\\nThe haunt o Spring \\\\s the primrose-\\nbrae.\\nThe Summer joys the flocks to\\nfollow.\\nHow cheery thro her shortening day\\nIs Autumn in her weeds o yellow\\nBut can they melt the glowing heart,\\nOr chain the soul in speechless\\npleasure.\\nOr thro each nerve the rapture dart.\\nLike meeting her, our bosom s\\ntreasure\\nCANST THOU LEAVE ME\\nWell, I think this, to be done in two or\\nthree turns across my room, and with two\\nor three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not\\nfar amiss. You see, I am determined to\\nhave my quantum of applause from some-\\nbody. (Burns to Thomson, Nov. 20, 1794.)]\\nC/iorus.\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katie\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katie\\nWell thou know st my aching heart.\\nAnd canst thou leave me thus for\\npity?\\nIs this thy plighted, fond regard\\nThus cruelly to part, my Katie\\nIs this thy fiiithful swain s reward\\nAn aching broken heart, my Katie?\\nFarewell And ne er such sorrows\\ntear\\nThat fickle heart of thine, my Katie\\nThou may st find those will love thee\\ndear,\\nBut not a love like mine, my Katie.\\nChortts.\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katie\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katie\\nWell thou know st my aching heart.\\nAnd canst thou leave me thus for\\npity?\\nCOME, LET ME TAKE THEE.\\nA mosaic. Lines written many years\\nearlier, in Peggy Alison, are added to\\nverses suggested by Jean Lorimer. AN-\\nDREW Lang.]\\nCome, let me take thee to my breast,\\nAnd pledge we ne er shall sunder.\\nAnd I shall spurn as vilest dust\\nThe world s wealth and grandeur\\nAnd do I hear my Jeanie own\\nThat equal transports move her?\\nI ask for dearest life alone,\\nThat I may live to love her.\\nThus in my arms, wi a her charms,\\nI clasp my countless treasure,\\n1 11 seek nae mair o Heav n to share\\nThan sic a moment s pleasure\\nAnd by tliy een sae bonie blue\\nI swear I m thine for ever.\\nAnd on thy lips I seal my vow.\\nAnd break it shall I never\\nCONTENTED WP LITTLE.\\nI have some thoughts of suggesting to\\nyou to prepare a vignette to my song\\nContented wi Little and Cantie wi Mair,-", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0356.jp2"}, "355": {"fulltext": "FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. HAD I A CAVE.\\n309\\nin order the portrait of my face and the pic-\\nture of my mind may go down the stream\\nof time together. (Burns to Thomson,\\nMay, i795-)J\\nContented wi little and cantie \\\\vi\\nmair,\\nWhene er I forgather wi Sorrow and\\nCare,\\nI gie tliem a skelp, as they re creepin\\nalang,\\nWi a cog o guid swats and an auld\\nScottish sang.\\nII.\\nI whyles claw the elbow o troublesome\\nThought\\nBut Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.\\nMy mirth and guid humour are coin in\\nmy pouch,\\nAnd my Freedom \\\\s my lairdship nae\\nmonarch daur touch.\\nA towmond o trouble, should that be\\nmy fa\\nA night o guid fellowship sowthers\\nit a\\nWhen at the blythe end o our journey\\nat last,\\nWha the Deil ever thinks o the road\\nhe has past?\\nBlind Chance, let her snapper and\\nstoyte on her way.\\nBe t to me, be t frae me, e en let the\\njade gae\\nCome Ease or come Travail, come\\nPleasure or Pain,\\nMy warst word is Welcome, and\\nwelcome again\\nFAREWELL, THOU STREAM.\\n[The heroine was Maria Riddell, to whom\\nBurns sent a copy. To this he added this\\nnote (first published in the Centenary edi-\\ntion), On reading over the song, I see it is\\nbut a cold, inanimated composition. It will\\nbe absolutely necessary for nie to get in love,\\nelse I shall never be able to make a line\\nworth reading on the subject. The poet\\nhaving, meanwhile, had a difference with\\nthat lady, he disguised the song by chang-\\ning the name from Maria to Eliza, and\\nby giving it a new opening line, with direc-\\ntions to have it set to a different tune.\\nWilliam Scott Douglas.]\\nFarewell, thou stream that winding\\nflows\\nAround Eliza s dwelling\\nO Mem ry, spare the cruel throes\\nWithin my bosom swelling\\nCondemn d to drag a hopeless chain\\nAnd yet in secret languish.\\nTo feel a fire in every vein\\nNor dare disclose my anguish\\nLove s veriest wretch, unseen, un-\\nknown,\\nI fain my griefs would cover\\nThe bursting sigh, th unweeting groan\\nBetray the hapless lover.\\nI know thou doom st me to despair,\\nNor wilt, nor canst relieve me\\nBut, O EHza, hear one prayer\\nFor pity s sake forgive me\\nThe music of thy voice I heard.\\nNor wist while it enslav d me\\nI saw tliine eyes, yet nothing fear d.\\nTill fears no more had savYl me\\nTh unwary sailor thus, aghast\\nThe wheeling torrent viewing,\\nMid circling horrors sinks at last\\nIn overwhelming ruin.\\nHAD I A CAVE.\\nThat crinkum-crankum tune, Robin\\nAdair, has run so in my head, and I suc-\\nceeded so ill in my last attempt Phillis", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0357.jp2"}, "356": {"fulltext": "iio IlKRli S A HEALTH.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 now CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.\\nthe Fair, p. 345], that I ventured in my\\nmorning s walk one essay more. (Burns\\nto Thomson, August, 1793.)]\\nHad I a cave\\nOn some wild distant shore,\\nWhere the winds howl\\nTo the wave s dashing roar,\\nThere would 1 weep my woes,\\nThere seek my lost repose,\\nTill grief my eyes should close,\\nNe er to wake more\\nFalsest of womankind,\\nCan st thou declare\\nAll thy fond, plighted vows\\nFleeting as air?\\nTo thy new lover hie,\\nLaugh o er tliy perjury,\\nThen in thy bosom try\\nWhat peace is there\\nHERE S A HEALTH.\\n[The heroine, Jessie Lewars, sister of\\n]ohn Lewars, a fellow-exciseman, was of\\ngreat service to the Burns household during\\nthe last illness. She married Mr. James\\nThomson, of Dumfries, and died May 26,\\nI8S5-]\\nCJiorus.\\nHere s a health to ane I loe dear\\nHere s a health to ane I loe dear\\nThou art sweet as the smile when\\nfond lovers meet.\\nAnd soft as their parting tear,\\nJessy\\nAnd soft as their parting tear\\nAltho thou maun never be mine,\\nAltho even hope is denied,\\nT is sweeter for thee despairing\\nThan ought in the world beside,\\nJessy\\nThan ought in the world beside\\nI mourn thro the gay, gaudy day,\\nAs hopeless I muse on thy charms\\nBut welcome the dream o sweet\\nslumber\\nFor then I am lockt in thine arms,\\nJessy\\nFor then I am lockt in thine arms I\\nChorus.\\nHere s a health to ane I loe dear\\nHere s a health to ane I loe dear\\nThou art sweet as the smile when\\nfond lovers meet.\\nAnd soft as their parting tear,\\nJessy\\nAnd soft as their parting tear\\nHOW CRUEL ARE THE\\nPARENTS.\\nA song altered from an old English\\none, (R. B.) found in several London pub-\\nlications, 1733-1756.]\\nHow cruel are the parents\\nWho riches only prize,\\nAnd to the wealthy booby\\nPoor Woman sacrifice\\nMeanwhile tlie hapless daughter\\nHas but a choice of strife\\nTo shun a tyrant father s hate\\nBecome a wretched wife\\nThe ravening hawk pursuing,\\nThe trembling dove thus flies\\nTo shun impending ruin\\nAwhile her pinion tries.\\nTill, of escape despairing,\\nNo shelter or retreat.\\nShe trusts the ruthless falconer.\\nAnd drops beneath his feet.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0358.jp2"}, "357": {"fulltext": "HUSBAND, HUSBAND. IT WAS THE CHARMING MONTH. 311\\nHUSBAND. HUSBAND. CEASE\\nYOUR STRH^E\\n[Sent to Thomson, December, 1793.]\\nHusband, husband, cease your strife.\\nNor longer idly rave, sir\\nTho I am your wedded wife.\\nYet I am not your slave, sir.\\nOne of two must still obey,\\nNancy, Nancy\\nIs it Man or Woman, say,\\nMy spouse Nancy\\nIf t is still the lordly word,\\nService and obedience,\\nI 11 desert my sovereign lord,\\nAnd so goodby allegiance\\nSad will I be so bereft,\\nNancy, Nancy\\nYet I II try to make a shift,\\nMy spouse Nancy\\nMy poor heart, then break it must.\\nMy last hour I am near it\\nWhen you lay me in the dust.\\nThink, how will you bear it?\\nI will hope and trust in Heaven,\\nNancy, Nancy\\nStrength to bear it will be given.\\nMy spouse Nancy.\\nWell, sir, from the silent dead.\\nStill I 11 try to daunt you\\nEver round your midnight bed\\nHorrid sprites shall haunt you\\nI 11 wed another like my dear\\nNancy. Nancy\\nThen all Hell will fly for fear,\\nMy spouse Nancy\\nIT WAS THE CHARMING\\nMONTH.\\n[Abridged from a song in The Tea-\\nTable Miscellany. Burns writes to Thom-\\nson, November, 1794 You may think\\nmeanly of this but take a look at the bom-\\nbast original, and you will be surprised that\\nI have made so much of it.\\nChorus.\\nLovely was she by the dawn,\\nYouthful Chloe, charming Chloe,\\nTripping o er the pearly lawn.\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe\\nIt was the charming month of May,\\nWhen all the flow rs were fresh and\\ngay,\\nOne morning, by the break of day.\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe,\\nFrom peaceful slumber she arose.\\nGirt on her mantle and her hose,\\nAnd o er the flow ry mead she goes\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe\\nThe feather d people you might see\\nPerch d all around on every tree\\nWith notes of sweetest melody\\nThey hail the charming Chloe,\\nTill, painting gay the eastern skies.\\nThe glorious sun began to rise,\\nOutrival d by the radiant eyes\\nOf youthful, charming Chloe.\\nChorus.\\nLovely was she by the dawn.\\nYouthful Chloe, charming Chloe,\\nTripping o er the pearly lawn.\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0359.jp2"}, "358": {"fulltext": "3\\nLAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.\\nLAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.\\n[Sent to Thomson, July 3, 1795. A\\ncorrupt set was published in Johnson s\\nMuseum, 1803.]\\nLast May a braw wooer cam down\\nthe lang glen.\\nAnd sair wi his love he did deave\\nme.\\nI said there was naething I hated\\nlike men\\nThe deuce gae wi m to believe me,\\nbelieve me\\nThe deuce gae wi m to believe me\\nHe spak o the darts in my bonie\\nblack een,\\nAnd vow d for my love he was\\ndiein.\\nI said, he might die when he liket for\\nJean\\nThe Lord forgie me for liein, for\\nliein\\nThe Lord forgie me for liein\\nA weel-stocket mailen, himsel for the\\nlaird,\\nAnd marriage aff-hand were his\\nproiTers\\nI never loot on that I kenn d it, or\\ncar d.\\nBut thought I might hae waur\\noffers, waur offers\\nBut thought I might hae waur\\noffers.\\nIV.\\nBut what wad ye think In a fort-\\nnight or less\\n(The Deil tak his taste to gae near\\nher!)\\nHe up the Gate-Slack to my black\\ncousin, Bess\\nGuess ye how, the jad I could\\nbear her, could bear her\\nGuess ye how, the jad I could\\nbear her.\\nBut a the niest week, as I petted wi\\ncare,\\nI gaed to the tryste o Dalgarnock,\\nAnd wlia but my fine fickle lover was\\nthere?\\nI glowr d as I d seen a warlock, a\\nwarlock\\nI glowr d as I d seen a warlock.\\nBut owre my left shouther I gae him\\na blink,\\nLest neebours might say I was\\nsaucy.\\nMy wooer he caper d as he d been in\\ndrink.\\nAnd vow d I was his dear lassie.\\ndear lassie\\nAnd vow d I was his dear lassie\\nI spier d for my cousin fu couthy and\\nsweet\\nGin slie had recovered her hearin?\\nAnd how her new shoon fit her auld,\\nshachTd feet\\nBut heavens how he fell a swearin,\\na swearin\\nBut heavens how he fell a swearin\\nVIII.\\nHe begged, for gudesake, I wad be\\nhis wife,\\nOr else I wad kill him wi sorrow\\nSo e en to preserve the poor body in\\nlife,\\nI think I maun wed him to-morrow,\\nto-morrow\\nI think I maun wed him to-morrow!", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0360.jp2"}, "359": {"fulltext": "MY NANIE S AWA. NOW ROSY MAY.\\n313\\nMY NANIE S AWA.\\n[Sent to Thomson, December 9, 1794.\\nMrs. MacLehose was one of Burns s\\nNanies or Nancies. The lines may or\\nmay not refer to her. ANDREW Lang.]\\nNow in her green mantle blythe\\nNature arrays,\\nAnd listens the lambkins that bleat\\no er the braes,\\nWhile birds warble welcomes in ilka\\ngreen shaw.\\nBut to me it s delightless my\\nNanie s awa.\\nThe snawdrap and primrose our\\nwoodlands adorn.\\nAnd violets bathe in the weet o the\\nmorn.\\nThey pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly\\nthey blaw\\nThey mind me o Nanie and\\nNanie s awa\\nThou lavVock, that springs frae the\\ndews of the lawn\\nThe shepherd to warn o the grey-\\nbreaking dawn.\\nAnd thou mellow mavis, that hails\\nthe night-fa\\nGive over for pity my Nanie s awa.\\nCome Autumn, sae pensive in yellow\\nand grey.\\nAnd soothe me wi tidings o Nature s\\ndecay\\nThe dark, dreary Winter and wild-\\ndriving snaw\\nAlane can delight me now Nanie s\\nawa.\\nNOW ROSY MAY.\\nThe words Dainty Davie glide so\\nsweetly in the air, that to a Scots ear, any\\nsong to it, without Davie being the hero,\\nwould have a lame effect. (R. B. to\\nThomson, August, 1793.)]\\nChorus.\\nMeet me on the Warlock Knowe,\\nDainty Davie, Dainty Davie\\nThere I 11 spend the day wi you,\\nMy ain dear Dainty Davie.\\nNow rosy May comes in wi flowers\\nTo deck her gay, green-spreading\\nbowers\\nAnd now coines in the happy hours\\nTo wander wi my Davie.\\nThe crystal waters round us fa\\nThe merry birds are lovers a\\nThe scented breezes round us blaw,\\nA wandering wi my Davie.\\nWhen purple morning starts the hare\\nTo steal upon her early fare,\\nTiien thro the dews I will repair\\nTo meet my faithfu Davie.\\nWhen day, expiring in the west.\\nThe curtain draws o Nature s rest,\\nI flee to his arms I loe the best\\nAnd that s my ain dear Davie\\nChorus.\\nMeet me on the Warlock Knowe,\\nDainty Davie, Dainty Davie\\nThere I 11 spend the day wi you,\\nMy ain dear Dainty Davie.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0361.jp2"}, "360": {"fulltext": "314 NOW SPRING HAS CLAD. O, THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.\\nNOW SPRING HAS CLAD.\\n[Inscribed to Allan Cunningham,\\ndated Aug. 3, 1795.]\\nand\\nNow spring lias clad the grove in\\ngreen,\\nAnd strewVl the lea wi flowers\\nThe fun-Qw d. waving corn is seen\\nRejoice in fostering showers\\nWhile ilka thing in nature join\\nTheir sorrows to forego,\\nO, why thus all alone are mine\\nThe weary steps o woe\\nThe trout within yon wimpling burn\\nGlides swift, a silver dart.\\nAnd, safe beneath the shady thorn,\\nDefies the angler s art\\nMy life was ance that careless stream,\\nThat wanton trout was I,\\nBut Love wi unrelenting beam\\nHas scorch d my fountains dry.\\nThe little floweret s peaceful lot,\\nIn yonder cliff that grows,\\nWhich, save the linnet s flight, I wot,\\nNae ruder visit knows.\\nWas mine, till Love has o er me past.\\nAnd blighted a my bloom\\nAnd now beneath the withering blast\\nMy youth and joy consume.\\nIV.\\nThe waken d lav rock warbling\\nsprings,\\nAnd climbs the early sky,\\nWinnowing blythe his dewy wings\\nIn Morning s rosy eye:\\nAs little reck t I Sorrow s power.\\nUntil the flowery snare\\nO witching Love in luckless hour\\nMade me the thrall o care\\nO. had my fate been Greenland snows\\nOr Afric s burning zone,\\nWi Man and Nature leagu d my foes,\\nSo Peggy ne er I d known\\nThe wretch, whose doom is hope nae\\nmair,\\nWhat tongue his woes can tell,\\nWithin whose bosom, save Despair,\\nNae kinder spirits dwell\\nO, THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.\\nThis is No My Ain House, puzzles\\nme a good deal; in fact, I think to change\\nthe old rhythm of the first, or chorus part\\nof the tune, will have a good effect. I\\nwould have it something like the gallop of\\nthe following. (Burns to Thomson, June,\\n1795-)]\\nCliortis.\\nO, this is no my ain lassie,\\nFail- tho the lassie be\\nWeel ken I my ain lassie\\nKind love is in her e e.\\nI SEE a form, I see a face,\\nYe weel may wi the fairest place\\nIt wants to me the witching grace,\\nThe kind love that s in her e e.\\nShe s bonie, blooming, straight, and\\ntall.\\nAnd lang has had my heart in thrall\\nAnd ay it charms my very saul.\\nThe kind love that s in the e e.\\nA thief sae pawkie is my Jean,\\nTo steal a blink by a unseen\\nBut gleg as light are lover s een,\\nWhen kind love is in the e e.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0362.jp2"}, "361": {"fulltext": "O, WHAT YE WHA THAT LO ES ME. SC(3TS, WHA IIAE. 315\\nIt may escape the courtly sparks,\\nIt may escape the learned clerks\\nBut well the watchino; lover marks\\nThe kind love that s in her e e.\\nC/ior7ts.\\nO, this is no my ain lassie,\\nFair tho the lassie be\\nWeel ken I my ain lassie\\nKind love is in her e e.\\nO, WAT YE WHA THAT\\nLO ES ME.\\n[Sent to Mr. Cleghorn, in January, 1796,\\nafter an illness of the poet s.]\\nC/iorns.\\nO, that s the lassie o my heart.\\nMy lassie ever dearer\\nO, that s the queen o womankind,\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her\\nO, WAT ye wha that lo es me,\\nAnd has my heart a keeping?\\nO, sweet is she that lo es me\\nAs dews o summer weeping.\\nIn tears the rosebuds steeping\\nIf thou shalt meet a lassie\\nIn grace and beauty charming,\\nTliat e en thy chosen lassie.\\nErewhile thy breast sae warming,\\nHad ne er sic powers alarming\\nIf thou hadst heard her talking\\n(And thy attention s plighted),\\nThat ilka body talking\\nBut her by thee is slighted,\\nAnd thou art all-delighted\\nIV.\\nIf thou hast met this fair one,\\nWhen frae her thou hast parted.\\nIf every other fair one\\nBut her thou hast deserted.\\nAnd thou art broken-hearted\\nC /lories.\\nO, that s the lassie o my heart,\\nMy lassie ever dearer\\nO, tliat s the queen o womankind,\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her\\nSCOTS. WHA HAE.\\n[Varying accounts are given of the time\\nand circumstances of the origin of this song.\\nJohn Syme connects it with a tour with\\nBurns in Galloway in July, 1793: I told\\nyou that in the midst of the storm on the\\nwilds of Kenmure, Burns was rapt in medi-\\ntation. What do you think he was about?\\nHe was charging the English army along\\nwith Bruce at Bannockburn. He was en-\\ngaged in the same manner on our ride from\\nSt. Mary s Isle, and I did not disturb him.\\nNext day he produced me the following\\naddress of Bruce to his troops, and gave\\nme a copy for Dalzell. Burns tel s a dif-\\nferent tale. After some remarks to Thomson\\n(Aug. or Sept., 1793) on the old air Hey\\nTutti Taiti, and on the tradition that it\\nwas Robert Bruce s march at the battle of\\nBannockburn, he introduces Scots Wha\\nHae: This thought, in my yesternight s\\nevening walk, roused me to a pitch of en-\\nthusiasm on the theme of liberty and inde-\\npendence, which I threw into a kind of\\nScots ode, fitted to the air, that one might\\nsuppose to be the gallant royal Scot s ad-\\ndress to his heroic followers on that event-\\nful morning. The two statements are\\nirreconcilable and we must conclude either\\nthat Syme misdated the tour, and that the\\nyesternight of Burns was the night of his\\nreturn to Dumfries, or that Burns did not\\ngive Syme a copy until some time after his\\nreturn, and that like some other circum-", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0363.jp2"}, "362": {"fulltext": "3i6\\nTHEIR GROVES O SWEET MYRTLE. THINE AM I.\\nstances he was pleased to father, his yes-\\nternight s evening walk need not be literally\\ninterpreted.]\\nScots, wha hae wi Wallace bled,\\nScots, wham Bruce has aften led,\\nWelcome to your gory bed\\nOr to victorie\\nII.\\nNow s the day, and now s the hour\\nSee the front o battle lour,\\nSee approach proud Edward s power\\nChains and slaverie\\nWha will be a traitor knave?\\nWha can fill a coward s grave\\nWha sae base as be a slave?\\nLet him turn, and flee\\nWha for Scotland s King and Law\\nFreedom s sword will strongly draw.\\nFreeman stand or freeman fa\\nLet him follow me\\nBy Oppression s woes and pains,\\nBy your sons in servile chains,\\nWe will drain our dearest veins\\nBut they shall be free\\nLay the proud usurpers low\\nTyrants fall in every foe\\nLiberty s in every blow\\nLet us do, or die\\nTHEIR GROVES O SWEET\\nMYRTLE.\\nThe Irish air, Humours of Glen, is a\\ngreat favorite of mine and as, except the\\nsilly verses in The Poor Soldier, there are\\nnot any decent words for it, I have written\\nfor it as follows. (Burns to Thomson,\\nApril, 1795.)]\\nTheir groves o sweet myrtle let\\nforeign lands reckon.\\nWhere bright -beaming summers\\nexalt the perfume\\nFar dearer to me yon lone glen o\\ngreen breckan,\\nWi the burn stealing under the\\nlang, yellow broom\\nFar dearer to me are yon humble\\nbroom bowers.\\nWhere the blue-bell and gowan lurk\\nlowly, unseen\\nFor there, lightly tripping among the\\nwild flowers,\\nA-list ning the linnet, aft wanders\\nmy Jean.\\nTho rich is the breeze in their gay,\\nsunny vallies.\\nAnd cauld Caledonia s blast on the\\nwave.\\nTheir sweet-scented woodlands that\\nskirt the proud palace,\\nWhat are they The haunt of the\\ntyrant and slave\\nThe slave s spicy forests and gold-\\nbubbling fountains\\nThe brave Caledonian views wi\\ndisdain\\nHe wanders as free as the winds of\\nhis mountains.\\nSave Love s willing fetters the\\nchains o his Jean.\\nTHINE AM I.\\n[Intended as English words to The\\nQuaker s Wife. Burns afterwards intro-\\nduced Chloris into the song.]\\nThine am I, my faithful Fair,\\nThine my lovely Nancy", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0364.jp2"}, "363": {"fulltext": "THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. HIGHLAND MARY. 317\\nEvVy pulse along my veins,\\nEv ry roving fancy\\nTo thy bosom lay my heart\\nThere to throb and languish.\\nTho despair had wrung its core,\\nThat would heal its anguish.\\nTake away those rosy lips\\nRich with balmy treasure\\nTurn away thine eyes of love,\\nLest I die with pleasure\\nWhat is life when wanting love?\\nNight without a morning\\nLove the cloudless summer s sun,\\nNature gay adorning.\\nTHOU HAST LEFT ME EVER,\\nJAMIE.\\nI do not give these verses for any\\nmerit they have. I composed them at the\\ntime in which Patie Allan s mither de ed\\nthat was about the back o midnight\\nand by the leeside of a bowl of puncJT, which\\nhad overset every mortal in company except\\nthe Hautbois and the Muse. (Burns to\\nThomson, September, 1793.)]\\nThou hast left me ever, Jamie,\\nThou hast left me ever\\nThou hast left me ever. Jamie,\\nThou hast left me ever I\\nAften hast thou vow d that Death\\nOnly should us sever\\nNow thou \\\\st left thy lass for ay\\nI maun see thee never, Jamie,\\nI 11 see thee never\\nThou hast me forsaken, Jamie,\\nThou hast me forsaken\\nThou hast me forsaken, Jamie,\\nThou hast me forsaken\\nThou canst love another jo.\\nWhile my heart is breaking.\\nSoon my weary een I 11 close.\\nNever mair to waken, Jamie,\\nNever mair to waken\\nHIGHLAND MARY.\\nThe foregoing song pleases myself; I\\nthink it is in my happiest manner; you will\\nsee at first glance that it suits the air. The\\nsubject of the song is one of the most inter-\\nesting passages of my youthful days and I\\nown that I would be much flattered to see\\nthe verses set to an air which would ensure\\ncelebrity. Perhaps, after all, t is the still\\nglowing prejudice of my heart that throws\\na borrowed lustre over the merits of the\\ncomposition. (Burns to Thomson, Nov.\\n14, 1792.)]\\nYe banks and braes and streams\\naround\\nThe castle o Montgomery,\\nGreen be your woods, and fair your\\nflowers.\\nYour waters never drumlie\\nThere Summer first unfald her robes,\\nAnd there the langest tarry\\nFor there I took the last fareweel\\nO my sweet Highland Mary\\nHow sweetly bloom d the gay, green\\nbirk,\\nHow rich the hawthorn s blossom.\\nAs underneath their fragrant shade\\nI clasp d her to my bosom\\nThe golden hours on angel wings\\nFlew o er me and my dearie\\nFor dear to me as light and life\\nWas my sweet Highland Mary.\\nWi monie a vow and lock d embrace\\nOur parting was fu tender;\\nAnd, pledging aft to meet again.\\nWe tore oursels asunder.\\nBut O, fell Death s untimely frost.\\nThat nipt my flower sae early", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0365.jp2"}, "364": {"fulltext": "3iS MV CIILOKIS, MARK. FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS.\\nNow green s the sod, and caiild s the\\nclay,\\nThat wraps my Highland Mary\\nIV.\\nO, pale, pale now, those rosy lips\\nI aft hae kiss d sae fondly\\nAnd closed for ay, the sparkling\\nglance\\nThat dwalt on me sae kindly\\nAnd mouldering now in silent dust\\nThat heart that lo ed me dearly\\nBut still within my bosom s core\\nShall live my Higliland Mary.\\nMY CHLORIS, MARK.\\nOn my visit the other day to my fair\\nChloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely\\ngoddess of my inspiration) she suggested\\nan idea which on my return from the visit I\\nwrought into the following song. (Burns\\nto Thomson, November, 1794.)]\\nMy Chloris, mark how green the\\ngroves.\\nThe primrose banks how fair\\nThe balmy gales awake the flowers.\\nAnd wave thy flaxen hair.\\nThe lav rock shuns the palace gay,\\nAnd o er the cottage sings\\nFor Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,\\nTo shepherds as to kings.\\nLet minstrels sweep the skilfu string\\nIn lordly, lighted ha\\nThe shepherd stops his simple reed,\\nBlythe in the birken shaw.\\nThe princely revel may survey\\nOur rustic dance wi scorn\\nBut are their hearts as light as ours\\nBeneath the milk-white thorn?\\nThe shepherd in the flowery glen\\nIn shc])hcrd s phrase will woo:\\nThe courtier tells a finer tale\\nBut is his heart as true?\\nHere wild-wood flowers I ve pu d, to\\ndeck\\nThat spotless breast o thine\\nThe courtier s gems may witness\\nlove\\nBut t is na love like mine\\nFAIREST MAID ON DEVON\\nBANKS.\\n[Burns s last song. I tried my hand on\\nRothiemurchie this morning. The meas-\\nure is so difficult that it is impossible to\\ninfuse much genius into the lines. (Burns\\nto Thomson, July 12, 1796.)]\\nChorus.\\nFairest maid on Devon banks,\\nCrystal Devon, winding Devon,\\nWilt thou lay that frown aside.\\nAnd smile as thou wert wont to do?\\nFull well thou know st I love thee\\ndear\\nCouldst thou to malice lend an ear!\\nO, did not Love exclaim Forbear,\\nNor use a faithful lover so\\nThen come, thou fairest of the fair.\\nThose wonted smiles, O, let me share,\\nAnd by thy beauteous self I swear\\nNo love but thine my heart shall\\nknow\\nChorus.\\nFairest maid on Devon banks.\\nCrystal Devon, winding Devon,\\nWilt tiiou lay that frown aside.\\nAnd smile as thou wert wont to do?", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0366.jp2"}, "365": {"fulltext": "LONG, LONG THE NIGHT.\\n319\\nLASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE\\nLOCKS.\\n[The Chloris, who did duty as Burns s\\nMuse for some time after his break with\\nMaria Riddell, was the daughter of William\\nLorimer. She was unfortunate in her\\nmarried relations, and her misfortunes so\\ntouched the poet that he became exceed-\\ningly enamoured of her.]\\nChofus.\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks,\\nBonie lassie, artless lassie,\\nWilt thovi wi me tent the flocks\\nWilt thou be my dearie, O?\\nNow Nature deeds the flowery lea,\\nAnd a is young and sweet like thee,\\nO, wilt thou share its joys wi me,\\nAnd say thou It be my dearie, O\\nThe primrose bank, the wimpling\\nburn.\\nThe cuckoo on the milk-white thorn.\\nThe wanton lambs at early morn\\nShall welcome thee, my dearie, O.\\nIII.\\nAnd when the welcome simmer\\nshower\\nHas cheer d ilk drooping little flower.\\nWe ll to the breathing woodbine-\\nbower\\nAt sultry noon, my dearie, O.\\nWhen Cynthia lights wi silver ray\\nThe weary shearer s hameward way.\\nThro yellow waving fields we 11 stray,\\nAnd talk o love, my dearie, O.\\nV.\\nAnd when the howling wintry blast\\nDisturbs my lassie s midnight rest.\\nEnclasped to my faithfu breast,\\nI 11 comfort thee, my dearie, O.\\nC/ior2cs.\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks,\\nBonie lassie, artless lassie,\\nWilt thou wi me tent the flocks\\nWilt thou be my dearie, O\\nLONG, LONG THE NIGHT.\\n[A song on Chloris Being III. It\\nappears that Mrs. Burns was not jealous\\nof Chloris. A letter of Burns s avers that\\nshe asked Chloris to dinner. ANDREW\\nLang.]\\nC/iorifs.\\nLong, long the night,\\nHeavy comes the morrow,\\nWhile my soul s delight\\nIs on her bed of sorrow.\\nCan I cease to care.\\nCan I cease to languish,\\nWhile my darling fair\\nIs on the couch of anguish\\nII.\\nEv ry hope is fled,\\nEv ry fear is terror\\nSlumber e en I dread,\\nEv ry dream is horror.\\nIII.\\nHear me. Powers Divine:\\nO, in pity, hear me\\nTake aught else of mine,\\nBut my Chloris spare me\\nChorus.\\nLong, long the night.\\nHeavy comes the morrow.\\nWhile my soul s delight\\nIs on her bed of sorrow.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0367.jp2"}, "366": {"fulltext": "320\\nLOGAN WATER. YON ROSY BRIER\\nLOGAN WATER.\\n[The refrain of an old ballad. Burns\\nsays: If I have done anytliing like justice\\nto my feelings, the following song, com-\\nposed in thM;c-quarters of an hour s lucu-\\nbrations in my elbow-chair, ought to have\\nsome merit.\\nI.\\nO Logan, sweetly did.st thou glide\\nThat day I was my Willie s bride,\\nAnd years sin syne hae o er us run\\nLike Logan to the simmer sun.\\nBut now thy tlowery banks appear\\nLike drumlie winter, dark and drear.\\nWhile my dear lad maun face his\\nfaes\\nFar, far frae me and Logan braes.\\nAgain the merry month of May\\nHas made our hills and vallies gay\\nThe birds rejoice in leafy bowers,\\nThe bees hum round the breathing\\nflowers\\nBlythe Morning lifts his rosy eye.\\nAnd Evening s tears are tears o joy\\nMy soul delightless a surveys.\\nWhile Willie s far frae Logan braes.\\nWithin yon milk-white hawthorn\\nbush,\\nAmang her nestlings sits the thrush\\nHer faithfu mate will share her toil.\\nOr wi his song her cares beguile.\\nBut I wi my sweet nurslings here,\\nNae mate to help, nae mate to cheer.\\nPass widow d nights and joyless days.\\nWhile Willie s far frae Losan braes.\\nO, wae upon you. Men o State,\\nThat brethren rouse in deadly hate\\nAs ye make monie a fond heart\\nmourn,\\nSae may it on your heads return\\nYe mindna mid your cruel joys\\nThe widow s tears, the orplian s\\nBut soon may peace bring\\ndays.\\nAnd Willie hame to Logan braes\\ncries\\nhappy\\nYON ROSY BRIER.\\n[Sent to Thomson in August, 1795.]\\nO, BONIE was yon rosy brier\\nThat blooms sae far frae haunt o\\nman,\\nAnd bonie she and ah, how dear\\nIt shaded frae the e enin sun\\nYon rosebuds in the morning dew,\\nHow pure among the leaves sae\\ngreen\\nBut purer was the lover s vow.\\nThey witnessed in their shade yes-\\ntreen.\\nAll in its rude and prickly bower,\\nThat crimson rose how sweet and\\nfair\\nBut love is far a sweeter flower\\nAmid life s thorny path o care.\\nIV.\\nThe pathless wild and wimpling burn,\\nWi Chloris in my arms, be mine,\\nAnd 1 the warld nor wish nor scorn\\nIts joys and griefs alike resign\\nWHERE ARE THE JOYS.\\nSaw Ye My Father? is one of my\\ngreatest favorites. The evening before last\\nI wandered out, and began a tender song.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0368.jp2"}, "367": {"fulltext": "i\\nBEHOLD THE HOUR. FORLORN MY LOVE.\\n321\\nin what 1 think is its native style. (Burns\\nto Thomson, September, 1793)]\\nWhere are the joys I hae met in\\nthe morning,\\nThat danc d to the lark s early\\nsang\\nWhere is the peace that awaited my\\nwand ring\\nAt e ening the wild-woods amang\\nNae mair a-winding the course o\\nyon river\\nAnd marking sweet flowerets sae\\nfair,\\nNae mair I trace the light footsteps\\no Pleasure,\\nBut Sorrow and sad-siehing; Care.\\nIs it that Summer s forsaken our\\nvallies,\\nAnd grim, surly Winter is near?\\nNo, no, the bees humming round the\\ngay roses\\nProclaim it the pride 0 the year.\\nFain wad I hide what I fear to dis-\\ncover.\\nYet lang, lang, too well hae I\\nknown\\nA that has caused the wreck in my\\nbosom\\nIs Jenny, fair Jenny alone\\nTime cannot aid me, my griefs are\\nimmortal.\\nNot Hope dare a comfort bestow.\\nCome then, enamor d and fond of my\\nanguish.\\nEnjoyment I 11 seek in my woe\\nY\\nBEHOLD THE HOUR.\\nThe following song I have composed\\nfor Oran Gaoil, the Highland air that you\\ntell ine in your last you have resolvtd to\\ngive a place in your book. I have this\\nmoment finished the song, so you have it\\nglowing from the mint. It it suit you, well\\nif not, t is also well (Burns to Thomson,\\nSeptember, 1793.)]\\nBehold the hour, the boat arrive\\nThou goest, the darling of my\\nheart\\nSever d from thee, can I survive\\nBut Fate has wilPd and we must\\npart.\\nI 11 often greet the surging swell,\\nYon distant isle will often hail\\nE en here I took the last farewell\\nThere, latest mark d her vanish d\\nsail.\\nAlong the solitary shore.\\nWhile flitting sea-fowl round me\\ncry.\\nAcross the rolling, dashing roar,\\nI 11 westward turn my wistful eye\\nHappy, thou Indian grove, I 11 say,\\nWhere now mv Nancy s path may\\nbe!\\nWhile thro thy sweets she loves to\\nstray,\\nO, tell me, does she muse on me?\\nFORLORN MY LOVE.\\nHow do you like the foregoing I\\nhave written it within this hour; so much\\nfor the speed of my Pegasus, but what say\\nyou to his bottom f (Burns to Thomson,\\nMay, 1795.)]\\nCJiortis.\\nO, wert thou, love, but near me.\\nBut near, near, near me.\\nHow kindly thou would theer me.\\nAnd mingle sighs with mine, love", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0369.jp2"}, "368": {"fulltext": "322\\nCA THE YOWES. HOW CAN MY POOR HEART.\\nForlorn my love, no comfort near.\\nFar, for from thee I wander here\\nFar, far from thee, the fate severe,\\nAt which I most repine, love.\\nAround me scowls a wintry sky,\\nBlasting each bud of hope and joy.\\nAnd shelter, shade, nor home have 1\\nSave in these arms of thine, love.\\nCold alter d friendship s cruel part,\\nTo poison Fortune s ruthless dart\\nLet me not break thy faithful heart,\\nAnd say that fate is mine, love!\\nBut, dreary tho the moments fleet,\\nO, let me think we yet shall meet\\nThat only ray of solace sweet\\nCan on thy Chloris shine, love!\\nChorus.\\nO, wert thou, love, but near me,\\nBut near, near, near me.\\nHow kindly thou would cheer me.\\nAnd mingle sighs with mine, love!\\nCA THE YOWES TO THE\\nKNOWES.\\nSECOND SET.\\n[The chorus from an older song. (See\\np. 245-)]\\nCJionts.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where the heather grows,\\nCa them where the burnie rowes.\\nMy bonie dearie.\\nHark, the mavis evening sang\\nSounding Clouden s woods amang\\nThen a-faulding let us gang.\\nMy bonie dearie.\\nWe 11 gae down by Clouden side.\\nThro the hazels, spreading wide\\nO er the waves that sweetly glide\\nTo the moon sae clearly.\\nIII.\\nYonder Clouden s silent towers\\nWhere, at moonshine s midnight\\nhours.\\nO er the dewy bending flowers\\nFairies dance sae cheery.\\nIV.\\nGhaist nor bogle shalt thou fear\\nThou rt to Love and Heav n sae dear\\nNocht of ill may come thee near.\\nMy bonie dearie.\\nChorus.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where the heather grows,\\nCa them where the burnie rowes,\\nMy bonie dearie.\\nHOW CAN MY POOR HEART.\\n[Thomson did not think this one of\\nBiirns s happiest productions, and told\\nhim so. To which Burns replied Mak-\\ning a poem is like begetting a son; you\\ncannot know whether you have a wise man\\nor a fool, until you produce him to the world\\nand try him. j\\nHow can my poor heart be glad\\nWhen absent from my sailor lad?\\nHow can I the thought forego\\nHe s on the seas to meet the foe?\\nLet me wander, let me rove.\\nStill my heart is with my love.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0370.jp2"}, "369": {"fulltext": "IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY.\\no^2\\nNightly dreams and thoughts by day\\nAre with him that s far away.\\nOn the seas and far away.\\nOn stormy seas and far away\\nNightly dreams and thoughts by\\nday,\\nAre ay with him that s far away.\\nWhen in summer noon I faint,\\nAs weary flocks around me pant,\\nHaply in this scorching sun\\nMy sailor s thund ring at his gun.\\nBullets, spare my only joy\\nBullets, spare my darling boy\\nFate, do with me what you may.\\nSpare but him that s far away\\nOn the seas and far away.\\nOn stormy seas and far away\\nFate, do with me what you ma\\nSpare but him that s far away\\nAt the starless, midnight hoi^\\nWhen Winter rules with boundless\\npow er.\\nAs the storms the forests tear,\\nAnd thunders rend the howling air.\\nListening to the doul)ling roar\\nSurging on the rocky shore,\\nAll I can I weep and pray\\nFor his weal that s far away.\\nOn the seas and far awa}\\nOn stormy seas and far away,\\nAll I can I weejj and pray\\nFor his weal that s far away.\\nPeace, thy olive wand extend\\nAnd bid wild War his ravage end\\nIVIan with brother man to meet.\\nAnd as brother kindly greet!\\nThen may Heaven with prosjDerous\\ngales\\nFill my sailor s welcome sails,\\nTo my arms their charge convey.\\nMy dear lad tliat s far away\\nOn the seas and far away,\\nOn stormy seas and far away.\\nTo my arms their charge convey.\\nMy dear lad that s far away\\nERE FOR HONEST\\nPOVERTY.\\n[Tftis famous song is very plainly an ef-\\nfectyOf the writer s sympathies with the spirit\\narm the fact of the French Revolution, and\\no/that estrangement from wealthier loyaHst\\niends with which his expression of these\\nSympathies had been visited.]\\nIs there for honest poverty\\nThat hings his head, an a that?\\nThe coward slave, we pass him by-\\nWe dare be poor for a that\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nOur toils obscure, an a that.\\nThe rank is but the guinea s stamp.\\nThe man s the gowd for a that.\\nWhat though on hamely fare we dine.\\nWear hoddin grey, an a that?\\nGie fools their silks, and knaves their\\nwine\\nA man s a man for a that.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nTheir tinsel show, an a that.\\nThe honest man, tho e er sae poor,\\nIs king o men for a that.\\nYe see yon birkie ca d a lord,\\nWha struts, an stares, an a that?\\nTho hundreds worship at liis word.\\nHe s but a cuif for a that.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nHis ribband, star, an a that,\\nThe man o independent mind.\\nHe looks an laughs at a that.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0371.jp2"}, "370": {"fulltext": "324 MARK YONDER POMP. O, LET ME IN THIS AE NKJHT.\\nIV.\\nA prince can mak a belted knio;ht,\\nA marquis, duke, an a that\\nBut an honest man s aboon his\\nmight\\nGuid faith, he mauna fa that\\nVnv a that, an a that.\\nTheir dignities, an a that,\\nThe pith o sense an jjride o worth\\nAre higher rank than a that.\\nV.\\nThen let us pray that come it may\\n(As come it will for a that)\\nThat Sense and Worth o er a\\nearth\\nShall bear the gree an a that\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nIt s comin yet for a that,\\nThat man to man the world o er\\nShall brithers be for a that.\\nthe\\nMARK YONDER PpiVlP\\n[A reverie on Chloris. Well, this is\\nnot amiss. (Burns to Thomson, May,\\n1795-)]\\nMark yonder pomp of costly fashion\\nRound the wealthy, titled bride\\nBut, when compar d with real pas-\\nsion,\\nPoor is all that princely pride.\\nWhat are the showy treasures\\nWhat are the noisy pleasures\\nThe gay, gaudy glare of vanity and\\nart\\nThe polish d jewel s blaze\\nMay draw the wond ring gaze.\\nAnd courtly grandeur bright\\nThe fancy may delight,\\nBut never, never can come near the\\nheart\\nBut did you see my dearest Chloris\\nIn simplicity s array,\\nLovely as yonder sweet opening\\nflower is.\\nShrinking from the gaze of day\\nO, then, the heart alarming\\nAnd all resistless charming,\\nIn love s delightful fetters she claims\\nthe willing soul\\nAmbition would disown\\nThe world s imperial crown\\nEv n Avarice would deny\\nHis worsliipp d deity.\\nAnd feel thro every vein love s rap-\\ntures roll\\nO, LET ME IN THIS AE\\nNIGHT.\\n[Founded on old ballads. Burns made\\nfour trials before he produced this song,\\nwhich he sent to Thomson in February,\\nI79S-]\\nC//o?-//s.\\nO, let me in this ae night,\\nThis ae, ae. ae night\\nO, let me in this ae night,\\nAnd rise, and let me in\\nO LASSIE, are ye sleepin yet.\\nOr are ye waukin, I wad wit\\nFor Love has bound me hand an\\nfit,\\nAnd I would fain be in, jo.\\nThou hear st the winter wind an\\nweet\\nNae star blinks thro the driving\\nsleet!\\nTak pity on my weary feet.\\nAnd shield me frae the rain, jo.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0372.jp2"}, "371": {"fulltext": "O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY.\\n325\\nThe bitter blast that round me blaws,\\nUnheeded howls, unheeded fa s:\\nThe cauldness o thy heart s the\\ncause\\nOf a my care and pine, jo.\\nChorus.\\nO, let me in this ae night,\\nThis ae. ae, ae night\\nO, let me in this ae night,\\nAnd rise and let me in\\nHer Answer.\\nClionis.\\nI tell you now this ae night,\\nThis ae, ae. ae night.\\nAnd ance for a this ae night,\\nI winna let ye in, jo.\\nO, TELL me na o wind an rain,\\nUpbraid na me \\\\vi cauld disdain,\\nGae back the gate ye cam again,\\n1 winna let ye in, jo!\\nThe snellest blast at mirkest hours,\\nThat round the pathless wand rer\\npours\\nIs nocht to what poor she endures,\\nThat s trusted faithless man, jo.\\nThe sweetest flower that deck d the\\nmead.\\nNow trodden like the vilest weed\\nLet simple maid the lesson read\\nThe weird may be her ain, jo.\\nThe bird that charm d his summer\\nday.\\nAnd now the cruel fowler s prey,\\nLet that to witless woman say\\nThe gratefu heart of man, jo.\\nChorus.\\nI tell you now this ae night.\\nThis ae, ae, ae night.\\nAnd ance for a this ae night,\\nI winna let ye in, jo.\\nPHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT\\nDAY.\\n[Burns began this song in September,\\n1794. He finished it in November, though\\na keen blowing frost, in his walk before\\nbreakfast. The portion written in Septem-\\nber consisted of stanzas iv. and v.]\\nCJiorus.\\nHe and She. For a the joys that\\ngowd can gie,\\n1 dinna care a single flie\\nUad T 1 1 ii S I ld for\\nTh^-llass[-ll\u00c2\u00ab^^^^^^^|lassl- me.\\nAnd that s my ain dear pj^^ju/^ 1:\\nHe. O PHILLY, happy be that day\\nWhen, roving thro the gather d\\nhay.\\nMy youthfu heart was stown\\naway,\\nAnd by thy charms, my Philly\\nShe. O Willy, ay I bless the grove\\nWhere first I own d my maiden\\nlove,\\nWhilst thou did pledge the\\nPowers above\\nTo be my ain dear Willy.\\nHe. As songsters of the early year\\nAre ilka day mair sweet to hear,\\nSo ilka day to me mair dear\\nAnd charming is my Philly.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0373.jp2"}, "372": {"fulltext": "326\\nO, WERE MY LOVE. SLEEP ST THOU.\\nS/ie. As on the brier the budding rose\\nStill richer breathes, and fairer\\nblows.\\nSo in my tender bosom grows\\nThe love I bear my Willy.\\nin.\\nHe. The milder sun and bluer sky.\\nThat crown my harvest cares wi\\njoy.\\nWere ne er sae welcome to my\\neye\\nAs is a sight o Philly.\\nShe. The little swallow s wanton\\nwing, _\\nTho wafting o er the flowery\\nspring,\\nDid ne er to me sic tidings bring\\nAs meeting o my Willy.\\nHe. The bee, that thro the sunny\\nhour\\nSips nectar in the op ning flower,\\nCompar d wi my delight is poor\\nUpon the lips o Philly\\nShe. The woodbine in the dewy\\nweet.\\nWhen ev ning shades in silence\\nmeet,\\nIs nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet\\nAs is a kiss o Willy.\\nHe. Let Fortune s wheel at random\\nrin,\\nAnd fools may tyne, and knaves\\nmay win\\nMy thoughts are a bound up on\\nane.\\nAnd that s my ain dear Philly.\\nShe. What s a the joys that gowd\\ncan gie?\\nI dinna care a single flie\\nThe lad I love s tlie lad for me,\\nAnd that s my ain dear Willy.\\nChorus.\\nHe and She. For a the joys that\\ngowd can gie,\\nI dinna care a single flie\\nT-i lad It, lad for\\nThe I love s the r\\nlass lass me,\\nAnd that s my ain dear pK-ii\\nO, WERE MY LOVE.\\n[Adapted by Burns from an old song,\\nand sent to Thomson, June, 1793.]\\nO, WERE my love yon lilac fair\\nWi purple blossoms to the spring,\\nAnd I a bird to shelter there,\\nWhen wearied on my little wing,\\nHow 1 wad mourn when it was torn\\nBy Autumn wild and Winter rude\\nBut I wad sing on wanton wing,\\nWhen youthfu May its bloom\\nrenew d.\\nO, gin my love were yon red rose,\\nTliat grows upon the castle wa\\nAnd I mysel a drap o dew\\nInto her bonie breast to fa\\nO, there, beyond expression blest,\\nI d feast on beauty a the night,\\nSeal d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,\\nTill fley d awa by Phoebus light\\nSLEEP ST THOU.\\n[Burns sent a copy to Thomson, Oct. 19,\\n1794, and a revised copy on Oct. 27.]\\nSleep st thou, or wauk st thou, fairest\\ncreature?\\nRosy Morn now lifts his eye,\\nNumbering ilka bud, which Nature\\nWaters wi the tears 0 joy.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0374.jp2"}, "373": {"fulltext": "THERE WAS A LASS.\\n327\\nNow to the streaming fountain\\nOr up tlie heathy mountain\\nThe hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-\\nwanton stray\\nIn twining hazel bowers\\nHis lay the linnet pours\\nThe laverock to the sky\\nAscends wi sangs o joy.\\nWhile the sun and thou arise to oless\\nthe day\\nPhcebus, gilding the brow of morning,\\nBanishes ilk darksome shade.\\nNature gladdening and adorning\\nSuch to me my lovely maid\\nWhen frae my Chloris parted.\\nSad, cheerless, broken-hearted,\\nThe night s gloomy shades, cloudy,\\ndark, o ercast my sky\\nBut when she charms my sight\\nIn pride of Beauty s light,\\nWhen thro my very heart\\nHer beaming glories dart,\\nIT is then tis then I wake to lite\\nand joy\\nVARIATION\\nOn the preceding poem, as given in the\\nChambers Edition.\\nNow to the streaming fountain.\\nOr up the heathy mountain\\nThe hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-\\nwanton stray.\\nIn twining hazel bowers\\nHis lay the linnet pours\\nThe lavrock. to the sky\\nAscends wi sangs o joy.\\nWhile the sun and thou arise to bless\\nthe day.\\nWhen frae my Chloris parted,\\nSad, cheerless, broken-hearted.\\nThe night s gloomy shades, cloudy,\\ndark, o ercast my sky\\nBut when she charms my sight.\\nIn pride of Beauty s light\\nWhen thro my very heart\\nHer beaming glories dart\\nTis then tis then I wake to life\\nand joy\\nTHERE WAS A LASS.\\n[The heroine was jean M Murdo,\\ndaus^hter of Burns s friend, John M Murdo.\\nrhe^finished ballad was sent to Thomson,\\nJuly, I793-]\\nThere was a lass, and she was fair\\nAt kirk and market to be seen\\nWhen a our fairest maids were met,\\nThe fairest maid was bonie Jean.\\nAnd ay she wrought her country wark,\\nAnd ay she sang sae merrilie\\nThe blythest bird upon the bush\\nHad ne er a lighter heart than she!\\nIII.\\nBut hawks will rob the tender joys,\\nThat bless the little lintwhite s nest.\\nAnd frost will blight the tairest\\nflowers,\\nAnd love will break the soundest\\nrest.\\nYoung Robie was the brawest lad.\\nThe flower and pride of a the glen,\\nAnd he had owsen. sheep, and kye,\\nAnd wanton naigies nine or ten.\\nV.\\nHe o-aed wi Jeanie to the tryste,\\nn e danc d wi Jeanie on the down,\\nAnd, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,\\nHer heart was tint, her peace was\\nstown", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0375.jp2"}, "374": {"fulltext": "328 THE LEA-RIG. MY WIFE S A WINSOME WEE THING.\\nAs in the bosom of the stream\\nThe moon-beam dwells at dewy\\ne en.\\nSo, trembling pure, was tender love\\nWithin the breast of bonie Jean.\\nAnd now she works her country s\\nwark,\\nAnd ay she sighs wi care and pain,\\nYet wist na what her ail might be,\\nOr what wad make her weel again.\\nBut did na Jeanie s heart loup light,\\nAnd did na joy blink in her e e.\\nAs Robie tauld a tale o love\\nAe e enin on the lily lea?\\nWhile monie a bird sang sweet o\\nlove.\\nAnd monie a flower blooms o er\\nthe dale,\\nHis cheek to hers he aft did lay,\\nAnd whisper d thus his tender\\ntale\\nO Jeanie fair, I lo e thee dear.\\nO, canst thou think to fancy me\\nOr wilt thou leave thy mammie s cot.\\nAnd learn to tent the farms wi me?\\nAt barn or byre thou shalt na drudge.\\nOr naething else to trouble thee,\\nBut stray amang the heather-bells,\\nAnd tent the waving corn wi me.\\nNow what could artless Jeanie do?\\nShe had nae will to say him na!\\nAt length she blush d a sweet consent,\\nAnd love was ay between them twa.\\nTHE LEA-RIG.\\n[Suggested by an older song. Fergus-\\nson also wrote a song to this refrain.]\\nWhen o er the hill the eastern star\\nTells l)ughtin time is near, my jo.\\nAnd owsen frae the furrow d field\\nReturn sae dowf and weary, O,\\nDown by the burn, where scented\\nbirks\\nWi dew are hangin clear, my jo,\\nI 11 meet thee on tlie lea-rig.\\nMy ain kind dearie, O.\\nAt midnight hour in mirkest glen\\nI d rove, and ne er be eerie, O,\\nIf thro that glen I gaed to thee,\\nMy ain kind dearie, O\\nAltho the night were ne er sae wild,\\nAnd I were ne er sae weary, O,\\nI 11 meet thee on the lea-rig,\\nMy ain kind dearie, O.\\nIII.\\nThe hunter lo es the morning sun\\nTo rouse the tnountain deer, my jo\\nAt noon tlie fisher takes the glen\\nAdown the burn to steer, my jo\\nGie me the hour o gloamin grey\\nIt maks my heart sae cheery, O,\\nTo meet tliee on the lea-rig,\\nMy ain kind dearie, O\\nMY WIFE S A WINSOME WEE\\nTHING.\\nThe following I made extempore and\\nthough, on further study, I might give you\\nsomething more profound, yet it might not\\nsuit the light-horse gullop of the air so well\\nas this random elink. (Burns to Thom-\\nson, Nov. 8, 1792.)]", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0376.jp2"}, "375": {"fulltext": "MARY MORISON. A RUINED FARMER.\\n329\\nChorus.\\nShe is a winsome wee thing,\\nShe is a handsome wee thing,\\nShe is a lonesome wee thing,\\nThis sweet wee wife o mine\\nI NEVER saw a fairer,\\nI never lo ed a dearer,\\nAnd neist my heart I 11 wear her,\\nFor fear my jewel tine.\\nThe warld s wrack, we share o t\\nThe warstle and the care o t,\\nWi her 1 11 blythely bear it,\\nAnd think my lot divine.\\nChonts.\\nShe is a winsome wee thing,\\nShe is a handsome wee thing.\\nShe is a lo esome wee thing,\\nThis sweet wee wife o mine.\\nMARY MORISON.\\n[This little masterpiece of feeling and ex-\\npression was sent to Thomson, March 20,\\n1793. Burns says of it The song pre-\\nfixed is one of my juvenile works. I do\\nnot think it very remarkable either for its\\nmerits or demerits. Thomson suppressed\\nit for twenty-five years. The heroine was\\nprobably Elison Begbie.]\\nO Mary, at thy window be\\nIt is the wished, the trysted hour.\\nThose smiles and glances let me see,\\nThat make the miser s treasure poor.\\nHow blythely wad I bide the stoure,\\nA weary slave frae sun to sun,\\nCould I the rich reward secure\\nThe lovely Mary M orison\\nYestreen, when to the trembling string\\nThe dance gaed thro the lighted ha\\nTo thee my fancy took its wing,\\nI sat, but neither heard or saw\\nTho this was fair, and that was braw.\\nAnd yon the toast of a the town,\\nI siglrd and said amang them a\\nYe are na Mary Morison\\nO Mary, canst thou wreck his peace\\nWha for thy sake wad gladly die?\\nOr canst thou break that heart of his\\nWhase only faut is loving thee?\\nIf love for iove thou wilt na gie,\\nAt least be pity to me shown\\nA thought ungentle canna be\\nThe thought o Mary Morison.\\nMISCELLANEOUS SONGS.\\nA RUINED FARMER.\\n[Probably written during the crisis of\\nWilliam Burness s difificulties at Mount\\nOliphant. The farm proved a ruinous\\nb.irgain; and, to clench the curse, we fell\\ninto the hands of a factoi-, who sat for the\\npicture I have drawn of one in my Tale of\\nTwo Dogs. (R. B.)]\\nThe sun he is sunk in the west.\\nAll creatures retired to rest,\\nWhile here I sit, all sore beset\\nWith sorrow, grief, and woe\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nThe prosperous man is asleep.\\nNor hears how the whirlwinds sweep\\nBut Misery and I must watch\\nThe surly tempests blow\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0377.jp2"}, "376": {"fulltext": "330 MONTGOMERIE S PEGGY.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS.\\nIll,\\nThere lies the dear Partner of my\\nbreast,\\nHer cares for a moment at rest\\nMust I see thee, my youthlul pride,\\nThus brought so very low\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nThere lie my sweet babies in her\\narms\\nNo anxious fear their little hearts\\nalarms\\nBut for their sake my heart does\\nache,\\nWith many a bitter throe\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nI once was by Fortune carest,\\nI once could relieve the distrest\\nNow life s poor support, hardly earn d.\\nMy fate will scarce bestow\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nNo comfort, no comfort I have\\nHow welcome to me were the grave\\nBut then my wife and children dear\\nO, whither would they go\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nO, whither, O, whither shall I turn,\\nAll friendless, forsaken, forlorn?\\nFor in this world Rest or Peace\\nI never more shall know\\nAnd it s O fickle Fortune, O\\nMONTGOMERIE S PEGGY.\\n[Peggy was a housekeeper at Coilsfield\\nHouse in Burns s Taibolton period.]\\nAltho my bed were in yon muir,\\nAmang the heather, in my plaidie.\\nYet happy, happy would I be.\\nHad I my dear Montgomerie s\\nPeggy.\\nWhen o er the hill beat surly storms.\\nAnd winter nights were dark and\\nrainy,\\nI d seek some dell, and in my arms\\nI d shelter dear Montgomerie s\\nPeggy.\\nWere I a Baron proud and high.\\nAnd horse and servants waiting\\nready.\\nThen a twad gie o joy to me\\nThe sharin t with Montgomerie s\\nPeggy.\\nTHE LASS OF CESSNOCK\\nBANKS.\\n[The heroine is supposed to have been\\nElison Begbie, the daughter of a farmer in\\nthe parish of Galston, to whom Burns made\\nwhat was probably his first offer of mar-\\nriage.]\\nI.\\nOn Cessnock banks a lassie dwells.\\nCould I describe her shape and\\nmien\\nOur lassies a she far excels\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nII.\\nShe s sweeter than the morning\\ndawn,\\nWhen rising Phoebus first is seen.\\nAnd dew-drops twinkle o er the\\nlawn\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nIII.\\nShe s stately like yon youthful ash,\\nThat grows the cowslip braes be-\\ntween,", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0378.jp2"}, "377": {"fulltext": "THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS.\\n331\\nAnd drinks the stream with vigour\\nfresh\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nShe s spotless like the flow ring\\nthorn\\nWith flow rs so white and leaves\\nso green,\\nWhen purest in the dewy morn\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\nHer looks are like the vernal May,\\nWhen ev ning Phoebus shines\\nserene.\\nWhile birds rejoice on every spray\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogue-\\nish een\\nHer hair is like the curling mist,\\nThat climbs the mountain-sides at\\ne en,\\nWhen flow r-reviving rains are past\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nHer forehead s like the show ry bow.\\nWhen gleaming sunbeams inter-\\nvene.\\nAnd gild the distant mountain s\\nbrow\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nVIII.\\nHer cheeks are like yon crimson gem.\\nThe pride of all the flowery scene,\\nJust opening on its thorny stem\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\nHer teeth are like the nightly snow.\\nWhen pale the morning rises keen.\\nWhile hid the murm ring streamlets\\nflow\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nX.\\nHer lips are like yon cherries ripe.\\nThat sunny walls from Boreas\\nscreen\\nThey tempt the taste and charm the\\nsight\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nXI.\\nHer teeth are like a flock of sheep\\nWith fleeces newly washen clean.\\nThat slowly mount the rising steep\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nHer breath is like the fragrant breeze,\\nThat gently stirs the blossom d\\nbean.\\nWhen Phoebus sinks behind the\\nseas\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nXIII.\\nHer voice is like the ev ning thrush.\\nThat sings on Cessnock banks\\nunseen.\\nWhile his mate sits nestling in the\\nbush\\nAn she has twa sparkling, rogueish\\neen\\nXIV.\\nBut it s not her air, her form, her\\nface,\\nTho matching Beauty s fabled\\nQueen\\nTis The mind that shines in ev ry\\ngrace\\nAn chiefly in her rogueish een", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0379.jp2"}, "378": {"fulltext": "332 TITO FICKLE FORTUNE. MV FATHER WAS A FARMER.\\nTHO FICKLE FORTUNE.\\n[This piece was an extempore under\\nthe pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes,\\nwhich, indeed, threatened to undo me\\naltogether. (R. B.)]\\nI.\\nTho fickle Fortune has deceived me\\n(She promis d fair, and performed\\nbut ill),\\nOf mistress, friends, and wealth be-\\nreaved me.\\nYet I bear a heart shall support me\\nstill.\\nII.\\nI 11 act with prudence as far as I m\\nable\\nBut if success I must never find.\\nThen coine. Misfortune, I bid thee\\nwelcome\\nI 11 meet thee with an undaunted\\nmind\\nRAGING FORTUNE.\\n[Composed about the same time as\\nTho Fickle Fortune.\\nO, RAGING Fortune s withering blast\\nHas laid my leaf full low\\nO. raging Fortune s withering blast\\nHas laid my leaf full low\\nMv stem was fair, my bud was gieen.\\nMy blossom sweet did blow\\nThe dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,\\nAnd made my branches grow.\\nBut luckless Fortune s northern\\nstorms\\nLaid a my blossoms low\\nBut luckless Fortune s northern\\nstorms\\nLaid a my blossoms low\\nMY FATHER WAS A FARMER.\\nThe following song is a wild rhapsody,\\nmiserably deficient in versification, but as\\nthe sentmients are the genuine feelings of\\nmy heart, for that reason I have a particular\\npleasure in conning it over. (R. B.) In-\\nscribed in the First Common Place Book,\\nApril, 1784.]\\nMy father was a farmer upon the\\nCarrick border, O,\\nAnd carefully he bred me in decency\\nand order, O.\\nHe bade me act a manly part, though\\nI had ne er a farthing, O,\\nFor without an honest, manly heart\\nno man was worth regarding, O.\\nThen out into the world my course I\\ndid determine, O\\nTho to be rich was not my wish, yet\\nto be great was charming, O.\\nMy talents they were not the worst,\\nnor yet my education, O\\nResolv d was I at least to try to mend\\nmy situation, O.\\nIII.\\nIn inany a way and vain essay I\\ncourted Fortune s favour, O\\nSome cause unseen still stept between\\nto frustrate each endeavour, O.\\nSometimes by foes I was o erpower d,\\nsometimes by friends forsaken, O,\\nAnd when my hope was at the top, I\\nstill was worst mistaken, O.\\nIV.\\nThen sore harass d and tir d at last\\nwith Fortune s vain delusion, O,\\nI dropt my schemes like idle dreams,\\nand came to this conclusion, O", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0380.jp2"}, "379": {"fulltext": "O, LEAVE NOVELS.\\n333\\nThe past was bad. and the future hid\\nits good or ill untried, O,\\nBut the present hour was in my powV,\\nand so I would enjoy it, O.\\nNo help, nor hope, nor view had I,\\nnor person to befriend me, O\\nSo I must toil, and sweat, and broil,\\nand labour to sustain me, O\\nTo plough and sow, to reap and mow,\\nmy father bred me early, O\\nFor one, he said, to labour bred was a\\nmatch for Fortune fairly, O.\\nThus all obscure, unknown, and poor,\\nthro life I m doom d to wander, O,\\nTill down my weary bones I lay in\\neverlasting slumber, O.\\nNo view nor care, but shun whatever\\nmight breed me pain or sorrow, O,\\nI live to-day as well s I may, regard-\\nless of to-morrow, O\\nVII.\\nBut, cheerful still, I am as well as a\\nmonarch in a palace, O,\\nTho Fortune s frown still hunts me\\ndown, with all her wonted\\nmalice, O\\nI make indeed my daily bread, but\\nne er can make it farther, O,\\nBut, as daily bread is all I need, I do\\nnot much regard her, O.\\nVIII.\\nWhen sometimes by my labour I earn\\na little money, O,\\nSome unforeseen misfortune comes\\ngen rally upon me, O\\nMischance, mistake, or by neglect, or\\nmy good-natur d folly, O\\nBut, come what will, I ve sworn it still,\\n1 11 ne er be melancholy, O.\\nAll you who follow wealth and power\\nwith unremitting ardour, O,\\nThe more in this you look for bliss, you\\nleave your view the farther, O.\\nHad you the wealth Potosi boasts, or\\nnations to adore you, O,\\nA cheerful, honest-hearted clown I will\\nprefer before you, O\\nO, LEAVE NOVELS.\\n[Burns never published this poem. He\\nwas Rob Mossgiel from 1784 to 1786.]\\nO, LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline\\nbelles\\nYe re safer at your spinning-wheel\\nSuch witching books are baited hooks\\nFor rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel.\\nYour fine Tom Jones and Grandisons\\nThey make your youthful fancies\\nreel\\nThey heat your brains, and fire your\\nveins,\\nAnd then you re prey for Rob\\nMossgiel.\\nIII.\\nBeware a tongue that s smoothly\\nhung,\\nA heart that warmly seems to feel\\nThat feeling heart but acts a part\\nTis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.\\nThe frank address, the soft caress\\nAre worse than poisoned darts of\\nsteel\\nThe frank address and politesse\\nAre all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0381.jp2"}, "380": {"fulltext": "334\\nTHE MAUCIILINE LADY.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THERE WAS A LAD.\\nTHE MAUCHLINE LADY.\\nPossibly the Mauchline belle of this\\nsnatch is Jean Armour, afterwards the poet s\\nwife.\\nWhen first I came to Stewart Kyle,\\nMjf mind it was na steady\\nWhere er I gaed, where er 1 rade,\\nA mistress still I had ay.\\nBut when I came roun by Mauchline\\ntoun,\\nNot dreadin anybody,\\nMy heart was caught, before I thought,\\nAnd by a Mauchline lady.\\nOxNE NIGHT AS I\\nDER.\\nDID WAN-\\nA fragment, probably of May, 1785.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nOne night as I did wander.\\nWhen corn begins to shoot,\\nI sat me down to ponder\\nUpon an auld tree-root\\nAuld Ayr ran by before me,\\nAnd bickered to the seas\\nA cushat crooded o er me.\\nThat echoed through the trees.\\nTHERE WAS A LAD.\\n[Not published by Burns. The tune\\nis an old one.]\\nChorus.\\nRobin was a rovin boy,\\nRantin, rovin. rantin, rovin,\\nRobin was a rovin boy,\\nRantin, rovin Robin\\nThere was a lad was born in Kyle,\\nBut whatna day o whatna style,\\nI doubt it s hardly worth the while\\nTo be sae nice wi Robin.\\nOur monarch s hindmost year but\\nane\\nWas five-and-twenty days begun,\\nT was then a blast o Janwar win\\nBlew hansel in on Robin.\\nIII.\\nThe gossip keekit in his loof,\\nQuo scho Wha lives will see the\\nproof.\\nThis waly boy will be nae coof\\nI think we 11 ca him Robin.\\nHe 11 hae misfortunes great an sma\\nBut ay a heart aboon them a\\nHe 11 be a credit till us a\\nWe 11 a be proud o Robin\\nBut sure as three times three mak\\nnine.\\nI see by ilka score and line,\\nThis chap will dearly like our kin\\nSo leeze me on thee, Robin\\nVI.\\nGuid faith, quo scho, I doubt you,\\nstir,\\nYe gar the lasses lie aspar\\nBut twenty fauts ye may hae waur\\nSo blessins on thee, Robin\\nChorus.\\nRobin was a rovin boy,\\nRantin, rovin, rantin, rovin,\\nRobin was a rovin boy,\\nRantin, rovin Robin", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0382.jp2"}, "381": {"fulltext": "WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES. THE LASS O BALLOCHMYLE. 335\\nWILL YE GO TO THE INDIES,\\nMY MARY.\\nIn my very early years, when I was\\nthinking of going to the West Indies, I\\ntook the following farewell of a dear girl.\\n(Burns to Tliomson, October, 1792.) Prob-\\nably refers to Highland Mary.]\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary,\\nAnd leave auld Scotia s shore\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary,\\nAcross th Atlantic roar?\\nO\\nthe lime and the\\nsweet grows\\norange,\\nAnd the apple on the pine;\\nBut a the charms o the Indies\\nCan never equal thine.\\nI hae sworn by the Heavens to rny\\nMary,\\nI hae sworn by the Heavens to be\\ntrue,\\nAnd sae may the Heavens forget me,\\nWhen 1 forget my vow\\nO, plight me your faith, my Mary,\\nAnd plight me your lily-white hand\\nO, plight me your faith, my Mary,\\nBefore I leave Scotia s strand\\nWe hae plighted our troth, my Mary,\\nIn mutual affection to join\\nAnd curst be the cause that shall part\\nus\\nThe hour and the moment o time\\nHER FLOWING LOCKS.\\nIf Miss Whitefoord is the heroine, she\\nmay well have admired the audacity of the\\nsinger. ANDREW LANG.]\\nHer flowing locks, the raven s wing,\\nAdown her neck and bosom hing.\\nHow sweet unto that breast to cling.\\nAnd round that neck entwine her\\nHer lips are roses wat wi dew\\nO, what a feast, her bonie mou\\nHer cheeks a mair celestial hue,\\nA crimson still diviner\\nTHE LASS O BALLOCHMYLE.\\nSent to Miss Wilhelmina Alexander\\nof Ballochmyle, who did not reply, though,\\nwhen old, she was proud of the tribute.\\nYou will easily see, wrote Burns to Mrs.\\nStewart of Stair, the impropriety of expos-\\ning the song much, even in manuscript.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nTwAS even: the dewy fields were\\ngreen.\\nOn every blade the pearls hang,\\nThe zephyr wanton d round the bean,\\nAnd boVe its fragrant sweets alang.\\nIn ev ry glen the mavis sang.\\nAll Nature list ning seem d the while,\\nEx-cept where greenwood echoes\\nrang\\nAmang the braes o Ballochmyle.\\nII.\\nWith careless step I onward stray d.\\nMy heart rejoic d in Nature s joy,\\nWhen, musing in a lonely glade,\\nA maiden fair I chanc d to spy.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0383.jp2"}, "382": {"fulltext": "336\\nTHE NIGHT WAS STILL. MASONIC SONG.\\nHer look was like the Morning s\\neye,\\nHer air like Nature s vernal smile.\\nPerfection whispered, passing by\\nBehold the lass o Ballochmyle\\nFair is the morn in flowery May,\\nAnd sweet is night in autumn\\nmild,\\nWhen roving thro the garden gay,\\nOr wandVing in the lonely wild\\nBut woman. Nature s darling child\\nThere all her charms she does com-\\npile\\nEven there her other works are\\nfoil d\\nBy the bonie lass o Ballochmyle.\\nIV.\\nO, had she been a country maid.\\nAnd I the happy country swain,\\nTho shelter d in the lowest shed\\nThat ever rose on Scotia s plain,\\nThro weary winter s wind and rain\\nWith joy, with rapture, I would toil.\\nAnd nightly to my bosom strain\\nThe bonie lass o Ballochmyle\\nThen Pride might climb the slipp ry\\nsteep.\\nWhere fame and honours lofty\\nshine,\\nAnd thirst of gold might tempt the\\ndeep,\\nOr downward seek the Indian\\nmine\\nGive me the cot below the pine,\\nTo tend the flocks or till the soil.\\nAnd ev ry day have joys divine\\nWith the bonie lass o Ballochmyle.\\nTHE NIGHT WAS STILL.\\n[The manuscript was given to one of the\\ndaughters of Dr. Laurie of Newmihis; and\\ncommemorates a dance when Burns for\\nthe first time heard the spinet in the manse\\nof Newuiilns, on the banks of Irvine.]\\nThe night was still, and o er the hill\\nThe moon shone on the castle wa\\nThe mavis sang, while dew-drops\\nhang\\nAround her on the castle wa\\nSae merrily they danc d the ring\\nErae eenin till the cock did craw,\\nAnd ay the o erword o the spring\\nWas Irvine s bairns are bonie\\nMASONIC SONG.\\n[Said to have been recited by Burns at\\nhis admission as an honorary member of\\nthe Kilwinning St. John s Lodge, Kilmar-\\nnock, Oct. 26, 1786.]\\nYe sons of old Killie. assembled by\\nWillie\\nTo follow the noble vocation,\\nYour thrifty old mother has scarce\\nsuch another\\nTo sit in that honored station\\nI ve little to say, but only to pray\\n(As praying s the to)i of your\\nfashion).\\nA prayer froin the Muse you well\\nmay excuse\\nTis seldom her favourite pas-\\nsion)\\n11.\\nYe Powers who preside o er the wind\\nand the tide.\\nWho markt:d each element s border.\\nWho formed this frame with benefi-\\ncent aim,\\nWhose sovereign statute is order.\\nWithin this dear mansion may way-\\nward Contention", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0384.jp2"}, "383": {"fulltext": "THE BONIE MOOR-HEiM. HERE S A BOTTLE.\\n337\\nOr withered Envy ne er enter\\nMay Secrecy round be the mystical\\nbound,\\nAnd brotherly Love be the cen-\\ntre\\nTHE BONIE MOOR-HEN.\\n[An adaptation from an old song. A\\nfavorite ditty of the old ballads.]\\nChorus.\\nI rede you, beware at the hunting.\\nyoung men\\nI rede you, beware at the hunting.\\nyoung men\\nTake some on the wing, and some as\\nthey spring.\\nBut cannily steal on a bonie moor-\\nhen.\\nThe heather was blooming, the mead-\\nows were mawn,\\nOur lads gaed a-hunting ae day at\\nthe dawn,\\nO er moors and o er mosses and\\nmonie a glen\\nAt length they discovered a bonie\\nmoor-hen.\\nSweet-brushing the dew from the\\nbrown heather bells.\\nHer colours betray d her on yon\\nmossy fells\\nHer plumage outlustred the pride o\\nthe spring,\\nAnd O, as she wanton d sae gay on\\nthe wingj\\nAuld Phoebus himsel as he peep d\\no er the hill.\\nIn spite at her plumage he tryed his\\nskill\\nHe level d his rays where she bask d\\non the brae\\nHis rays were outshone, and but\\nmark d where she lay\\nThey hunted the valley, they hunted\\nthe hill.\\nThe best of our lads wi the best o\\ntheir skill\\nBut still as the fairest she sat in their\\nsight,\\nThen, whirr she was over, a mile at\\na flight.\\nChortis.\\nI rede you, beware at the hunting,\\nyoung men\\nI rede you, beware at the hunting,\\nyoung men\\nTake some on the wing, and some as\\nthey spring.\\nBut cannily steal on a bonie moor-\\nhen.\\nHERE S A BOTTLE.\\n[Gilbert Burns expressed his doubts of\\nRobert s authorship of this trifle.]\\nThere s ?iane that s blest of human kind\\nBut the cheerful and the gay, man.\\nHere s a bottle and an honest man\\nWhat wad ye wish for mair, man\\nWha kens, before his life may end,\\nWhat his share may be o care,\\nman\\nThen catch the moments as they fly.\\nAnd use them as ye ought, man\\nBelieve me. Happiness is shy.\\nAnd comes not ay when sought,\\nman", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0385.jp2"}, "384": {"fulltext": "338\\nTHE BONIE LASS. THE CHEVALIER S LAMENT.\\nTHE BONIE LASS OF\\nALBANIE.\\n[Charlotte Stuart, daughter of Charles\\nEdward, the Young Pretender, by Clem-\\nentina Walkinsiiaw. She was legitimized\\nby the Parlement of Paris, December 6,\\n1787, wiien she took the style of Duchess\\nof Albany. She died soon after her father.]\\nMy heart is wae, and unco wae,\\nTo think upon the raging sea,\\nThat roars between her gardens green\\nAn the bonie lass of Albanie.\\n11.\\nThis noble maid s of royal blood,\\nThat ruled Albion s kingdoms three\\nBut O, alas for her bonie face\\nThey hae wranged the lass of Al-\\nbanie.\\nIII.\\nIn the rolling tide of spreading Clyde\\nThere sits an isle of higli degree.\\nAnd a town of fame, whose princely\\nname\\nShould grace the lass of Albanie.\\nIV.\\nBut there is a youth, a witless youth,\\nThat fills the place where she\\nshould be.\\nWe 11 send him o er to his native\\nshore.\\nAnd bring our ain sweet Albanie\\nAlas the day. and woe the day\\nA false usurper wan the gree,\\nWho now commands the towers and\\nlands,\\nThe royal right of Albanie.\\nVI.\\nWc Il daily pray, we ll nightly pray,\\nOn bended knees most fervently,\\nTliat the time may come, witli pipe\\nand drum\\nWe 11 welcome hame fair Albanie.\\nAMANG THE TREES.\\n[Written in honor of Niel Gow (1727-\\n1807), the famous fiddler, whom Burns met\\nduring his Northern tour in 1787.]\\nAmang the trees, where humming\\nbees\\nAt buds and flowers were hinging, O,\\nAuld Caledon drew out her drone,\\nAnd to her pipe was singing, O.\\nT was Pibrocli. Sang, Strathspeys\\nand Reels\\nShe dirl d them aft fu clearly, O,\\nWlien there cam a yell o foreign\\nsqueels.\\nThat dang her tapsalteerie, O!\\nTheir capon craws an queer ha,\\nha s,\\nThey made our lugs grow eerie, O.\\nThe hungry bike did scrape and fyke.\\nTill we were wae and weary. O.\\nBut a royal ghaist, wha ance was\\ncas d\\nA prisoner aughteen year awa,\\nHe fir d a Fiddler in the North,\\nThat dang them tapsalteerie, O\\nTHE CHEVALIER S LAMENT.\\nThe Chevalier was dead (March,\\n1788) when the song was written. Prince\\nCharles is accused by d Alembert, in his\\nloge on the Earl Marischal, of indifference", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0386.jp2"}, "385": {"fulltext": "YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O WINE.\\n339\\nto the fate of his supporters.\\nLang.]\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Andrew\\nThe small birds rejoice in the green\\nleaves returning,\\nThe murmuring streamlet winds\\nclear thro the vale,\\nThe primroses blow in the dews of\\nthe morning.\\nAnd wild scattered cowslips bedeck\\nthe green dale\\nBut what can give pleasure, or\\nwhat can seem fair.\\nWhen the lingering moments are\\nnumbered by care?\\nNo flow rs gaily springing.\\nNor birds sweetly singing\\nCan soothe the sad bosom of\\njoyless despair\\nThe deed that I dar d, could it merit\\ntheir malice,\\nA king and a father to place on his\\nthrone\\nHis right are these hills, and his\\nright are those valleys,\\nWhere the wild beasts find shelter,\\ntho I can find none\\nBut tis not my sufferings thus\\nwretched, forlorn\\nMy brave gallant friends, t is\\nyour ruin I mourn\\nYour faith prov d so loyal\\nIn hot bloody trial,\\nAlas can I make it no better\\nreturn\\nYESTREEN I HAD A PINT\\nO WINE.\\n[The Anna of the song was Anne Park,\\nniece of Mrs. Hyslop of tlie Globe Tavern,\\nDumfries. Slie bore a daughter to Binns,\\nMarch 31, 1791, which was first sent to\\nMossgiel, and afterwards fostered by Mrs.\\nBurns along with her baby, William Nicol,\\nborn ten days after it.]\\nYestreen I had a pint o wine,\\nA place where body saw na\\nYestreen lay on this breast o mine\\nThe {lowden locks of Anna.\\nThe hungry Jew in wilderness\\nRejoicing o er his manna\\nWas naething to my hiney bliss\\nUpon the lips of Anna.\\nYe monarchs take the East and West\\nFrae Indus to Savannah\\nGie me within my straining grasp\\nThe meltinir form of Anna\\nThere I 11 despise Imperial charms,\\nAn Empress or Sultana,\\nWhile dying raptures in her arms\\n1 give and take wi Anna\\nAwa, thou flaunting God of Day\\nAwa, thou pale Diana\\nIlk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,\\nWhen I m to meet my Anna\\nVI.\\nCome, in thy raven plumage,\\n(Sun, Moon, and Stars, wi\\na\\nAnd bring an Angel-pen to write\\nMy transports with my Anna\\npiLuiutgc, Night\\nStars, withdrawn\\nPostscript.\\nThe Kirk an State may join, and tell\\nTo do sic things I maunna:\\nThe Kirk an State may gae to Hell,\\nAnd I 11 gae to my Anna.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0387.jp2"}, "386": {"fulltext": "340\\nSWEET ARE THE BANKS. VE I LOWERY BANKS.\\nShe is the sunshine o my e e,\\nTo live but her I canna\\nHad I on earth but wishes three,\\nThe first should be my Anna.\\nSWEET ARE THE BANKS.\\n[First published in this form by Scott\\nDouglas. Burns writes to Cunningham from\\nEllisland, March ii, 1791 I have this\\nevening sketched out a song which I have a\\ngood mind to semi you. It is intended\\nto be sung to a Strathspey reel of whicii I\\nam very fond, called Ballindalloch s Reel\\nand Camdelmore. \u00e2\u0080\u0094ANDREW Lang.]\\n1.\\nSweet are the banks, the banks o\\nDoon,\\nThe spreading flowers are fair.\\nAnd everything is blythe and glad.\\nBut I am fu o care.\\nThou 11 break my heart, thou bonie\\nbird.\\nThat sings upon the bough\\nThou minds me o the happy days\\nWhen my fause Luve was true.\\nThou 11 break my heart, thou bonie\\nbird,\\nThat sings beside thy mate,\\nFor sae I sat, and sae I sang,\\nAnd wist na o my fate\\nAft hae I rov d by bonie Doon,\\nTo see the woodbine twine.\\nAnd ilka bird sang o its luve.\\nAnd sae did I o mine.\\nWi liglitsome lieart I pu d a rose\\nUpon its thorny tree.\\nBut my fause luver staw my rose.\\nAnd left the thorn wi me.\\nWi lightsome heart I pu d a rose\\nUpon a morn in June,\\nAnd sae I flourishVl on the morn,\\nAnd sae was pu d or noon.\\nYE FLOWERY BANKS.\\nWhile here I sit, sad and solitary, by\\nthe side of a fire in a little country inn, and\\ndrying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow\\nof a sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr.\\nBy Heavens says I to myself, with a tide\\nof good spirits which the magic of that\\nsound Auld Toon of Ayr conjur(Hl up, I\\nwill send my last song to Mr. Ballantine.\\n(R. B.)]\\nYe flowery banks o bonie Doon,\\nHow can ye blume .sae fair?\\nHow can ye chant, ye little birds,\\nAnd I sae fu o care?\\nThou 11 break my heart, thou bonie\\nbird.\\nThat sings upon the bough\\nThou minds me o the happy days\\nWhen my fause Luve was true\\nThou 11 break my heart, thou bonie\\nbird.\\nThat sings beside thy mate\\nFor sae I sat. and sae I sang,\\nAnd wist na o my fate\\nIV.\\nAft hae I rov d by bonie Doon\\nTo see the woodbine twine.\\nAnd ilka bird sang o its luve,\\nAnd sae did 1 o mine.\\nWi lightsome heart I pu d a rose\\nFrae aff its thorny tree.\\nAnd my fause luver staw my rose,\\nBut left the thorn wi me.", "height": "3107", "width": "1958", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0388.jp2"}, "387": {"fulltext": "CALEDONIA.\\n341\\nCALEDONIA.\\n[Sent to Johnson Jan. 23, 1789; but\\nJohnson did not publish the song.]\\nThere was on a time, but old Time\\nwas then young,\\nThat brave Caledonia, the chief of\\nher line.\\nFrom some of your northern deities\\nsprung\\n(Who knows not that brave Cale-\\ndonia s divine).\\nFrom Tweed to the Orcades was her\\ndomain,\\nTo hunt, or to pasture, or do what\\nshe would.\\nHer heavenly relations there fixed her\\nreign,\\nAnd pledged her their godheads to\\nwarrant it good.\\nA lambkin in peace but a lion in war.\\nThe pride of her kindred the hero-\\nine grew.\\nHer grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly\\nswore\\nWhoe er shall provoke thee, th en-\\ncounter sliall rue\\nWith tillage or pasture at times she\\nwould sport,\\nTo feed her fair flocks by her green\\nrustling corn\\nBut chiefly the woods were her fav rite\\nresort.\\nHer darling amusement the hounds\\nand the horn.\\nLong quiet she reign d, till thither-\\nward steers\\nA flight of bold eagles from Adrians\\nstrand.\\nRepeated, successive, for many long\\nyears,\\nThey darkened the air, and they\\nplundered the land.\\nTheir pounces were murder, and\\nhorror their cry\\nThey d conquered and ravag d a\\nworld beside.\\nShe took to her hills, and her arrows\\nlet fly\\nThe daring invaders, they fled or\\nthey died\\nThe Cameleon-Savage disturb d her\\nrepose.\\nWith tumult, disquiet, rebellion,\\nand strife.\\nProvoked beyond bearing, at last she\\narose.\\nAnd robbed him at once of his\\nhopes and his life.\\nThe Anglian Lion, the terror of\\nFrance,\\nOft, prowling, ensanguined the\\nTweed s silver flood,\\nBut, taught by the bright Caledonian\\nlance,\\nHe learned to fear in his own native\\nwood.\\nThe fell Harpy-Raven took wing from\\nthe north,\\nThe scourge of the seas, and the\\ndread of the shore\\nThe wild Scandinavian Boar issued\\nforth\\nTo wanton in carnage and wallow\\nin gore\\nO er countries and kingdoms their\\nfury prevail d.\\nNo arts could appease them, no\\narms could repel\\nBut brave Caledonia in vain they\\nassail d.\\nAs Largs well can witness, and\\nLoncartie tell.\\nThus bold, independent, unconquer d,\\nand free,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0389.jp2"}, "388": {"fulltext": "342 YOU RE WELCOME, WILLIE STEWART.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WHEN FIRST I SAW.\\nHer bright course of glory for ever\\nshall run,\\nFor brave Caledonia immortal must\\nbe,\\nI 11 prove it from Euclid as clear as\\nthe sun\\nRectangle-triangle, the figure we 11\\nchuse\\nThe upright is Chance, and old\\nTime is the base.\\nBut brave Caledonia s the hypothe-\\nnuse\\nThen, ergo^ she ll match them, and\\nmatch them always\\nYOU RE WELCOME, WILLIE\\nSTEWART.\\n[Originally inscribed on a crystal tumbler,\\nnow at Abbotsford. The song is modelled\\non the same Jacobitism as O Lovely Polly\\nStewart.\\nCJiorus.\\nYou re welcome, Willie Stewart\\nYou re welcome, Willie Stewart\\nThere s ne er a flower that blooms in\\nMay,\\nThat s half sae welcome s thou art\\nCome, bumpers high express your\\njoy!\\nThe bowl we maun renew it\\nThe tappet hen, gae bring her ben,\\nTo welcome Willie Stewart\\nMay foes be strong, and friends be\\nslack\\nIlk action, may he rue it\\nMay woman on him turn her back.\\nThat wrangs thee, Willie Stewart\\nCJiorus.\\nYou re welcome, Willie Stewart\\nYou re welcome, Willie Stewart\\nThere s ne er a flower that blooms in\\nMay,\\nThat s half sae welcome s thou art\\nWHEN FIRST I SAW.\\n[Chambers states that the heroine of it\\nwas a Miss Jean Jeffrey, whom Burns cele-\\nbrated in Ihe Blue-eyed Lassie.\\nChorus.\\nShe s aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay,\\nShe saye sae blithe and cheerie,\\nShe s aye sae bonie. blithe and gay,\\nO, iiin I were her dearie\\nWhen first I saw f;iir Jeanie s face,\\nI couldna tell what ail d me\\nMy heart went fluttering pit-a-pat.\\nMy een they almost fail d me.\\nShe s aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight,\\nAll grace does round her hover\\nAe look depriv d me o my heart.\\nAnd I became her lover.\\nHad I Dundas s whole estate,\\nOr Hopetoun s wealth to shine in;\\nDid warlike laurels crown my brow,\\nOr humbler bays entwining;\\nI d lay them a at Jeanie s feet,\\nCould I but hope to move her,\\nAnd, prouder than a belted knight,\\nI d be my Jeanie s lover.\\nIII.\\nBut sair I fear some happier swain,\\nHas gain d my Jeanie s favour.\\nIf so, may every bliss be hers.\\nThough I maun never have her\\nBut gang she east, or gang she west,\\nTwixt P^ortli and Tweed all over,\\nWliile men liave eyes, or ears, or taste,\\nShe 11 always find a lover.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0390.jp2"}, "389": {"fulltext": "HERE S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT S AWA.\\n343\\nChorus.\\nShe \\\\s aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay.\\nShe s aye sae blithe and cheerie,\\nShe s aye sae bonie, blithe and gay,\\nO, gin I were her dearie\\nBEHOLD THE HOUR.\\nFIRST SET.\\n[Sent to Clarinda, Dec. 27, 1791.]\\nI.\\nBehold the hour, the boat, arrive\\nMy dearest Nancy, O, farewell\\nSever d frae thee, can I survive,\\nFrae thee whom 1 hae lov d sae well\\nEndless and deep shall be my grief,\\nNae ray of comfort shall I see.\\nBut this most precious, dear belief.\\nThat thou wilt still remember me.\\nAlong the solitary shore,\\nWhere flitting sea-fowl round me cry.\\nAcross the rolling, dashing roar,\\nI ll westward turn my wistful eye.\\nHappy thou Indian grove, I 11 say,\\nWhere now my Nancy s path shall\\nbe\\nWhile thro your sweets she holds her\\nway,\\nO, tell me, does she muse on me\\nHERE S A HEALTH TO THEM\\nTHAT S AWA.\\n[Founded on an old Jacobite song.]\\nHere s a health to them that s awa.\\nHere s a heaMi to them that\\nAnd wha winna wish guid luck to our\\ncause.\\nMay never guid luck be their\\nfa\\nIt s guid to be merry and wise.\\nIt s guid to be honest and true.\\nIt s guid to support Caledonia s cause\\nAnd bide by the buif and the\\nblue.\\nII.\\nHere s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s\\nawa\\nHere s a health to Charlie, the chief\\no the clan.\\nAltho that his band be sma\\nMay Liberty meet wi success.\\nMay Prudence protect her frae\\nevil\\nMay tyrants and Tyranny tine i the\\nmist\\nAnd wander their way to the\\nDevil\\nHere s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s\\nawa\\nHere s a health to Tammie, the Nor-\\nlan laddie.\\nThat lives at the lug o the\\nLaw\\nHere s freedom to them that wad\\nread.\\nHere s freedom to them that\\nwould write\\nThere s nane ever fear d that the truth\\nshould be heard\\nBut they whom the truth would\\nindite\\nHere s a health to them that s awa.\\nAn here s to them that s awa\\nHere s to Maitland and Wycombe!\\nLet wha does na like em\\nBe built in a hole in the wa\\nHere s timmer that s red at the\\nheart,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0391.jp2"}, "390": {"fulltext": "344\\nAir, CIILORIS. MEG O -THE MILL.\\nHere s fruit that is sound at\\nthe core,\\nAnd may he that wad turn the buflT\\nand blue coat\\nBe turn d to the back o the\\ndoor\\nHere s a health to them that \\\\s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s\\nawa\\nHere s chieftain M Leod, a chieftain\\nworth gowd,\\nTho bred amang mountains o\\nsnaw\\nHere s friends on baith sides o the\\nFirth,\\nAnd friends on baith sides o\\nthe Tweed,\\nAnd wha wad betray old Albion s\\nright,\\nMay they never eat of her\\nbread\\nAH, CHLORIS.\\nEsteem for Miss Lorimer may have\\nbeen a genuine sentiment. Andrew\\nLang.]\\nAh, Chloris, since it may not be\\nThat thou of love wilt hear,\\nIf from the lover thou maun flee,\\nYet let the friend be dear\\nAltho I love my Chloris mair\\nThan ever tongue could tell,\\nMy passion I will ne er declare\\nI 11 say, I wish thee well.\\nIII.\\nTho a my daily care thou art.\\nAnd a my nightly dream,\\nI 11 hide the struggle in my heart,\\nAnd say it is esteem.\\nPRETTY PEG.\\n[A fragment by Burns.\\nthe whole not certain.]\\nAuthorship of\\nAs I gaed up by yon gate-end.\\nWhen day was waxin weary,\\nWha did I meet come down the street\\nBut pretty Peg, my dearie\\nHer air so sweet, her shape complete,\\nWi nae proportion wanting\\nThe Queen of Love could never move\\nWi motion mair enchanting:\\nWith linked hands we took the sands\\nDown by yon winding river\\nAnd O that hour, and shady bow r,\\nCan I forget it Never\\nMEG O THE MILL.\\nSECOND SET.\\nMuch of a peculiar sort of the old\\nScotch humor which inspired The Hag-\\ngis in Dunbar and similar rude lyrics.\\nAndrew Lang.]\\nO, KEN ye what Meg o the mill has\\ngotten\\nAn ken ye what Meg o the mill has\\ngotten\\nShe s gotten a coof wi a claute o\\nsiller.\\nAnd broken the heart o the barley\\nmiller\\nThe miller was strappin, the miller\\nwas ruddy,\\nA heart like a lord, and a hue like a\\nlady.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0392.jp2"}, "391": {"fulltext": "O SAW YE MY DEAR, MY PHlLLY.\\n345\\nThe laird was a widdifu bleerit\\nknurl\\nShe s left the guid fellow, and taen\\nthe churl\\nThe miller, he hecht her a heart leal\\nand loving.\\nThe laird did address her wi matter\\nmore moving\\nA fine pacing-horse wi a clear, chained\\nbridle,\\nA whip by her side, and a bonie side\\nsaddle\\nO, wae on the siller it is sae pre-\\nvailing\\nAnd wae on the love that is fixed on\\na mailen\\nA tocher s nae word in a true lover s\\npari,\\nBut gie me my love and a fig for the\\nwarl\\nPHILLIS THE FAIR.\\n[Sent to Thomson, August, 1793.\\nheroine is Miss Phillis M Murdo.]\\nThe\\nWhile larks with little wing\\nFann d the pure air.\\nViewing tlie breathing Spring,\\nForth I did fare.\\nGay, the sun s golden eye\\nPeep d o er the mountains high\\nSuch thy bloom, did I cry\\nPhillis the fair\\nIn each bird s careless song,\\nClad, I did share\\nWhile yon wild flowers among.\\nChance led me there.\\nSweet to the opening day.\\nRosebuds bent the dewy spray\\nSuch thy bloom, did I say\\nPhillis the fair\\nDown in a shady walk\\nDoves cooing were\\nI mark d the cruel hawk\\nCaught in a snare.\\nSo kind may Fortune be\\nSuch make his destiny,\\nHe who would injure thee,\\nPhillis the fair\\nO SAW YE MY DEAR, MY\\nPHILLY.\\n[Sent to Thomson, Oct. 19, 1794.\\ndegradation of My Eppie Macnab.\\nO, SAW ye my Dear, my Philly\\nO, saw ye my Dear, my Philly\\nShe s down i the grove, she s wi a\\nnew love.\\nShe winna come hame to her Willy.\\nWhat says she, my Dear, my Philly?\\nWhat sa3 s she, my Dear, my Philly\\nShe lets thee to wit she has thee for-\\ngot,\\nAnd for ever disowns thee, her\\nWilly.\\nIII.\\nO, had I ne er seen thee, my Philly\\nO, had I ne er seen thee, my Philly\\nAs light as the air, and fause as thou s\\nfair.\\nThou s broken the heart o thy\\nWilly.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0393.jp2"}, "392": {"fulltext": "346\\nO, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.\\nTWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE\\nE^E.\\n[Sent to Thomson, April, 1795, but not\\npublished by him.]\\nT WAS na her bonie blue e e was my\\nruin\\nFair tho she be, that was ne er my\\nundoin.\\nT was the dear smile when naebody\\ndid mind us,\\nT was the bewitching, sweet, stoun\\nglance o kindness\\nSair do I fear that to hope is denied\\nme,\\nSair do I fear that despair maun abide\\nme\\nBut tho fell Fortune should fate us to\\nsever,\\nQueen shall she be in my bosom for\\never.\\nIII.\\nChloris, I m thine wi a passion sin-\\ncerest.\\nAnd thou hast plighted me love 0 the\\ndearest.\\nAnd thou rt the angel that never\\ncan alter\\nSooner the sun in his motion would\\nfalter\\nWHY, WHY TELL THY\\nLOVER.\\n[Written for the tune Caledonian\\nHunt s Delight. Burns writes to Thomson,\\nJuly 3, 1795 Such is the d d peculiarity\\nof the rhythm of this air that I find it im-\\npossible to make another stanza to suit it.]\\nWhy, why tell thy lover\\nBliss he never must enjoy?\\nWhy, why undeceive him\\nAnd give all his hopes the lie?\\nO, why, while Fancy, raptur d, slum-\\nbers,\\nChloris, Chloris, all the theme.\\nWhy, why wouldst thou, cruel.\\nWake thy lover from his dream\\nTHE PRIMROSE.\\n[Altered from an old English song, Ask\\nMe Why I Send You Here. Sent to\\nThomson, 1793.]\\nDost ask me, why I send thee here\\nThe firstling of the infant year:\\nThis lovely native of the vale,\\nThat hangs so pensive and so pale?\\nLook on its bending stalk, so weak.\\nThat, each way yielding, doth not\\nbreak.\\nAnd see how aptly it reveals\\nThe doubts and fears a lover feels.\\nLook on its leaves of yellow hue\\nBej^earl d thus with morning dew.\\nAnd these will whisper in thine\\nears\\nThe sweets of loves are wash d with\\ntears.\\nO,\\nWERT THOU IN THE\\nCAULD BLAST.\\n[Written during his last illness, in honor\\nof Miss Jessie Lewars.]\\nO, WERT thou in the cauld blast\\nOn yonder lea, on yonder lea,\\nMy plaidie to the angry airt,\\nI d shelter thee, I d shelter thee.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0394.jp2"}, "393": {"fulltext": "YOUR FRIENDSHIP. LET LOOVE SPARKLE.\\n347\\nOr did Misfortune s bitter storms\\nAround thee blavv, around thee blaw,\\nThy bield should be my bosom,\\nTo share it a to share it a\\\\\\nOr were I in the wildest waste,\\nSae black and bare, sae black and\\nbare,\\nThe desert were a Paradise.\\nIf thou wert there, if thou wert\\nthere.\\nOr were I monarch of the globe,\\nWi thee to reign, wi thee to\\nreign.\\nThe brightest jewel in my crown\\nWad be my queen, wad be my\\nqueen.\\nINTERPOLATIONS.\\nYOUR FRIENDSHIP.\\n[Included in a poem of Clarinda s, Talk\\nNot of Love.\\nYour friendship much can make me\\nblest\\nO, why that bliss destroy?\\nWhy urge the only, one request\\nYou know I will deny?\\nYour thought, if Love must harbour\\nthere.\\nConceal it in that thought.\\nNor cause me from my bosom tear\\nThe very friend I sought.\\nFOR THEE IS LAUGHING\\nNATURE.\\n[Written to complete a song by Clarinda,\\nan additional quatrain being necessary to\\nfill the tune.]\\nFor thee is laughing Nature gay.\\nFor thee she pours the vernal day\\nFor me in vain is Nature drest.\\nWhile Joy s a stranger to my breast.\\nNO COLD APPROACH.\\n[Inserted in the song, The Tears I\\nShed, by Miss Cranstoun, to complete\\nthe last octave, and so fit it for the\\ntune.]\\nNo cold approach, no altered mien,\\nJust what would make suspicion\\nstart,\\nNo pause the chre extremes between\\nHe made me blest and broke my\\nheart.\\nALTHO HE HAS LEFT ME.\\n[Inserted by Burns in a song from Herd s\\nCollection, As I Was a Walking.\\nAltho he has left me for greed o the\\nsiller,\\nI dinna envy him the gains he can\\nwin\\nI rather wad bear a the lade o my\\nsorrow\\nThan ever hae acted sae faithless\\nto hirn.\\nLET LOOVE SPARKLE.\\n[Inserted by Burns in Jocky Fou and\\nJenny Fain, to complete an octave.]\\nIthers seek they ken na what.\\nFeatures, carriage, and a that\\nGie me love in her I court.\\nLove to love maks a the sport.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0395.jp2"}, "394": {"fulltext": "348\\nAS DOWN THE BURN.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ELEGY ON STELLA.\\nLet loove sparkle in her e e,\\nLet her lo e nae man l)ut me\\nThat s the tocher guid 1 prize,\\nThere the luver s treasure lies.\\nAS DOWN THE BURN.\\n[Sent to Thomson in September, 1793,\\na substitute for the final stanza of\\nRobert Crawford s song, Down the Burn,\\nDavie.\\nAs down the burn they took their way,\\nAnd thro the flowery dale\\nHis cheek to hers he aft did lay,\\nAnd love was ay the tale.\\nWith Mary, when shall we return,\\nSic pleasure to renew\\nQuoth Mary Love, I like the burn,\\nAnd ay shall follow you.\\nIMPROBABLES.\\n[The authorship of these verses, credited to Burns by many of his editors, is not authenti-\\ncated, and the quahty of most of them is not worthy of his genius.]\\nON ROUGH ROADS.\\n[According to Scott Douglas, It is very\\nfamiliarly quoted in Ayrshire, as a stray im-\\npromptu of Burns s.\\nI m now arriv d thanks to the\\nGods\\nThrough pathways rough and\\nmuddy\\nA certain sign that makin roads\\nIs no this people s study.\\nYet, though 1 m no wi scripture\\ncramm d,\\nI m sure the Bible says\\nThat heedless sinners shall be damn d,\\nUnless they mend their ways.\\nELEGY ON STELLA.\\nConceivably the piece may have been\\ninspired by a memory of Highland Mar\\\\\\nThe authorship is dubious. The present\\neditor is inclined to regard the piece as\\nBurns s own. ANDREW LANG.]\\nI.\\nStrait is the spot and green the sod,\\nFrom whence my sorrows flow\\nAnd soundly sleeps the ever dear\\nInhabitant below.\\nPardon my transport, gentle shade,\\nWhile o er the turf I bow\\nThy earthly house is circumscrib d.\\nAnd solitary now\\nNot one poor stone to tell thy name\\nOr make thy virtues known\\nBut what avails to thee to me\\nThe sculpture of a stone\\nI 11 sit ine down upon this turf,\\nAnd wipe away this tear.\\nThe chill blast passes swiftly by,\\nAnd flits around thy bier.\\nDark is the dwelling of the dead.\\nAnd sad their house of rest\\nLow lies the head by Death s cold arm\\nIn awful fold embraced.\\nI saw the grim Avenger stand\\nIncessant by thy side;\\nUnseen by thee, his deadly breath\\nThy lingering frame destroy d.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0396.jp2"}, "395": {"fulltext": "ELEGY ON STELLA.\\n349\\nPale grew the roses on thy cheek.\\nAnd withered was thy bloom.\\nTill the slow poison brought thy youth\\nUntimely to the tomb.\\nThus wasted are the ranks of men\\nYouth, health, and beauty fall\\nThe rutiiless ruin spreads around,\\nAnd overwhelms us all.\\nIX.\\nBehold where, round thy narrow house,\\nThe graves unnumbered lie\\nThe multitude that sleep below,\\nExisted but to die.\\nSome with the tottering steps of Age\\nTrod down the darksome way\\nAnd some in Youth s lamented prime,\\nLike thee, were torn away.\\nYet these, however hard their fate,\\nTheir native earth receives\\nAmid their weeping friends they died,\\nAnd fill their fathers^ graves.\\nXII.\\nFrom thy lov d friends, when first thy\\nheart.\\nWas taught by Heaven to glow.\\nFar, far removed, the ruthless stroke\\nSurpris d, and laid thee low.\\nXIII.\\nAt the last limits of our Isle,\\nWash d by the western wave,\\nTouch d by thy fate, a thoughtful\\nBard\\nSits lonely on thy grave\\nPensive he eyes, before him spread.\\nThe deep, outstretch d and vast.\\nHis mourning notes are borne away\\nAlong the rapid blast.\\nAnd while, amid the silent dead,\\nThy hapless fate he mourns.\\nHis own long sorrows freshly bleed,\\nAnd all his grief returns.\\nXVI.\\nLike theo, cut off in early youth\\nAnd flower of beauty s pride.\\nHis friend, his first and only joy,\\nHis much-lov d Stella died.\\nHim, too, the stern impulse of Fate\\nResistless bears along,\\nAnd the same rapid tide shall whelm\\nThe Poet and the Song.\\nXVIII.\\nThe tear of pity, which he shed,\\nHe asks not to receive\\nLet but his poor remains be laid\\nObscurely in the grave\\nHis grief-worn heart with truest joy\\nShall meet the welcome shock\\nHis airy harp shall lie unstrung\\nAnd silent on the rock.\\nXX.\\nO my dear maid, my Stella, when\\nShall this sick period close,\\nAnd lead the solitary Bard\\nTo his belov d repose?", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0397.jp2"}, "396": {"fulltext": "3SO\\nPOEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.\\nPOEM ON PASTORAL\\nPOETRY.\\n[Currie (1800), from a Ms. in Burns s\\nhiind; but (Gilbert Hums strongly doubted\\nits authenticity, and internal evidence shows\\nthat it may have been written by some con-\\ntemporary of Allan Ramsay.]\\nHail, Poesie thou Nymph reserved\\nIn chase o thee, what crowds hae\\nswerv d\\nFrae common sense, or sunk enerv d\\nWlang heaps o clavers\\nAnd och o er aft tliy joes hae starv d\\nMid a thy favours\\nII.\\nSay. Lassie, why thy train amang,\\nWhile loud the tramp s heroic clang,\\nAnd sock or buskin skelp alang\\nTo death or marriage.\\nScarce ane has tried the shepherd-\\nsang\\nBut wi miscarriage\\nIn Homer s craft Jock Milton thrives\\nEschylus pen Will Shakespeare\\ndrives\\nWee Pope, the knurlin, till him\\nrives\\nHoratian fame\\nIn thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives\\nEven Sapplio s flame\\nBut thee, Theocritus, wha matches\\nThey re no herd s ballats, Maro s\\ncatches\\nSquire Pope but busks his skinklin\\npatches\\nO heathen tatters\\nI pass by hunders, nameless wretches,\\nThat ape their betters.\\nIn this bravv age o wit and lear,\\nWill nane the Shepherd s whistle\\nmair\\nBlaw sweetly in its native air\\nAnd rural grace.\\nAnd wi the far-fam d Grecian share\\nA rival place\\nYes there is ane a Scottish callan\\nThere s ane Come forrit, honest\\nAllan\\nThou need na jouk behint the hallan,\\nA chiel sae clever\\nThe teeth o Time may gnaw Tan-\\ntallan.\\nBut thou s for ever.\\nThou paints auld Nature to the nines\\nIn thy sweet Caledonian lines\\nNae gowden stream thro myrtles\\ntwines.\\nWhere Philomel,\\nWhile nightly breezes sweep the\\nvines,\\nHer griefs will tell\\nVIII.\\nIn gowany glens thy burnie strays,\\nWhere bonie lasses bleach their claes,\\nOr trots by hazelly shaws and braes\\nWi hawtliorns gray,\\nWhere blackbirds join the shepherd s\\nlays\\nAt close o day.\\nThy rural loves are Nature s sel\\nNae bombast spates o nonsense\\nswell,\\nNae snap conceits, but that sweet\\nspell\\nO witchin love,\\nThat charm that can the strongest\\nquell,\\nThe sternest move.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0398.jp2"}, "397": {"fulltext": "THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.\\n351\\nON THE DESTRUCTION OF\\nDRUMLANRIG WOODS.\\n[First published in the Scots Magazhie\\nfor July, 1803, where it is stated that the\\nverses had been found written on the\\nwindow-shutter of a small inn on the banks\\nof the Nith, and that they were supposed\\nto have been written by Burns.\\nAs on the banks of winding Nith\\nAe smiHng simmer morn I stray d.\\nAnd trac d its bonie holms and\\nhaughs,\\nWhere linties sang, and lammies\\nplay d,\\nI sat me down upon a craig,\\nAnd drank my fill o fancy s dream,\\nWhen from the eddying deep below\\nUp rose the Genius of the Stream.\\nDark like the frowning rock his brow,\\nAnd troubled like his wintry wave,\\nAnd deep as sughs the boding wind\\nAmang his caves the sigh he gave.\\nAnd come ye here, my son, he\\ncried,\\nTo wander in my birken shade\\nTo muse some favourite Scottish\\ntheme.\\nOr sing some favourite Scottish\\nmaid\\nin.\\nThere was a time, it s nae lang syne,\\nYe might hae seen me in my pride,\\nWhen a my banks sae bravely saw\\nTheir woody pictures in my tide\\nWhen hanging beech and spreading\\nelm\\nShaded my stream sae clear and\\ncool\\nAnd stately oaks their twisted arms\\nThrew broad and dark across the\\npool;\\nWhen, glinting thro the trees, ap-\\npear d\\nThe wee white cot aboon the mill,\\nAnd peaceful rose its ingle reek.\\nThat, slowly curling, clamb the hill.\\nBut now the cot is bare and cauld.\\nIts leafy bield for ever gane,\\nAnd scarce a stinted birk is left\\nTo shiver in the blast its lane.\\nAlas quoth I, what ruefu chance\\nHas twin d ye o your stately trees\\nHas laid your rocky bosom bare\\nHas stripp d the deeding aff your\\nbraes\\nWas it the bitter eastern blast,\\nThat scatters blight in early spring?\\nOr was t the wirfire scorch d their\\nboughs\\nOr canker-worm wi secret stine:\\nNae eastlin blast, the Sprite re-\\nplied\\nIt blaws nahere sae fierce and fell,\\nAnd on my dry and halesome banks\\nNae canker-worms get leave to\\ndwell\\nMan cruel man the Genius sigh d,\\nAs through the cliffs he sank him\\ndown\\nThe worm that gnaw d my bonie\\ntrees,\\nThat reptile wears a Ducal crown.\\nTHE JOYFUL WIDOWER.\\n[This performance (No. 98 in Johnson,\\n17S7) is attributed to Burns, but he never\\nacknowledged it. There are many black-\\nletter ballads most of them unsavory\\nenough on scolding wives.]\\nI.\\nI MARRIED with a scolding wife\\nThe fourteenth of November", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0399.jp2"}, "398": {"fulltext": "352\\nTHE TREE OF LIHERTY.\\nShe made me weary of my life\\nBy one unruly member.\\nLong did I bear the heavy yoke,\\nAnd many griefs attended,\\nBut to my comfort be it spoke,\\nNow, now lier life is ended\\nWe liv d full one-and-twenty years\\nA man and wife together.\\nAt length from me her course she\\nsteer d\\nAnd gone I know not whither.\\nWould I could guess, I do profess\\nI speak, and do not flatter.\\nOf all the women in the world,\\nI never would come at her\\nHer body is bestowed well\\nA handsome grave does hide her.\\nBut sure her soul is not in Hell\\nThe Deil would ne er abide her\\nI rather think she is aloft\\nAnd imitating thunder.\\nFor why? Methinks I hear her\\nvoice\\nTearing the clouds asunder\\nWHY SHOULD WE IDLY\\nWASTE OUR PRIME.\\n[Attributed by Cunningham to Burns.]\\nWhy should we idly waste our prime\\nRepeating our oppressions\\nCome rouse to arms T is now the\\ntime\\nTo punish past transgressions.\\nT is said that Kings can do no\\nwrong\\nTheir murderous deeds deny it,\\nAnd, since from us their power is\\nsprung.\\nWe have a right to try it.\\nNow each true patriot s song shall\\nbe\\nWelcome Death or Libertie I\\nProud Priests and Bishops we 11 trans-\\nlate\\nAnd canonize as Martyrs\\nThe guillotine on Peers shall wait\\nAnd Knights shall hang in garters.\\nThose Despots long have trode us\\ndown.\\nAnd Judges are their engines\\nSuch wretched minions of a Crown\\nDemand the people s vengeance\\nTo-day t is tlieirs. To-morrow we\\nShall don the Cap of Libertie\\nThe Golden Age we 11 then revive\\nEach man will be a brother\\nIn harmony we all shall live.\\nAnd share the earth together,\\nIn Virtue train d. enlighten d Youth\\nWill love each fellow-creature\\nAnd future years shall prove the truth\\nThat Man is good by nature\\nThen let us toast with three times\\nthree\\nThe reien of Peace and Libertie\\nTHE TREE OF LIBERTY.\\n[Chambers credits these verses to Bums\\non the authority of a Ms. then in the posses-\\nsion of Mr. [ames Duncan, Morefield, Glas-\\ngow. The Ms. has not been heard of since\\n1838.]\\nI.\\nHeard ye o the Tree o France,\\nAnd wat ye what s the name o t\\nAround it a the patriots dance\\nWeel Europe kens the fame o t\\nIt stands where ance the Bastile\\nstood\\nA prison built by kings, man,", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0400.jp2"}, "399": {"fulltext": "THE TREE OF LIBERTY.\\n353\\nWhen Superstition s hellish brood\\nKept France in leading-strings,\\nman.\\nUpo this tree there grows sic fruit,\\nIts virtues a can tell, man\\nIt raises man aboon the brute.\\nIt mak s him ken himseP, man\\nGif ance the peasant taste a bit,\\nHe s greater than a lord, man.\\nAnd \\\\vi the beggar shares a mite\\nO a he can afford, man.\\nIII.\\nThis fmit is worth a Afric s wealth\\nTo comfort us t was sent, man.\\nTo gie the sweetest blush o health.\\nAnd mak us a content, man\\nIt clears the een, it cheers the heart,\\nMak s high and low guid\u00c2\u00bbfriends,\\nman.\\nAnd he wha acts the traitor s part.\\nIt to perdition sends, man.\\nIVIy blessings ay attend the chiel,\\nWha pitied Gallia s slaves, man.\\nAnd staw a branch, spite o the Deil,\\nFrae yont the western waves, man\\nFair Virtue water d it wi care,\\nAnd now she sees wi pride, man.\\nHow weel it buds and blossoms\\nthere,\\nIts branches spreading wide, man.\\nBut vicious folk ay hate to see\\nThe works o Virtue thrive, man\\nThe courtly vermin s bann d the tree,\\nAnd grat to see it thrive, man\\nKing Louis thought to cut it down.\\nWhen it was unco sma man\\nFor this the watchman crack d his\\ncrown.\\nCut aff his head and a man.\\n2A\\nA wicked crew syne, on a time,\\nDid tak a solemn aith, man.\\nIt ne er should flourish to its prime\\nI wat they pledged their faith,\\nman\\nAwa they gaed wi mock parade.\\nLike beagles hunting game, man,\\nBut soon grew weary o the trade,\\nAnd wish d they d been at hame,\\nman.\\nFair Freedom, standing by the tree,\\nHer sons did loudly ca man.\\nShe sang a sang o Liberty,\\nWhich pleas d them ane and a\\nman.\\nBy her inspir d, the new-born race\\nSoon drew the avenging steel, man.\\nThe hirehngs ran her foes gied\\nchase.\\nAnd bang d the despot weel, man.\\nLet Britain boast her hardy oak,\\nHer poplar, and her pine, man I\\nAuld Britain ance could crack her\\njoke.\\nAnd o er her neighbours shine,\\nman\\nBut seek the forest round and round.\\nAnd soon t will be agreed, man.\\nThat sic a tree can not be found\\nTwixt London and the Tweed,\\nman.\\nWithout this tree alake this life\\nIs but a vale o woe, man,\\nA scene o sorrow mix d wi strife,\\nNae real joys we know, man\\nWe labour soon, we labour late,\\nTo feed the titled knave, man.\\nAnd a the comfort we re to get,\\nIs that ayont the grave, man.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0401.jp2"}, "400": {"fulltext": "354\\nTO A KISS. TO THE OWL.\\nWi plenty o sic trees, I trow,\\nThe warld would live in peace,\\nman.\\nThe sword would help to mak a\\n])lough.\\nThe din o war wad cease, man.\\nLike brethren in a common cause.\\nWe d on each other smile, man\\nAnd equal rights and equal laws\\nWad gladden every isle, man.\\nWae worth the loon wha wadna eat\\nSic halesome, dainty cheer, man\\nI d gie the shoon frae aff my feet,\\nTo taste the fruit o t here, man\\nSyne let us pray, Auld England may\\nSure plant this far-famed tree, man\\nAnd blythe we 11 sing, and herald the\\nday\\nThat gives us liberty, man.\\nTO A KISS.\\n[Published in a Liverpool paper called\\nthe Kaleidoscope, and there attributed\\nto Burns. It originally appeared in The\\nOracle, Jan. 29, 1796. The authorship is\\npractically unknown.]\\nI.\\nHumid seal of soft aflFections,\\nTend rest pledge of future bliss,\\nDearest tie of young connections,\\nLove s tirst snow-drop, virgin kiss\\nSpeaking silence, dumb confession,\\nPassion s birth and infant s play,\\nDove-like fondness, chaste confession,\\nGlowing dawn of briglittr day\\nHI.\\nSorrowing joy, adieu s last action,\\nLing ring lips no more must join\\nWords can never speak affection,\\nThrilling and sincere as thine\\nDELIA.\\nAN ODE.\\nThe lines, if authentic, are obviously a\\nparody. ANDREW Lang.J\\nFair the face of orient day,\\nP air the tints of op ning rose\\nBut fairer still my Delia dawns.\\nMore lovely far her beauty blows.\\nSweet the lark s wild-warbled lay,\\nSweet the tinkling rill to hear:\\nBut. Delia, more deliglitful still\\nSteal thine accents on mine ear.\\nThe flower-enamoured busy bee\\nThe rosy banquet loves to sip\\nSweet the streamlet s limpid lapse\\nTo the sun-brown d Arab lip\\nBut, Delia, on thy balmy lips\\nLet me, no vagrant insect, rove\\nO, let me steal one liquid kiss\\nFor O my soul is parch d with\\nlove\\nTO THE OWL.\\n[Found among Burns s Ms., in his own\\nhandwriting, with occasional interlineations,\\nsuch as occur in all his primitive effusions,\\nbut attributed by him to [ohn M Creddie,\\nof whom nothing is known.]\\nSad bird of night, what sorrow calls\\nthee forth.\\nTo vent thy plaints thus in the\\nmidniijht hour.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0402.jp2"}, "401": {"fulltext": "THE VOWELS,\\n355\\nIs it some blast that gathers in the\\nnorth.\\nThreat ning to nip the verdure of\\nthy bow r\\nIs it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the\\nshade,\\nAnd leaves thee here, unshelter d\\nand forlorn\\nOr fear that Winter will thy nest in-\\nvade\\nOr friendless Melancholy bids thee\\nmourn?\\nShut out, lone bird, from all the\\nfeather d train.\\nTo tell thy sorrows to th unheed-\\ning gloom.\\nNo fi iend to pity when thou dost\\ncomplain.\\nGrief all thy thought, and solitude\\nthy home,\\nSing on, sad mourner I will bless\\nthy strain,\\nAnd pleas d in sorrow listen to thy\\nsong.\\nSing on, sad mourner To the night\\ncomiDlain,\\nWhile the lone echo wafts thy notes\\nalong.\\nIs Beauty less, when clown the glow-\\ning cheek\\nSad. piteous tears in native sorrows\\nfall?\\nLess kind the heart when anguish bids\\nit break\\nLess happy he who lists to Pity s\\ncall\\nAh no, sad owl nor is thy voice less\\nsweet,\\nThat Sadness tunes it, and that\\nGrief is there\\nThat Spring s gay notes, unskilled,\\nthou can t repeat.\\nThat Sorrow bids thee to the gloom\\nrepair\\nNor that the treble songsters of the\\nday.\\nAre quite estranged, sad bird of\\nnight, from thee\\nNor that the thmsh deserts the even-\\ning spray,\\nWhen darkness calls thee from thy\\nreverie\\nVIII.\\nFrom some old tower, thy melancholy\\ndome,\\nWhile the gray walls and desert\\nsolitudes\\nReturn each note, responsive to the\\ngloom\\nOf ivied coverts and surrounding\\nwoods\\nThere hooting, I will list more pleased\\nto thee.\\nThan ever lover to the nightingale,\\nOr drooping wretch, oppressed with\\nmisery,\\nLending his ear to some condoling\\ntale\\nTHE VOWELS.\\nA TALE.\\n[Found among the poet s papers.]\\nT WAS where the birch and sounding\\nthong are ply d,\\nThe noisy domicile of pedant pride\\nWhere Ignorance her darkening va-\\npour throws.\\nAnd Cruelty directs the thickening\\nblows", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0403.jp2"}, "402": {"fulltext": "356\\nON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE CHILD.\\nUpon a time, Sir ABC the great,\\nIn all his pedagogic powers elate,\\nHis awful chair of state resolves to\\nmount,\\nAnd call the trembling Vowels to\\naccount.\\nFirst enter d A. a grave, broad, solemn\\nwight.\\nBut, ah deformed, dishonest to the\\nsight\\nHis twisted head look d backward on\\nhis way,\\nAnd iiagrant from the scourge he\\ngrunted, at!\\nReluctant. E stalk d in a piteous case,\\nThe justling tears ran down his hon-\\nest face\\nThat name, that well-worn name, and\\nall his own.\\nPale, he surrenders at the t3rant s\\nthrone\\nThe Pedant stifles keen the Roman\\nsound\\nNot all his mongrel diphthongs can\\ncompound\\nAnd next the title following close\\nbehind,\\nHe to the nameless, ghastly wretch\\nassign d.\\nThe cobwebb d gothic dome re-\\nsounded, Y\\nIn sullen vengeance, I disdained reply\\nThe Pedant swung his felon cudgel\\nround.\\nAnd knock^l the groaning vowel to\\nthe ground\\nIn rueful apprehension enteral O,\\nThe wailing minstrel of despairingwoe\\nTh Inquisitor of Spain the most ex-\\npert.\\nMight there have learnt new mysteries\\nof his art.\\nSo grim, deform d, with horrors en-\\ntering, U\\nHis dearest friend and brother scarcely\\nknew\\nAs trembling U stood staring all\\naghast.\\nThe Pedant in his left hand clutch d\\nhim fast.\\nIn helpless infants tears he dipp d\\nhis right,\\nBaptiz d him eu, and kick d him from\\nhis si rht.\\nON THE ILLNESS OF A\\nFAVOURITE CHILD.\\nIt is hard to believe that Burns, though\\nhis taste in English was none ot the finest,\\ncould ever transcribe such immitigable rub-\\nbish. Centenary Edition^\\nNow health forsakes that angel face.\\nNae mair my dearie smiles.\\nPale sickness withers ilka grace,\\nAnd a my hopes beguiles.\\nThe cruel Powers reject the prayer\\nI hourly mak for thee\\nYe Heavens how great is my despair\\nHow can I see him die\\nON THE DEATH OF A FA-\\nVOURITE CHILD.\\n[Burns s daughter, Elizabeth Riddell,\\ndied in the autumn of 1795. But this tact\\ncan scarce be regarded as proof of the\\nauthenticity of the verses.]\\nO, SWEET be thy sleep in the land of\\nthe grave.\\nMy dear little angel, for ever\\nFor ever O no let not man be\\na slave.\\nHis hopes from existence to sever", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0404.jp2"}, "403": {"fulltext": "A TIPPLING BALLAD.\\n357\\nThough cold be the clay, where thou\\npillow st thy head\\nIn the dark, silent mansions of sor-\\nrow,\\nThe spring shall return to thy low,\\nnarrow bed,\\nLike the beam of the day-star to-\\nmorrow.\\nThe flower-stem shall bloom like thy\\nsweet seraph form\\nEre the spoiler had nipt thee in\\nblossom,\\nWhen thou shrank frae the scowl of\\nthe loud winter storm.\\nAnd nestled thee close to that\\nbosom.\\nO, still I behold thee, all lovely in\\ndeath.\\nReclined on the lap of thy mother.\\nWhen the tear-trickle bright, when\\nthe short stifled breath\\nTold how dear ye were ay to each\\nother.\\nMy child, thou art gone to the home\\nof thy rest.\\nWhere suffering no longer can\\nharm thee\\nWhere the songs of the Good, wliere\\nthe hymns of the Blest\\nThrough an endless existence shall\\ncharm thee\\nVI.\\nWhile he, thy fond parent, must sigh-\\ning sojourn\\nThrough the dire desert regions of\\nsorrow.\\nO er the hope and misfortune of being\\nto mourn,\\nAnd sigh for this life s latest mor-\\nrow.\\nPOEMS OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY.\\nThe following poems are not considered sufficiently authenticated or perhaps for other\\nreasons to be included in the Cenienary Edition. They are printed either in the\\nWallace-Chambers edition or in the edition of Andrew Lang, or in both, as well as in\\nsome of the earlier editions. The notes prefixed to each poem will sufficiently e.\\\\plain the\\noccasion of their production.\\nA TIPPLING BALLAD.\\nON THE DUKE OF BRUNSWICK S\\nBREAKING UP HIS CAMP, AND\\nTHE DEFEAT OF THE AUSTRIANS,\\nBY DUMOURIER, NOVEMBER, 1 792.\\nThe title explains the occasion Burns s\\npolitical sentiments supply the rest. AN-\\nDREW Lang. Parts of this ballad are\\nprinted in the Chambers and Globe Edi-\\ntions.]\\nWhen Princes and Prelates,\\nAnd hot-headed zealots,\\nA Europe had set in a low, a low,\\nThe poor man lies down,\\nNor envies a crown.\\nAnd comforts himself as he dow, as\\nhe dow.\\nAnd comforts himself as he dow.\\nThe black-headed eagle,\\nAs keen as a beagle.\\nHe hunted o er height and o er howe,\\nIn the braes o Gcmappe,\\nHe fell in a trap.\\nE en let him come out as he dow, dow,\\ndow.\\nE en let him come out as he dow.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0405.jp2"}, "404": {"fulltext": "558\\nTIIH WUKX S NEST. WHEX PI.KASURE FASCINATES.\\nBut truce with commotions,\\nAnd new-fangled notions,\\nA bumper, I trust 30U ll allow\\nHere s George our good king.\\nAnd Charlotte his queen,\\nAnd lang may they ring as they dow,\\ndow, dow.\\nAnd lang may they ring as they dow.\\nTHE WREN^S NEST.\\nBurns communicated to Johnson, for\\nthe fifth vokime of the Museum, the\\nfollowing fragment of a nursery ballad on\\nthe loves of Robin and the Wren, taken\\nfrom Jean Armour s singing. It appears\\nto be part of another fragment on same\\nsubject, preserved by David Herd.\\nWilliam Scott Douglas.]\\nThe Robin to the Wren s nest\\nCam keekin in, cam keekin in\\nO weel s me on your auld pow,\\nWad ye be in, wad ye be in\\nThou s ne er get leave to lie without,\\nAnd I within, and I within,\\nAs lang s I hae an auld clout\\nTo rowe ye in, to rowe ye in.\\nMY GIRL SHE S AIRY.\\nThe date is 1784 the girl may be any-\\nbody. The remaining lines of this piece\\nhave never been printed in full. Andrew\\nLang. Printed also in Chambers.]\\nMy girl she s airy, she s buxom and\\ngay;\\nHer breath is as sweet as the blossoms\\nin May\\nA touch of her lips it ravishes quite\\nShe s always good natur d, good\\nhumor d, and free\\nShe dances, she glances, she smiles\\nupon me\\nI never am happy when out of her\\nsight.\\nTHE PLOUGH.MAN S LIFE.\\nPossibly this is a scrap from tradition,\\nwhich Bums may have written down, with\\nno idea of claiming it for his own. AN-\\nDREW Lang. Printed also in Chambers.]\\nAs I was a-wand ring ae morning in\\nspri ng,\\nI heard a young ploughman sae\\nsweetly to sing\\nAnd as he was singin thir words he\\ndid say,\\nThere s nae life like the ploughman s\\nin the month o sweet May.\\nThe lav rock in the morning she ll\\nrise frae her nest.\\nAnd mount i the air wi the dew on\\nher breast.\\nAnd wi the merry ploughman she 11\\nwhistle and sing.\\nAnd at night she II return to her nest\\nback again.\\nSOUND BE HIS SLEEP.\\n[Said to have been found on a window\\nin the Qoss Keys Inn at Falkirk, where\\nBurns han spent the night. Printed in the\\nChambers Edition.]\\nSound be his sleep and blithe his\\nmorn\\nThat never did a lassie wrang\\nWho poverty ne er held in scorn\\nFor misery ever tholed a pang.\\nWHEN PLEASURE FASCI-\\nNATES.\\n[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 31, 1796.\\nPrinted in the Chambers Edition.]\\nWiiKN ]5leasure fascinates the mental\\nsight.\\nAffliction purifies the visual ray,", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0406.jp2"}, "405": {"fulltext": "DEAR SIR, OUR LUCKY HUMBLY BEGS.\\n359\\nReligion hails the drear, the untried,\\nnight.\\nAnd shuts, for ever shuts life s\\ndoubtful day.\\nON THOMAS KIRKPATRICK,\\nLATE BLACKSMITH IN\\nSTOOP.\\n[Printed in the Cliambers Edition.]\\nHere lies, mang ither useless matters,\\nAuld Thomas \\\\vi his endless clatters.\\nSICK OF THE WORLD.\\n[Enclosed in a letter to Clarinda, Jan. 21,\\n1788. Printed in tlie Ciianibers Edition.]\\nSick of the world and all its joy.\\nMy soul in pining sadness mourns\\nDark scenes of woe my mind employ,\\nThe past and present in their turns.\\nTHE PHILOSOPHER S STONE.\\nThis anonymous quatrain appeared in\\nthe Dumfries Weekly Journal of July 7,\\n1795. Circumstantial nnd internal evidence\\nare proof that it is from the pen of Burns.\\nChambers EditiotiJ]\\nLong have the learned sought, with-\\nout success.\\nTo find what you alone, O Pitt,\\npossess\\nThou only hast the magic power to\\ndraw\\nA guinea from a /lead not worth a\\nstraw.\\nNOW, GOD IN HEAVEN.\\n[Enclosed in a letter to M. Fyffe, Sur-\\ngeon, Edinburgh. Printed in the Cliambers\\nEdition.]\\nNow, God in heaven bless Reekie s\\ntown\\nWith plenty, joy, and peace\\nAnd may her wealth and fair renown\\nTo latest times encrease\\nAmen.\\nLEEZIE LINDSAY.\\n[Printed in the Chambers Edition.]\\nWill ye go to the Hielands, Leezie\\nLindsay\\nWill ye go to the Hielands wi me\\nWill ye go to the Hielands, Leezie\\nLindsay,\\nMy pride and my darling to be?\\nIT MAY DO MAUN DO.\\n[Enclosed in a letter to John Arnot, of\\nDalquhatswood, Esq., April, 1786. Printed\\nin the Chambers Edition.]\\nIt may do maun do. Sir, wi\\nthem wha\\nMaun please the great folk for a\\nwame-fou\\nFor me, sae laigh I need na bow,\\nFor, Lord be thankit I can plough\\nAnd when I downa yoke a naig.\\nThen, Lord be thankit I can beg.\\nDEAR SIR, OUR LUCKY\\nHUMBLY BEGS.\\n[Enclosed in a letter to Mr. Alexander\\nFindlater, June 17, 1791. Printed in the\\nChambers Edition.]\\nDear Sir, Our Lucky humbly begs\\nYe 11 prie her caller, new-laid eggs\\nLord grant the cock may keep her legs\\nAboon the chuckles\\nNae curs d, clerical excise\\nOn honest Nature s laws and ties\\nFree as the vernal breeze that flies\\nAt early day.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0407.jp2"}, "406": {"fulltext": "36o\\nWe d tasted Nature s richest joys\\nBut stint or sta}\\nBut as this subject s something; kittle.\\nOur wisest way s to say but little.\\nYet. while my Muse is at her mettle,\\n1 am, most fervent,\\nOr may I die upon a whittle\\nYour friend and servant,\\nRobert Burns.\\nCOME TILL MK A BUMTKR.\\nI LOOK TO THE WEST.\\n[Enclosed in a note to Alexander Cun-\\nningham, March 12, 1791. Printed in the\\nChambers Edition.]\\nI LOOK to the west when I gae to rest,\\nThat happy my dreams and my\\nslumbers may be\\nFor far in the west lives he I lo e best\\nThe lad that is dear to my babie\\nand me\\nAH, CHLORIS\\n[The two follovvins; stanzas were enclosed\\nin a letter to Mr. Alexander Findlater, Sep-\\ntember, 1794. Printed in the Chambers\\nEdition.]\\nAh, Chloris, could I now but sit\\nAs unconcerned as when\\nYour infant beauty could beget\\nNor happiness nor pain.\\nKIST YESTREEN, KIST YES-\\nTREEN.\\nKiST yestreen, kist yestreen,\\nO as I was kist yestreen,\\n1 11 ne er forget while the hollin grows\\ngreen.\\nThe bonie sweet lassie 1 kist yestreen.\\nCOME FILL ME A BUMPER.\\n[Adapted by Burns. Printed in the\\nClianibers Edition.]\\nCome fill me a bumper, my jolly,\\nbrave boys,\\nLet s have no more feinale impert\\nnence and noise\\nI ve tried tlie endearments and witch-\\ncraft of love.\\nAnd found them but nonsense and\\nwhimsies, by Jove.\\nCluvits.\\nTruce with your love no more of\\nyour love\\nThe bottle henceforth is my mistress,\\nby Jove.\\nEXTEMPORE LINES.\\n[In answer to a card from an intimate\\nfriend of Burns, wishing him to spend an\\nhour at a tavern.]\\nThe king s poor blackguard slave\\nam I,\\nAnd scarce dow spare a minute;\\nBut I 11 be with you by and bye.\\nOr else the devil s in it\\nTHANKSGIVING FOR A\\nTIONAL VICTORY.\\nNA-\\nAdapted from lines on the Thanks-\\ngiving Day for Perth and Preston, 17th\\n[une, 1716 (Maidment s Scottish Pasquils,\\n1868). Tiie victory Burns celebrated was\\ndoubtless Howe s, off Ushant, ist June,\\n1794. Chambers, revised by William\\nWallace.]\\nYe hypocrites, are these your pranks?\\nTo murder men and give God thanks\\nDesist, for shame Proceed no\\nfurther\\nGod won t accept your thanks for\\nmurther.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0408.jp2"}, "407": {"fulltext": "THE HERMIT OF ABERFELDY.\\n361\\nPOEMS REJECTED BY LATEST EDITORS OF\\nBURNS.\\nThe following poems have been printed in nearly all the earlier editions of Burns, and\\nmany of them are reprinted in late editions, as being undoubtedly the poet s productions.\\nOther editors have been more critical, and have rejected them as being either spurious,\\nor not verified. But as the readers of Burns have been so long accnstumed to see them in\\nthe pages of their favorite poet, it has been considered best to print them, with this expla-\\nnation. The volumes in which they have appeared are the Kilmarnock (William Scott\\nDouglas), the edition edited by Alexander Smith (published by T. Y. Crowell Co.).\\nOxford (edited by Logie Robertson, M. A.), the London edition of Bliss, Sands, Co.,\\nand the Albion edition, published by F. Wharne Co.\\nTHE HERMIT OF ABERFELDY.\\nFIRST COLLECTED IN HOGG AND\\nMOTHERWELL S EDITION, 1 834-3 5.\\nVery few readers of Burns can be\\npersuaded that these verses were composed\\nby him. They were furnished to Mother-\\nwell by Peter Buchan of Peterhead. The\\npoet reached Aberfeldy towards evening,\\non 30th August, 1787, stayed half an hour,\\nand u as back to Dunkeld for supper. He\\ndescribed the Falls in undying song, as all\\nthe world knows but when were these\\nheavy lines composed The term, desert\\ndrear, used in the opening verse, shows\\nthat this Hermit belonged to some other\\nquarter than Aberfeldy, where all is as light-\\nsome as the poet s song. WILLIAM\\nScoTT Douglas.]\\nWhoe er thou art, these lines now\\nreading.\\nThink not, though from the world\\nreceding,\\nI joy my lonely days to lead in\\nThis desert drear\\nThat fell remorse, a conscience bleed-\\ning\\nHath led me here\\n11.\\nNo thought of guilt my bosom sours;\\nFree-wiird I fled from courtly bovvers\\nFor well I saw in halls and towers\\nThat lust and pride\\nThe arch-fiend s dearest, darkest\\npowers,\\nIn state preside.\\nIII.\\nI saw mankind with vice incrusted\\nI saw that honor s sword was rusted,\\nThat few for aught but folly lusted,\\nThat he was still deceived who trusted\\nTo love or friend\\nAnd hither came, with men disgusted,\\nMy life to end.\\nIn this lone cave, in garments lowly.\\nAlike a foe to noisy folly.\\nAnd brow-bent, gloomy melancholy,\\nI wear away\\nMy life, and in my office holy\\nConsume the day.\\nThis rock my shield when storms are\\nblowing.\\nThe limpid streamlet yonder flowing\\nSupplying drink, the earth bestowing\\nMy simple food\\nBut few enjoy the calm I know in\\nThis desert wood.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0409.jp2"}, "408": {"fulltext": "362\\nTO CLARINDA. THE RUINED MAID S LAMENT.\\nContent and comfort bless me more in\\nThis /j;rot, than e er I felt before in\\nA palace and with thoiiglits still\\nsoaring\\nTo (iod on high,\\nEach night and morn with voice im-\\nploring.\\nThis wish I sigh\\nLet me, O Lord from life retire.\\nUnknown each guilty, worldly fire,\\nRemorse s throb, or loose desire,\\nAnd when I die.\\nLet me in this belief expire,\\nTo God I fly.\\nStranger if full of youth and riot,\\nAnd yet no grief has marr d thy quiet.\\nThou haply tlirow st a scornful eye at\\nThe hermit s prayer;\\nBut if thou hast good cause to sigh at\\nThy fault or care\\nIf thou hast known false love s vexa-\\ntion,\\nOr hast been exiled from thy nation.\\nOr guilt affrights thy contemplation.\\nAnd makes thee pine,\\nOh how must thou lament thy sta-\\ntion,\\nAnd envy mine\\nPASTORAL VERSES TO\\nCLARINDA.\\nThis piece omitted in all collections\\nof the poet s works that we are aware of,\\nexcept Blackie s edition of 1861 is not\\ncontained, although apparently referred to,\\nin the Clarinda Correspondence, edited\\nby the lady s grandson, in 1843. The veises\\nseem to bear some marks of authenticity,\\nalthough certainly they are not in the poet s\\nbest style. VVfLLIAM ScoTT DOUGLAS.]\\nBefore I saw Clarinda s face,\\nMy heart was blythe and gay,\\nFree as tiie wind, or feather d race\\nThat hojj from spray to spray\\nBut now, dejected I appear,\\nClarinda proves unkind\\nI, sighing, drop the silent tear,\\nBut no relief can find.\\nIn plaintive notes, my lays rehearse\\nThe woes which fail to move\\nAnd every tree records a verse\\nIn praise of her I love\\nBut she, ungrateful, shuns my sight\\nMy faithful love disdains.\\nMy vows and tears her scorn excite\\nAnother happy reigus.\\nAh, though my looks my love betray,\\nI envy his success\\nYet love to friendship shall give\\nway,\\nI cannot wish it less.\\nTHE RUINED MAID S LAMENT.\\nAllan Cunningham has not the ques-\\ntionable merit of this fabrication to William\\nMotherwell we must accord that honor.\\nTempted by Allan s success, he tried his\\nhand on doctoring a piece at p. 51 of the\\nCrochallan volume. Verses i, 4, and 5\\nare entirely Motherwell s own while 2, 3, 6,\\nand 7 are very nearly Burns s wortls. In\\nconsideration of the pathetic beauty of the\\nsong we think it proper to reprint Mother-", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0410.jp2"}, "409": {"fulltext": "THE BANKS OF NITH.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HAPPY FRIENDSHIP.\\n363\\nwell s adaptation. William Scott\\nDouglas.]\\nO MEiKLE do I rue, fause love,\\nO sairly do I rue,\\nThat e er I heard your flattering\\ntongue,\\nThat e er your face I knew.\\nO I hae tint my rosy cheeks.\\nLikewise my waist sae sma\\nAnd I hae lost my lightsome heart\\nThat little wist a fa\\nIII.\\nNow I maun thole the scornfu sneer\\nO mony a saucy quine\\nWhen gin the tioith were a but kent,\\nHer life s been waur than mine.\\nWhene er my father thinks on me\\nHe stares into the wa\\nMy mither, she has ta en the bed\\nWi thinking on my fa\\nWhene er I hear my father s foot.\\nMy heart wad burst wi pain\\nWhene er I meet my mither s e e,\\nMy tears rin down like rain.\\nAlake sae sweet a tree as love\\nSic bitter fruit should bear\\nAlake! that e er a merry heart\\nShould draw a sauty tear\\nVII.\\nBut Heaven s curse will blast the man\\nDenies tlie bairn lie got.\\nOr leaves the merry lass he lo ed.\\nTo wear a ragged coat.\\nTHE BANKS OF NITH.\\nA BALLAD.\\n[Printed in Globe Edition (Alexander\\nSmith) and Bliss Sands\\nTo thee, lov d Nith, thy gladsome\\nplains,\\nWhere late wi careless thought I\\nrang d.\\nThough prest wi care and sunk in\\nwoe,\\nTo thee I bring a heart unchang d.\\nI love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,\\nTho memVy there my bosoni tear\\nFor there he rov d that brake my\\nheart,\\nYet to that heart, ah, still how dear\\nHAPPY FRIENDSHIP.\\n[Printed in edition of Bliss, Sands, Co.]\\nHere around the ingle bleezing,\\nWha sae happy and sae free\\nTho the northern wind blaws freez-\\ning,\\nFrien ship warms baith you and me.\\nChorus.\\nHappy we are a thegither,\\nHappy we 11 be yin an a\\nTime shall see us a the blyther,\\nEre we rise to gang awa\\nSee the miser o er his treasure\\nGloating wi a greedy e e\\nCan he feel the glow o pleasure\\nTliat around us here we see?", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0411.jp2"}, "410": {"fulltext": "?M\\nCOME REDE ME. ACCEPT THE GIFT.\\nCan the peer, in silk and ermine,\\nCa his conscience half liis own\\nHis claes are spun an edged\\nvermin,\\nTho he Stan afore a throne\\nThus then let us a be tassing\\nAflF our stoups o gen rous flame\\nAn while roun the board t is pass-\\ning\\nRaise a sang in frien ship s name.\\nFrien ship mak s us a mair happy,\\nFrien ship gi es us a delight\\nFrien ship consecrates the drappie,\\nFrien ship brings us here to-night.\\nC/iorus.\\nHappy we ve been a thegither.\\nHappy we ve been yin an a\\nTime shall find us a the blyther\\nWhen we rise to gang awa\\nCOME REDE ME, DAME.\\n[Printed in edition of Bliss, Sands, Co.,\\nand Albion Edition.]\\nCome rede me, dame, come tell me,\\ndame.\\nAnd nane can tell mair truly.\\nWhat color maun the man be of,\\nTo love a woman duly.\\nThe carlin clew baith up and down,\\nAnd leugh and answer d ready,\\nI learn d a sang in Annandale,\\nA dark man for my lady.\\nBut for a country quean like thee,\\nYoung lass, I tell thee fairly.\\nThat wi the white I ve made a shift,\\nAnd brown will do fu rarely.\\nThere s mickle love in raven locks,\\nThe flaxen ne er grows youden.\\nThere s kiss and hause me in the\\nbrown.\\nAnd glory in the gowden.\\nVERSES WRITTEN UNDER\\nVIOLENT GRIEF.\\nWe have little faith in the authenticity\\nof this production, which is said to have\\nfirst been printed in the Su/t newspaper,\\nin April, 1823. It is supposed to have\\nbeiMi originally written on a presentation\\ncopy of his Kilmarnock volume, in the\\nsummer of 1786. WILLIAM ScOTT\\nDouglas.]\\nI.\\nAccept the gift a friend sincere\\nWad on thy worth be prcssin\\nRemembrance oft may start a tear.\\nBut oh that tenderness forbear,\\nThough t wad my sorrows lessen.\\nMy morning raise sae clear and fair,\\nI thought sair storms wad never\\nBedew the scene but grief and care\\nIn wildest fury hae made bare\\nMy peace, my hope, for ever\\nYou think I m glad oh, I pay wee!\\nFor a the joy I borrow.\\nIn solitude then, then I feel\\nI canna to mysel conceal\\nMy deeply-ranklin sorrow.\\nFarewell within thy bosom free\\nA sigh may whiles awaken", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0412.jp2"}, "411": {"fulltext": "AS I WAS A-WANDERING. COULD AUGHT OF SONG.\\n565\\nA tear may wet thy laughin e e,\\nFor Scotia s son ance gay like\\nthee\\nNow hopeless, comfortless, for-\\nsaken\\nAS I WAS A-WANDERING.\\nBurns has merely made some changes\\nupon an old song. CHAMBERS, r^f. by\\nWallace.]\\nAs I was a-wandering ae midsummer\\ne enin\\nThe pipers and youngsters were\\nmaking their game\\nAmang them I spied my faithless\\nfause lover,\\nWhich bled a the wounds o my\\ndolor again.\\nChorus.\\nWeel, since he has left me, may\\npleasure gae wi him\\nI may be distressed, but I winna\\ncomplain\\nI flatter my fancy I may get anither,\\nAly heart it shall never be broken\\nfor ane.\\nI couldna get sleeping till dawin for\\ngreetin\\nThe tears trickled down like the\\nhail and the rain\\nHad I na got greetin my heart wad\\nha broken,\\nFor oh love forsaken s a torment-\\ning pain.\\nAlthough he has left me for greed o\\nthe siller.\\nI dinna envy him the gains he can\\nwin\\nI rather wad bear a the lade o my\\nsorrow\\nThan ever hae acted sae faithless\\nto him.i\\nCOULD AUGHT OF SONG.\\nThis elegant composition is so want-\\ning in some of the characteristic features of\\nBurns s lyrics, that, by many, it has been\\ndoubted to be a product of his muse, and\\nsome have suggested Dr. Beattie as its\\nprobable author. Burns s Ms., however,\\nis still in the possession of Johnson s repre-\\nsentatives by purchase, and his name is\\naffixed to the song in the fifth volume of the\\nMuseum. WILLIAM ScOTT Doug-\\nLAS.]\\nCould aught of song declare my\\npains,\\nCould artful numbers move thee,\\nThe muse should tell, in labor d\\nstrains,\\nO Mary, how I love thee\\nThey who but feign a wounded\\nheart.\\nMay teach the lyre to languish\\nBut what avails the pride of art,\\nWhen wastes the soul with an-\\nguish\\nThen let the sudden bursting sigh,\\nThe heart-felt pang discover\\nAnd in the keen, yet tender eye,\\nO read th imploring lover\\nFor well I know, thy gentle mind\\nDisdains art s gay disguising;\\nBeyond what Fancy e er refin d,\\nThe voice of Nature prizing.\\nThe last stanza appears on p. 347 of this edition.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0413.jp2"}, "412": {"fulltext": "366 ON HIMSELF. LASS, WHEN YOUR MITHER IS FRAK IIAME.\\nON HIMSELF.\\n[Printed in Globe Edition.]\\nHere comes Burns\\nOn Rosinante\\nShe s d poor,\\nBut he s d canty\\nEPITAPH ON THE POET S\\nDAUGHTER.\\n[Printed in edition of Bliss, Sands, Co.,\\nand in Globe Edition.]\\nHere lies a rose, a budding rose,\\nBlasted before its bloom\\nWhose innocence did sweets disclose\\nBeyond that flower s perfume.\\nTo those who for her loss are grieved,\\nThis consolation s given\\nShe s from a world of woe relieved,\\nAnd blooms a rose in heaven.\\nI MET A LASS, A BONIE\\nLASS.\\nThis song is made up from two verses\\nof a song in the Crochallan volume.\\nWilliam Scott Douclas.]\\nI MET a lass, a bonie lass,\\nComing o er the braes o Couper,\\nBare her leg and bright her een.\\nAnd handsome ilka bit about her.\\nWeel I wat she was a quean\\nWad made a body s mouth to water\\nOur Mess John, wi his lyart pow,\\nHis Italy lips wad lickit at her.\\nON MARIA DANCING.\\n[Printed in the edition of Bliss, Sands,\\nCo., and in the Oxford Edition.]\\nHow gracefully Maria leads the dance\\nShe s life itself. I never saw a foot\\nSo nimble and .so elegant it speaks,\\nAnd the sweet whispering poetry it\\nmakes\\nShames the musician.\\nJENNY M CRAW.\\n[Printed in the Globe and Oxford Edi-\\ntions. Scott Douglas says The original\\nsong, at page 102 of the Crochallan vol-\\nume, consists of three verses to the tune of\\nThe Bonie Moor-hen, of which Allan s six\\nlines are a weak travesty.\\nJenny M Craw, she has ta en to the\\nheather,\\nSav, was it the covenant carried her\\nthither;\\nJenny M Craw to the mountains is\\ngane.\\nTheir leagues and their covenants a\\nshe has ta en\\nMy head and my heart, now quo she,\\nare at rest,\\nAnd as for the lave, let the Deil do\\nhis best.\\nLASS, WHEN YOUR MITHER\\nIS FRAE HAME.\\n[Extracted from Burns s Common-Place\\nBook, but the authenticity is doubtful.\\nPrinted in Globe and Oxford Editions.]\\nI.\\nLass, when your mither is frae hame,\\nMight I but be sae bauld\\nAs come to your bower-window.\\nAnd creep in frae the cauld,\\nAs come to your bower-window.\\nAnd when it s cauld and wat.\\nWarm me in thy sweet bosom\\nFair lass, wilt thou do that\\nYoung man, gif ye should be sae kind,\\nWhen our gudewife s frae hame.\\nAs come to my bower-window,\\nWhare I am laid my lane,", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0414.jp2"}, "413": {"fulltext": "LAMENT. O WAT YE WHAT AIY MINNIE DID?\\n367\\nAnd warm thee in my bosom\\nBut I will tell thee what,\\nThe way to me lies through the kirk,\\nYoung man, do you hear that\\nLAMENT.\\n[Written at a time when the poet was\\nabout to leave Scotland. Printed in the\\nGlobe and Oxford Editions.]\\nO er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the\\nlone mountain straying,\\nWhere the wild winds of winter in-\\ncessantly rave,\\nWhat woes wring my heart while in-\\ntently surveying\\nThe storm s gloomy path on the\\nbreast of the wave.\\nII,\\nYe foam-crested billows, allow me to\\nwail,\\nEre ye toss me afar from my lov d\\nnative shore\\nWhere the flower which bloom d\\nsweetest in Coila s green vale,\\nThe pride of my bosom, my Mary s\\nno inore.\\nNo more by the banks of the stream-\\nlet we 11 wander.\\nAnd smile at the moon s rimpled\\nface in the wave;\\nNo more shall my arms cling with\\nfondness around her.\\nFor the dew-drops of morning fall\\ncold on her grave.\\nNo more shall the soft thrill of love\\nwarm my breast,\\nI haste with the storm to a far dis-\\ntant shore\\nWhere unknown, unlamented, my\\nashes shall rest,\\nAnd joy shall revisit my bosom no\\nmore.\\nO GIE MY LOVE BROSE,\\nBROSE.\\nThis is the chorus and one of five verses\\ngreatly altered of a song in the Cioch-\\nallan volume. Printed in the Globe Edi-\\ntion.]\\nO GIE my love brose, brose,\\nGie my love brose and butter\\nFor nane in Carrick or Kyle\\nCan please a lassie better.\\nThe lav rock lo es the grass.\\nThe muirhen lo es the heather;\\nBut gie me a braw moonlight.\\nAnd me and my love together.\\nO WAT YE WHAT MY MIN-\\nNIE DID\\n[Printed in the Globe and Oxford Edi-\\ntions. Scott Douglas considers the verses\\nspurious.]\\nI.\\nO WAT ye what my Minnie did,\\nMy Minnie did, my Minnie did,\\nO wat ye wiiat my Minnie did.\\nOn Tysday teen to me, jo\\nShe laid me in a saft bed,\\nA saft bed, a saft bed.\\nShe laid me in a saft bed.\\nAnd bade gudeen to me, jo.\\nAn wat ye what the parson did,\\nThe parson did, the parson did.\\nAn wat ye what the parson did,\\nA for a penny fee, jo?\\nHe loosed on me a lang inan,\\nA mickle man, a Strang rnan.\\nHe loosed on me a lang man.\\nThat might hae worried me, jo.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0415.jp2"}, "414": {"fulltext": "368\\nO WHA IS SHE THAT LO ES ME. EVAN BANKS.\\nIII.\\nAn I was but a young thing,\\nA young thing, a young thing,\\nAn I was but a young thing,\\nWi nane to pity me. jo.\\nI wat tlie kirk was in the wyte,\\nIn the wyte, in the wyte,\\nTo pit a young tiling in a fright,\\nAn loose a man on me, jo.\\nO WHA IS SHE THAT LO ES\\nME?\\n[Printed in the Globe, Oxford, and Al-\\nbion Editions.]\\nO WHA is she that lo es me,\\nAnd has my heart a-keeping?\\nO sweet is she that lo es me,\\nAs dews o simmer weeping.\\nIn tears the rose-buds steeping.\\nChorus.\\nO that s the lassie o my heart,\\nMy lassie ever dearer\\nO that s the queen o womankind.\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her.\\nIf thou shalt meet a lassie.\\nIn grace and beauty charming,\\nThat e en thy chosen lassie,\\nErewhile thy breast sae warming,\\nHad ne er sic powers alarming\\nO that s, etc.\\nIf thou hadst heard her talking,\\nAnd thy attentions plighted.\\nThat ilka body talking,\\nBut her by thee is slighted.\\nAnd thou art all delighted\\nO that s, etc.\\nIV.\\nIf thou hast met this fair one,\\nWhen frae her thou hast parted,\\nIf every other fair one.\\nBut her, thou hast deserted,\\nAnd thou art broken-hearted\\nO that s, etc.\\nEVAN BANKS.\\nDr. Currie inserted this in his first\\nedition, but witlidrew it on finding it was\\nthe composition of Helen Maria \\\\Villiams.\\nBurns had copied it: his Ms. is now in the\\nBritish Museum. GLOBE Edition.]\\nSlow spreads the gloom my soul\\ndesires.\\nThe sun from India s shore retires\\nTo Evan Banks with temp rate ray,\\nHome of my youth, he leads the day.\\nOh Banks to me for ever dear\\nOh streain, whose murmur still I hear\\nAll, all my hopes of bliss reside\\nWhere Evan mingles with the Clyde.\\nAnd she, in simple beauty drest.\\nWhose image lives within my breast\\nWho trembling heard my parting sigh,\\nAnd long pursued me with her eye\\nIV.\\nDoes she, with heart unchang d as\\nmine.\\nOft in the vocal bowers recline?\\nOr, where yon grot o erhangs the tide.\\nMuse while the Evan seeks the CIvde?\\nYe lofty Banks that Evan bound.\\nYe lavish woods that wave around.\\nAnd o er the stream your shadows\\nthrow.\\nWhich sweetly winds so far below", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0416.jp2"}, "415": {"fulltext": "ON BURNS S HORSE BEING IMPOUNDED.\\n369\\nWhat secret charm to memVy brings,\\nAll that on Evan s border springs\\nSweet Banks ye bloom by iMary s\\nside\\nBlest stream she views thee haste to\\nClyde.\\nCan all the wealth of India s coast\\nAtone for years in absence lost\\nReturn, ye moments of delight,\\nWith richer treasures bless my sight\\nSwift from this desert let me part.\\nAnd fly to meet a kindred heart\\nNo more may aught my steps divide\\nFrom that dear stream which flows to\\nClyde.\\nPOWERS CELESTIAL! WHOSE\\nPROTECTION.\\nThese fine verses have no mark in the\\nMuseum to indicate their authorship;\\nbut, among the poet s Mss. after his death,\\nthey were found with the title, A Prayer for\\nMary. Internal evidence shows that the\\ndate of composition was in 1786, between\\nthe final parting of the lovers in May, and\\nthe time fixed for the poet s departure\\nfor the West Indies, some four or five\\nmonths thereafter. WILLIAM ScoTT\\nDouglas.]\\nPowers celestial whose protection\\nEver guards the virtuous fair.\\nWhile in distant climes I wander.\\nLet my Mary be your care\\nLet her form so fair and faultless\\nFair and faultless as your own\\nLet my Mary s kindred spirit\\nDraw your choicest influence down\\nMake the gales you waft around her\\nSoft and peaceful as her breast\\n2B\\nBreathing in the breeze that fans her,\\nSoothe her bosom into rest\\nGuardian angels O protect her,\\nWhen in distant lands I roam\\nTo realms unknown while fate exiles\\nme.\\nMake her bosom still my home\\nO CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS\\nThe beautiful air, along with the nurs-\\nery words of this song, were communicated\\nby Burns to Johnson, and, by the vocalism\\nof Urbani, it soon became highly popular.\\nWilliam Scott Douglas.]\\nO CAN ye sew cushions and can ye\\nsew sheets?\\nAnd can ye sing bal-lu-loo when\\nthe bairn greets\\nAnd hee and baw birdie, and hee and\\nbaw lamb\\nAnd hee and baw birdie, my bonie\\nwee lamb\\nHee, O wee, O what would I do\\nwi you\\nBlack s the life that I lead wi you\\nMony o you, little for to gie you\\nHe, O wee, O what would I do\\nwi you\\nON BURNS S HORSE BEING\\nIMPOUNDED,\\nAND HIS MASTER BROUGHT BEFORE\\nTHE MAYOR.\\nThis epigram is of doubtful authentic-\\nitv, for we do not hear of the poet ever hav-\\ning been at Carlisle except once namely,\\non 31st May, 1787, and the day following,\\nwhile on his Border tour. WILLIAM\\nScoTT Douglas.]\\nWas e er puir poet sae befitted,\\nThe maister drunk the horse com-\\nmitted.\\nPuir harmless beast tak thee nae\\ncare.\\nThou It be a horse when he s nae\\nmair (mayor).", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0417.jp2"}, "416": {"fulltext": "57\u00c2\u00b0\\nIlUCilllE GRAHAM. KATIIARINK JAIFRAY.\\nHUGHIE GRAHAM.\\nCromek assures us that t\u00c2\u00ab o verses of\\nHughie Graham are wholly by Burns, and\\nthat his corrections are visible in some\\nothers. VVlLLlAM SCDTT DOUGLAS.J\\nO LOWSE my riglit liand free, he says,\\nAnd put my braid sword in the\\nsame\\nHe s no in Stirling toun this day,\\nDare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.\\nThey ve ta en him to the gallows-\\nknowe,\\nHe looket to the gallows-tree\\nYet never the color left his cheek,\\nNor ever did he blink his e e.\\nO haud your tongue, my father dear,\\nAnd wi your weeping let it be\\nThy weeping s sairer on my heart,\\nThan a that they can do to me.\\nAnd ye may tell my kith and kin,\\n1 never did disgrace their bluid\\nAnd when they ineet the bishop s\\ncloak\\nTo mak it shorter by the huid.\\nTHE SELKIRK GRACE.\\nAllan Cunningham records that this\\nvery characteristic Grace before meat\\nwas uttered at the table of the Earl of Sel-\\nkirk, while on his tour through Galloway\\nwith his friend Syme in July, 1793.\\nWilliam Scott Douglas\\nSome hae meat and canna eat.\\nArud some wad eat that want it\\nBut we hae meat, and we can eat,\\nAnd sae the Lord be thanket.\\nDAMON AND SYLVIA.\\nThis pretty double-verse appears to\\nhave been first published, in its present\\nmodified form, in the Edinburgh Maga-\\nzine for January, 1818. It is the middle\\none of three double verses of a veiy warm\\ncharacter, which narrate the exploits of\\nDamon and Sylvia on a Summer morn\\nthis latter being the title of the piece in the\\nCrochalian volume, p. 49. \\\\VlI,LlAM\\nScorr Douglas. Printed in Globe and\\nOxford Editions.]\\nYon wandering rill that marks the hill\\nAnd glances o er tlie brae. Sir,\\nSlides by a bower w here many a flower\\nSheds fragrance on the day. Sir;\\nThere Damon lay with Sylvia gay,\\nTo love they thought no crime. Sir;\\nThe wild-birds sang, the echoes rang.\\nWhile Damon s heart beat time,\\nSir.\\nWHAN I SLEEP I DREAM.\\n[Printed in Globe and Oxford Editions.]\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0Whan I sleep I dream,\\nWhan I wauk I m eerie,\\nSleep 1 canna get.\\nFor thinkin o my dearie.\\nLanely night comes on,\\nA the house are sleeping,\\nI think on the bonie lad\\nThat has my heart a keeping.\\nAy waukin, O, waukin ay and\\nwearie.\\nSleep I canna get, for thinkin o\\nmy dearie.\\nLanely night comes on,\\nA the house are sleeping,\\n1 think on my bonie lad.\\nAn I bleer my een wi greetin\\nAy waukin, etc.\\nKATHARINE JAFFRAY.\\n[Printed in Globe, Oxford, and Albion\\nEditions.]\\nI.\\nThere liv d a lass in yonder dale.\\nAnd down in yonder glen, O", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0418.jp2"}, "417": {"fulltext": "BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER. LIBERTY.\\n371\\nAnd Katharine Jaffray was her name,\\nVVeel known to many men, O.\\nOut came the Lord of Lauderdale,\\nOut frae the south countrie, O,\\nAll for to court this pretty maid,\\nHer bridegroom for to be, O.\\nIII.\\nHe s teird her father and mother\\nbaith.\\nAs I hear sindry say, O\\nBut he has na tell d the lass hersel\\nTill on her wedding day, O.\\nThen came the Laird o Lochinton\\nOut frae the English border.\\nAll for to court this pretty maid,\\nAll mounted in sood order.\\nBRAW LADS OF GALLA\\nWATER.\\nThis is in Johnson s second vol., p.\\n131, copied verbatim from Herd s Collec-\\ntion, 1776 (vol. ii. p. 202), so that it is quite\\nan error to include it in Burns s works as\\nsome editors have done. Burns in his notes,\\nrecords a concluding verse, which appears\\nvery like his own manufacture\\nAnd ay she cam at e enhig fa\\nAmatig the yellflii! broom, sae eerie.\\nTo seek the snood 0 silk she tint,\\nShe faiid na that, but met her dearie.\\nWilliam Scott Douclas.]\\n[Printed in the Globe Edition.]\\nCIioi-iis.\\nBraw. braw Lids of Galhv Water;\\nO l)raw lads of (ralla Water!\\n1 II kilt my coats ahoon mv knee.\\nAnd follow my love through the\\nwater.\\nSae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,\\nSae bonie blue her een, my dearie\\nSae white her teeth, sae sweet her\\nmou\\\\\\nThe mair I kiss she s ay my dearie.\\nO er yon bank and o er yon brae,\\nO er yon moss amang the heather;\\nI 11 kilt my coats aboon my knee.\\nAnd follow my love through the\\nwater.\\nDown amang the broom, the broom,\\nDown amang the broom, my dearie,\\nThe lassie lost a silken snood,\\nThat cost her mony a blirt and\\nbleary.\\nChorus.\\nBraw, braw lads of Galla Water;\\nO braw lads of Galla Water\\nI 11 kilt my coats aboon my knee.\\nAnd follow my love through the\\nwater.\\nLIBERTY.\\nA FRAGMENT.\\n[Printed in the Globe Edition.]\\nThee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths\\namong,\\nThee, famed for martial deed and\\nsacred song.\\nTo thee I turn with swimming\\neyes\\nWhere is that soul of Freedom fled\\nImmingled with the mighty dead\\nBeneath the hallow d turf where\\nWallace lies.\\nHear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of\\ndeath\\nYe babbling winds, in silence\\nsweep", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0419.jp2"}, "418": {"fulltext": "n TIIK LAST ERAW BRIDAL. YE UAK LI EX A WRANG, LASSIE.\\nDisturb not yc the hero s sleep,\\nNor give the coward secret breatli.\\nIs this the power in Freedom s\\nwar,\\nThat wont to bid the battle rage\\nBehold that eye which shot immortal\\nhate,\\nCrushing the despot s proudest\\nbearing.\\nThat arm which, nerved with thunder-\\ning fate,\\nBrav d usurpation s boldest daring\\nOne quench d in darkness like the\\nsinking star.\\nAnd one the palsied arm of tottering,\\npowerless age.\\nTHE LAST DRAW BRIDAL.\\n[Printed in the Globe and Albion Edi-\\ntions.]\\nThe last braw bridal that I was at,\\nT was on a Hallowmass day.\\nAnd there was routh o drink and\\nfun,\\nAnd mickle mirth and play.\\nThe bells they rang, and the carlins\\nsang.\\nAnd the dames danced in the ha\\nThe bride went to bed wi the silly\\nbridegroom.\\nIn the midst o her kimmers a\\nTHERE CAME A PIPER.\\n[Printed in the Globe and Albion Edi-\\ntions.]\\nThere came a piper out o Fife,\\nI watna what they ca ed him\\nHe play d our cousin Kate a spring,\\nWhen fient a body bade him.\\nAnd ay the mair he hotch d an blew,\\nThe mair that she forbade him.\\nTHERE S NAETHIN LIKE\\nTHE HONEST NAPPY.\\n[Printed in the Globe Edition.]\\nThere s naethin like the honest\\nnappy\\nWhaur 11 ye e er see men sae happy.\\nOr women sonsie, saft an sappy,\\nTween morn an morn,\\nAs them whalike to taste the drappie\\nIn glass or horn.\\nI ve seen me daez t upon a time\\nI scarce could wink or see a styme\\nJust aehauf mutchkin does me prime,\\nOught less is little.\\nThen back I rattle on the rhyme.\\nAs gleg s a whittle\\nWHEN I THINK ON THE\\nHAPPY DAYS.\\n[Printed in the Globe and Albion Edi-\\ntions.]\\nWhen I think on the happy days\\nI spent wi you, my dearie\\nAnd now what lands between us lie,\\nHow can I be but eerie\\nHow slow ye move, ye heavy hours,\\nAs ye were wae and weary\\nIt was na sae ye glinted by\\nWhen I was wi my dearie.\\nYE HAE LIEN A WRANG,\\nLASSIE.\\n[Printed in the Globe and Albion l ,di\\ntions.]\\nYe hae lien a wrang, lassie,\\nYe ve lien a wrang\\nYe ve lien in an unco bed.\\nAnd wi a fremit man.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0420.jp2"}, "419": {"fulltext": "JOHNNY PEEP. ON RUINS OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY.\\n373\\nO ance ye danced upon the knowes,\\nAnd ance ye lightly sang\\nBut in herrying o a bee byke,\\nI m rad ye \\\\e got a stang.\\nJOHNNY PEEP.\\n[Printed in the Albion Edition.]\\nHere am I. Johnny Peep\\nI saw three sheep.\\nAnd these three sheep saw me\\nHalf-a-crown a-piece\\nWill pay for their fleece,\\nAnd so Johnny Peep gets free.\\nINNOCENCE.\\n[Allan Cunningham gives the lines as by\\nBurns, and extols them highly. They are,\\nhowever, probably quoted from some older\\npoet.]\\nInnocence\\nLooks gaily-smiling on while rosy\\npleasure\\nHides young desire amid her flowery\\nwreath,\\nAnd pours her cup luxuriant man-\\ntling high\\nThe sparkling heavenly vintage, Love\\nand Bliss\\nVERSES\\nON AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS\\nOF LINCLUDEN ABBEY.\\nThese beautiful ruins are on the banks\\nof the liver Cluden, near Dumfries.\\nAlbion Edition.]\\nYe holy walls, that, still sublime.\\nResist the crumbling touch of time\\nHow strongly still your form displays\\nThe piety of ancient days\\nAs through your ruins, hoar and\\ngray\\nRuins yet beauteous in decay\\nThe silvery moonbeams trembling fly\\nThe forms of ages long gone by\\nCrowd thick on Fancy s wondering\\neye.\\nAnd wake the soul to musings high.\\nEven now, as lost in thought profound,\\nI view the solemn scene around.\\nAnd, pensive, gaze with wistful eves,\\nThe past returns, the present flies\\nAgain the dome, in pristine pride.\\nLifts high its roof and arches wide,\\nThat, knit with curious tracerv.\\nEach Gothic ornament display.\\nThe high-arched windows, painted\\nfair.\\nShow many a saint and martyr there.\\nAs on their slender forms I gaze,\\nMethinks they brighten to a blaze\\nWith noiseless step and taper bright,\\nWhat are yon forms that meet my\\nsight?\\nSlowly they move, while every eye\\nIs heavenward raised in ecstasy.\\nT is the fair, spotless, vestal train,\\nThat seek in prayer the midnight-fane.\\nAnd, hark what more than mortal\\nsound\\nOf music breathes the pile around?\\nT is the soft-chanted choral song,\\nWhose tones the echoing aisles pro-\\nlong\\nTill, thence returned, they softly stray\\nO er Cluden s wave, with fond delay\\nNow on the rising gale swell high.\\nAnd now in fainting murmurs die\\nThe boatmen on Nith s gentle stream,\\nThat glistens in the pale moonbeam,\\nSuspend their dashing oars to hear\\nThe holy anthem, loud and clear\\nEach worldly thought a while forbear\\nAnd mutter forth a half-formed prayer.\\nBut, as I gaze, the vision fails.\\nLike frost-work touched by southern\\ngales\\nThe altar sinks, the tapers fade.\\nAnd all the splendid scenes decayed.\\nIn window fair the painted pane", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0421.jp2"}, "420": {"fulltext": "374\\nTO MY BED. SHELAII O NEIL.\\nNo longer glows with holy stain,\\nBut through the broken glass the gale\\nBlows chilly from the misty vale\\nThe bird of eve Hits sullen by,\\nHer home these aisles and arches\\nhigh\\nThe choral hymn, that erst so clear\\nBroke softly sweet on Fancy s ear,\\nIs drowned amid tlie mournful scream\\nThat breaks tlie magic of my dream\\nRoused by the sound, I start and see\\nThe ruined sad reality.\\nVERSES TO MY BED.\\n[Printed in the Albion Edition.]\\nThou Bed, in which I first began\\nTo be that various creature Man\\nAnd when again the fates decree\\nThe place where I must cease to be\\nWhen sickness comes, to whom I fly.\\nTo soothe my pain, or close mine\\neye,\\nWhen cares surround\\nme where I\\nweep.\\nOr lose them all in balmy sleep\\nWhen sore with labor, whom I court,\\nAnd to thy downy breast resort\\nWhere, too. ecstatic joys I find,\\nWhen deigns my Delia to be kind\\nAnd full of love, in all her charms,\\nThou giv st the fair one to my arms.\\nThe centre thou, where grief and\\npain,\\nDisease and rest, alternate reign.\\nOh, since within thy little space\\nSo many various scenes take place\\nLessons as useful shalt thou teach,\\nAs sages dictate churchmen preach\\nAnd man, convinced by thee alone,\\nThis great important truth shall\\nown\\nThat thin partitions do divide\\nThe bounds where good and ill re-\\nside\\nThat nought is perfect here below\\nBut bliss still bord ring upon woe.\\nBRUCE.\\nA FRAGMENT.\\n[Printed in the Albion Edition.]\\nHis royal visage seamed with many\\na scar,\\nThat Caledonian reared his martial\\nform,\\nWho led the tyrant-quelling war.\\nWhere Bannockburn s ensanguined\\nflood\\nSwelled with mingling hostile blood,\\nSoon Edward s myriads struck with\\ndeep dismay,\\nAnd Scotia s troop of brothers win\\ntheir way.\\n(Oh, glorious deed to bay a tyrant s\\nband\\nOh, heavenly joy to free our native\\nland\\nWhile high their mighty chief poured\\non the doublins; storm.\\nSHELAH O NEIL.\\n[Printed in the Albion Edition.]\\nWhen first I began for to sigh and\\nto woo her,\\nOf many fine things I did say a\\ngreat deal,\\nBut, above all the rest, that which\\npleased her the best.\\nWas, oh will you marry me,\\nShelah O Neil\\nMy point I soon carried, for straight\\nwe were married,\\nThen the weight of my burden I\\nsoon gan to feel,\\nFor she scolded, she fisted O then\\nI enlisted.\\nLeft Ireland, and whiskey, and\\nShelah O Neil.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0422.jp2"}, "421": {"fulltext": "SHELAII O NEIL.\\n375\\nThen tired and dull-hearted, O then\\nI deserted.\\nAnd fled into regions far distant\\nfrom home.\\nTo Frederick s army, where none e er\\ncould harm me.\\nSave Shelah herself in the shape\\nof a bomb.\\nI fought every battle, where cannons\\ndid rattle.\\nFelt sharp shot, alas and the\\nsharp-pointed steel\\nBut, in all my wars round, thank my\\nstars, I ne er found\\nAught so sharp as the tongue of\\ncursed Shelah O Neil.\\nMOTTO PREFIXED TO THE KILMARNOCK EDITION.\\nThe simple Bard, unbroke bv rules of art,\\nHe pours the wild effusions of the heart\\nAnd if inspired, t is nature s pow rs inspire\\nHers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0423.jp2"}, "422": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0424.jp2"}, "423": {"fulltext": "NOTES.\\nHALLOWEEN.\\n[The following notes by Burns, alluded to in\\nthe note to the text, will explain the traditions\\nupon which the poem is based, and render it\\nmore intelligible to the non-Scottish reader.]\\n1 Is thought to be a night when witches,\\ndevils, and other mischief-making beings\\nare all abroad on their baneful midnight\\nerrands particularly those aerial people, the\\nfairies, are said on that night to hold a\\ngrand anniversary.\\n2 Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills,\\nin the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of\\nthe Earls of Cassilis.\\n3 A noted cavern near Colean-house,\\ncalled the Cove of Colean; which, as well\\nas Cassilis Downans, is famed in country\\nstory for being a favourite haunt of fairies.\\n4 The famous family of that name, the\\nancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of\\nhis country, were Earls of Carrick.\\n5 The first ceremony of Halloween is pull-\\ning each a stock, or plant of kail. They\\nmust go out hand in hand, with eyes shut,\\nand pull the first they meet with. Its being\\nbig or little, straight or crooked, is pro-\\nphetic of the size and shape of the grand\\nobject of all their spells the husband or\\nwife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root,\\nthat is tocher, or fortune and the taste of\\nthe custock, that is the heart of the stem, is\\nindicative of the natural temper and dis-\\nposition. Lastly, the stems, or to give them\\ntheir ordinary appellation, the runts, are\\nplaced somewhere above the head of the\\ndoor; and the Christian names of the\\npeople whom chance brings into the house\\nare according to the priority of placing the\\nrunts, the names in question.\\n6 They go to the barn-yard and pull each,\\nat three different times, a stalk of oats. If\\nthe third stalk wants the tap-pickle, that is,\\nthe grain at the top of the stalk, the party\\nin question will come to the marriage-bed\\nanything but a maid.\\nWhen the corn is in a doubtful state, it\\nbeing too green, or wet, the stack-builder,\\nby means of old timber, etc., makes a large\\napartment in his stack, with an opening in\\nthe side which is fairest exposed to the\\nwind: this he calls a Fause-house.\\n8 Burning the nuts is a famous charm.\\nThey name the lad and the lass to each\\nparticular nut as they lay them in the fire\\nand accordingly as they burn quietly to-\\ngether, or start from beside one another,\\nthe course and issue of the courtship will\\nbe.\\n9 Whoever would, with success, try this\\nspell, must strictly observe these directions:\\nSteal out, all alone, to the kiln, and dark-\\nling, throw into the/o^ a clue of blue yarn\\nwind it in a new clue off the old one; and\\ntowards the latter end something will hold\\nthe thread demand Wha hands i.e., who\\nholds an answer will be returned from the\\nkiln-pot, by naming the Christian and sur-\\nname of your future spouse.\\n1 Take a candle and go alone to a look-\\ning-glass eat an apple before it, and some\\ntraditions say you should comb your hair\\nall the time the face of your conjugal com-\\npanion to be will be seen in the glass, as if\\npeeping over your shoulder.\\n11 Steal out unperceived and sow a hand-\\nful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything\\nyou can conveniently draw after you. Re-\\npeat now and then, Hemp-seed, I saw\\nthee, hemp-seed, I saw thee and him (or\\n377", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0425.jp2"}, "424": {"fulltext": "378\\nNOTES.\\nIier) that is to be my true-love, come after\\nme and pou thee. Look over your left\\nshoulder, and you will see the appearance\\nof the person invoked in the attitude of\\npulling hemp. Some traditions say, come\\nafter me and shaw thee, that is, show\\nthyself; in which case it simply appears.\\nOthers omit the harrowing, and say, come\\nafter me and harrow thee.\\nI ^i This charm must likewise be performed\\nunperceived and alone. You go to the barn\\nand open both doors, taking them off the\\nhinges, if possible for there is danger that\\nthe being about to appear may shut the\\ndoors, and do you some mischief. Then\\ntake that instrument used in winnowing the\\ncorn, which in our country dialect we call a\\nli echt, and go through all the attitudes of\\nletting down corn against the wind. Repeat\\nit three times and the thiid time an appa-\\nrition will pass through the barn, in at the\\nwindy door and out at the other, having\\nboth the figure in question and the appear-\\nance or retinue marking the employment or\\nstation in life.\\n13 Take an opportunity of going, un-\\nnoticed, to a Bear-stack, nd fathom it three\\ntimes round. The last fathom of the last\\ntime you will catch in your arms the appear-\\nance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.\\nYou go out, one or more (for this is a\\nsocial spell), to a south running spring or\\nrivulet, where three lairds lands meet,\\nand dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed\\nin sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve\\nbefore it to dry. Lie awake, and some-\\nwhere near midnight an apparition, having\\nthe exact figure of the grand object in ques-\\ntion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to\\ndry the other side of it.\\n15 lake three dishes put clean water in\\none, foul water in the other, and leave the\\nthird empty. Blindfold a person, and lead\\nhim to the hearth where the dishes are\\nranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if\\nby chance in the clean water, the future\\nhusband or wife will come to the bar of\\nmatrimony a maid if the foul, a widow if\\nin the empty dish, it foretells with equal cer-\\ntainty no marriage at all. It is repeated\\nthree times, and every time the arrange-\\nment of the dishes is altered.\\n16 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to\\nthem, is^always the Halloween Supper.\\nTHE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night is\\nincluded in the list of poems mentioned by\\nBurns in his letter to Richmond, 17th Feb-\\nruary, 1786 it was therefore composed be-\\ntween the beginning of November, 1785, and\\nthat date. Gilbert Burns relates that Robert\\nfirst repeated it to him in the course of a\\nwalk one Sunday afternoon. He also states\\nthat the hint of the plan, and the title of the\\npoem, were taken from Fergusson s Farm-\\ner s Ingle.\\nThis is true, but the piece as a whole is\\nformed on English models. It is the most\\nartificial and the most imitative of Burns s\\nworks. Not only is the influence of Gray s\\nElegy conspicuous, but also there are\\nechoes of Pope, Thomson, Goldsmith, and\\neven Milton while the stanza, which was\\ntaken, not from Spenser, whom Burns had\\nnot then read, but from Beattie and Shen-\\nstone, is so purely English as to lie outside\\nthe range of Burns s experience and accom-\\nplishment. These English songs, he wrote\\nlong afterwards (1794) to Thomson, gravel\\nme to death. I have not that command of\\nthe language that I have of my native tongue.\\nIn fact, I think my ideas are more barren in\\nEnglish than in Scottish. This is so far\\ntrue as to make one wish that here, as else-\\nwhere, he had chosen a Scots exemplar:\\nthat he had taken (say) not merely the\\nscheme but also the stave a, b, a, b, c, d,\\nc,d,d of The Farmer s Ingle, and sought\\nafter effects which he could accomplish in a\\nmedium of which he was absolute master.\\nAs it is, The Cotter s Saturday Night is\\nsupposed to paint an essentially Scottish\\nphase of life; but the Scottish element in\\nthe diction to say nothing of the Scottish\\ncast of the effect is comparatively slight\\nthroughout, and in many stanzas is alto-\\ngether wanting. In the 94 Edition the\\nvernacular was a little coloured by a more\\ngeneral substitution of an for and, wi\\nfor wil/i, and so on. But it may be that\\nTytler, rather than Burns, was responsible\\nfor this and the earlier orthography, being", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0426.jp2"}, "425": {"fulltext": "NOTES.\\n379\\nin belter keeping with the general English\\ncast, has been retained. The Centenary\\nEdition.\\nThe quiet households of the kingdom\\nhave received a sort of apotheosis in The\\nCotter s Saturday Night. It has been ob-\\njected that the subject does not afford scope\\nfor the more daring forms of the author s\\ngenius; but had he written no other poem,\\nthis heartful rendering of a good week s\\nclose in a God-fearing home, sincerely de-\\nvout, and yet relieved from all suspicion of\\nsermonizing by its humorous touches, would\\nhave secured a permanent place in our liter-\\nature. It transcends Thomson and Beattie\\nat their best, and will smell sweet like the\\nactions of the just for generations to come.\\nJohn Nichol, LL.D.\\nTAM O SHANTER.\\nAlloway Kirk was originally the\\nchurch of the quoad civilia parish of Allo-\\nway but this parish having been annexed\\nto that of Ayr in 1690, the church fell more\\nor less to ruin, and when Burns wrote had\\nbeen roofless for half a century. It stands\\nsome two hundred yards to the north of the\\npicturesque Auld Brig of Doon, which dates\\nfrom about the beginning of the Fifteenth\\nCentury, and in Burns s time was the sole\\nmeans of communication over the steep-\\nbanked Doon between Carrick and Kyle.\\nThe old road to Ayr ran west of the Kirk\\nthe more direct road dating from the erec-\\ntion of the New Brig a little west of the\\nold one in 1815.\\nBurns s birthplace is about three-fourths\\nof a mile to the north; so that the ground\\nand its legends were familiar to him from\\nthe first. Writing to Francis Grose (first\\npublished in Sir Egerton Brydges, Censura\\nLiteraria, 1796), Among the many witch-\\nstories I have heard, he says, relating to\\nAlloway Kirk, I distinctly remember only\\ntwo or three. Upon a stormy night, amid\\nwhistling squalls of wind and bitter blasts\\nof hail in sliort, on such a night as the\\ndevil would choose to take the air in a\\nfarmer, or farmer s servant, was plodding\\nand plashing homeward with his plough-\\nirons on his shoulder, having been getting\\nsome repairs on them at a neighbouring\\nsmithy. His way lay by the Kirk of Allo-\\nway and being rather on the anxious look-\\nout in approaching a place so well known to\\nbe a favourite haunt of the devil, and the\\ndevil s friends and emissaries, he was struck\\naghast by discovering through the horrors\\nof the storm and stormy night, a light, which\\non his nearer approach, plainly shevvcd it-\\nself to proceed from the haunted edifice.\\nWhether he had been fortified from above\\non his devout supplication, as is customary\\nwith people when they suspect the imme-\\ndiate presence of Satan, or whether, ac-\\ncording to another custom, he had got\\ncourageously drunk at the smithy, I will\\nnot pretend to determine but so it was,\\nthat he ventured to go up to, nay into,\\nthe very Kirk. As luck would have it, his\\ntemerity came off unpunished. The mem-\\nbers of the infernal junto were all out on\\nsome midnight business or other, and he\\nsaw nothing but a kind of kettle or cauldron,\\ndepending from the roof, over the fire, sim-\\nmering some heads of unchristened chil-\\ndren, limbs of executed malefactors, etc.,\\nfor the business of the night. It was, in for\\na penny, in for a pound with the honest\\nploughman so without ceremony he un-\\nhooked the cauldron from the fire, and\\npouring out the damnable ingredients, in-\\nverted it on his head, and carried it fairly\\nhome, where it remained long in the family,\\na living evidence of the truth of the story.\\nAnother story, which I can prove to be\\nequally authentic, was as follows On a\\nmarket day in the town of Ayr, a farmer\\nfrom Carrick, and consequently whose way\\nlay by the very gate of Alloway Kirkyard,\\nin order to cross the river Doon at the old\\nbridge, which is about two or three hundred\\nyards further on than the said gate, had\\nbeen detained by his business till by the\\ntime he reached Alloway it was the wizard\\nhour between night and morning. Though\\nhe was terrified with a blaze streaming from\\nthe Kirk, yet, as it is a well-known fact that to\\nturn back on these occasions is running by\\nfar the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently\\nadvanced on his road. When he had reached\\nthe gate of the Kirkyard, he was surprised\\nand entertained, through the ribs and arches", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0427.jp2"}, "426": {"fulltext": "38o\\nNOTES.\\nof an old Gothic window, which sliU faces\\nthe highway, to see a dance of witches mer-\\nrily footing it round their old sooty black-\\nguard master, who was keeping them all\\nalive with the power of his bagpipe. The\\nfarmer, stopping liis horse to observe them\\na little, could plainly descry the faces of\\nmany old women of his acquaintance and\\nneighbourhood. How the gentleman was\\ndressed, tradition docs not say, Ijut that the\\nladies were all in their smocks: and one\\nof them happening unluckily to have a\\nsmock which was considerably too short to\\nanswer all the purpose of that piece of dress,\\nour farmer was so tickled that he involun-\\ntarily burst out with a loud laugh, Weel\\nluppen, Maggy vvi the short sark and\\nrecollecting himself, instantly spurred his\\nhorse to the top of his speed. I need not\\nmention the universally known fact, that no\\ndiabolical power can pursue you beyond\\nthe middle of a running stream. Lucky it\\nwas for the poor farmer that the river Doon\\nwas so near, for notwithstanding the speed\\nof the horse, which was a good one, when\\nhe reached the middle of the arch of the\\nbridge, and consequently the middle of the\\nstream, the pursuing vengeful hags were so\\nclose at his heels that one of them actually\\nsprang to seize him: but it was too late;\\nnothing was on her side of the stream but\\nthe horse s tail, which itninediately gave way\\nat her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke\\nof lightning but the farmer was beyond her\\nreach. However, the unsightly tailless con-\\ndition of the vigorous steed was, to the last\\nliour of the noble creature s life, an awful\\nwarning to the Carrick farmers not to stay\\ntoo late in Ayr markets.\\nThe last relation I shall give, though\\nequally true, is not so well identified as the\\ntwo former with regard to the scene but as\\nthe best authorities give it for Alloway, I\\nshall relate it. On a summer s evening,\\nabout the time nature puts on her sables\\nto mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a\\nshepherd boy, belonging to a farmer in the\\nimmediate neighboinhood of Alloway Kirk,\\nhad just folded his charge and was return-\\ning home. As he passed the Kirk, in the\\nadjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men\\nand women who were busy pulling stems\\nof the plant ragwort. He observed that as\\neach person pulled a ragwort, he or slie got\\nastride of it and called out, Up horsie!\\non wliich the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus,\\nthrough the air with its rider. The foolish\\nboy likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried\\nwith the rest, Up horsie! and, strange to\\ntell, away he flew with the company. The\\nfirst stage at which the cavalcade stopt was\\na merchant s wine-cellar in Bordeaux, where,\\nwithout saying by your leave, they quaffed\\naway at the best the cellar could afford, un-\\ntil the morning, foe to the imps and works\\nof darkness, threatened to throw light on\\nthe matter, and frightened them from their\\ncarousals. The poor shepherd lad, being\\nequally a stranger to the scene and the\\nliquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and\\nwhen the rest took horse he fell asleep, and\\nwas found so next day by some of the peo-\\nple belonging to the merchant. Somebody\\nthat understood Scotch, asking him what\\nhe was, he said such a one s herd in Allo-\\nway and by some means or other getting\\nhome again, he lived long to tell the world\\nthe wondrous tale.\\nThe motto is the eighteenth verse of\\nGavin Douglas s sixth Proloug {Eneados),\\nand should read thus Of browneis and of\\nbogillis full this buke.\\nProbably Burns drew the suggestion of\\nhis hero, Tam o Shanter, from the char-\\nacter and adventures of Douglas Graham\\nborn 6th January, 1739, died 23rd June,\\n1811 son of Robert Graham, farmer at\\nDouglastown, tenant of the farm of Shan-\\nter on the Carrick Shore, and owner of a\\nboat which he had named Tam o Shanter.\\nGraham was noted for his convivial habits,\\nwhich his wife s ratings tended rather to\\nconfirm than to eradicate. Tradition relates\\nthat once, when his long-tailed grey mare\\nhad waited even longer than usual for her\\nmaster at the tavern door, certain huinour-\\nists plucked her tail to such an extent as to\\nleave it little better than a stump, and that\\nGraham, on his attention being called to its\\nstate next morning, swore that it had been\\ndepilated by the witches at Alloway Kirk\\n(MS. Notes by D. Auld of Ayr in Edinburgh\\nUniversity Library). The prototype if\\nprototype there were of Souter Johnie is", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0428.jp2"}, "427": {"fulltext": "NOTES.\\n381\\nmore doubtful; but a shoemaker named\\nJohn Davidson born 1728, died 30th June,\\n1806 did live for some time at Gienfoot of\\nArdlochan, near the farm of Shanter, whence\\nhe removed to Kirkoswald.\\nIn AUoway Kirk and its surroundings,\\napart from its uncanny associations, Burns\\ncherished a special interest. When my\\nfather, says Gilbert, feued his little prop-\\nerty near Allovvay Kirk the wall of the\\nchurchyard had gone to ruin, and cattle had\\nfree liberty of pasturing in it. My father\\nand two or three other neighbours joined in\\nan application to the Town Council of Ayr,\\nwho were superiors of the adjoining land,\\nfor liberty to rebuild it, and raised by sub-\\nscription a sum for enclosing this ancient\\ncemetery with a wall hence he came to\\nconsider it as his burial-place, and we\\nlearned the reverence for it people gen-\\nerally have for the burial-place of their\\nancestors. When, therefore. Burns met\\nCaptain Grose then on his peregrinations\\nthrough Scotland at the house of Cap-\\ntain Riddell, he suggested a drawing of\\nthe ruin and the captain, Gilbert says,\\nagreed to the request, provided the poet\\nwould furnish a witch story to be printed\\nalong with it. It is probable that Burns\\noriginally sent the stories told above for in-\\nsertion in the work, and that the narrative\\nin rhyme was an afterthought. Lockhart,\\non Cromek s authority, accepts a statement,\\nsaid to have been made by Mrs. Burns,\\nthat the piece was the work of a single day,\\nand on this very slender evidence divers\\ncritics have indulged in a vast amount of\\nadmiration. Burns s general dictum must,\\nhowever, be borne in mind All my\\npoetry is the effect of easy composition, but\\nof laborious correction together with his\\nspecial verdict on Tam o Shanter (letter\\nto Mrs. Dunlop, April, 1791) that it showed\\na finishing polish, which he despaired of\\never excelling. It appeared in Grose s\\nAntiquities published in April, 1791 the\\ncaptain s indebtedness being thus acknowl-\\nedged to my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert\\nBurns, I have been seriously obligated he\\nwas not only at the pains of making out\\nwhat was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire,\\nthe county honoured by his birth, but he\\nalso wrote, expressly for this work, the\\npretty tale annexed to Alloway Church.\\nCentenary Edition.\\nLovers of rustic festivity may agree with\\nProfessor Craik in holding that the poet s\\ngreatest performance is his narrative of\\nHalloween, which for easy vigor, fulness\\nof rollicking life, blended truth and fancy, is\\nunsurpassed in its kind. Campbell, Wilson,\\nHazlitt, Montgomery, Burns himself, and\\nthe majority of his critics, have recorded\\ntheir preference for Tam o Shanter, where\\nthe weird superstitious element that has\\nplayed so great a part in the imaginative\\nwork of this part of our island is brought\\nmore prominently forward. Few passages\\nof description are finer than that of the\\nroaring Doon and Alloway Kirk glimmer-\\ning through the groaning trees but the\\nunique excellence of the piece consists in\\nits variety, and a perfectly original com-\\nbination of the terrible and the ludicrous.\\nLike Goethe s Walpurgis Nacht, brought\\ninto closer contact with real life, it stretches\\nfrom the drunken humours of Christopher\\nSly to a world of fantasies almost as brill-\\niant as those of the Midsummer Night s\\nDream, half solemnized by the severer at-\\nmosphere of a sterner clime. The contrast\\nbetween the lines Kings maybe blest, etc.,\\nand those which follow, beginning But\\npleasures are like poppies spread, is typical\\nof the perpetual antithesis of the author s\\nthought and life, in which, at the back of\\nevery revelry, he sees the shadow of a\\nwarning hand, and reads on the wall the\\nwriting, Omnia mutantur. JOHN NiCHOL,\\nLL.D.\\nTHE WHISTLE.\\nThis poem is thus prefaced by Burns\\nAs the authentic Prose history of the\\nWhistle is curious, I shall here give it. In\\nthe train of Anne of Denmark, when she\\ncame to Scotland with our James the Sixth,\\nthere came over also a Danish gentleman\\nof gigantic stature and great prowess, and a\\nmatchless champion of Bacchus. He had\\na little ebony Whistle, which, at the com-\\nmencement of the orgies, he laid on the\\ntable; and whoever was last able to blow\\nit, everybody else being disabled by the", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0429.jp2"}, "428": {"fulltext": "382\\nNOTES.\\npotency of the bottle, was to carry off the\\nWhistle, as a trophy of victory. I he Dane\\nproduced credentials of his victories, with-\\nout a single defeat, at the courts of Copen-\\nhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and\\nseveral of the petty courts in Germany; and\\nchallenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the\\nalternative of trying his prowess, or else of\\nacknowledging their inferiority. After many\\noverthrows on the part of the Scots, the\\nDane was encountered by Sir Robert Low-\\nvie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present\\nworthy baronet of that name; who, after\\nthree days and three nights hard contest,\\nleft the Scandinavian under the table, And\\nblew on the W^histle his requiem shrill.\\nSir Walter, son to Sir Robert before\\nmentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to\\nWeaker Riddell of Glenriddell, who had\\nmarried a sister of Sir Walter s. On Fri-\\nday, the i6th October, 1790, at Friars-Carse,\\nthe Whistle was once more contended for\\nas related in the Ballad, by the present Sir\\nRobert Lowrie of Maxwelton Robert Rid-\\ndell, Esq. of Glenriddell, lineal descendant\\nand representative of Walter Riddell, who\\nwon the Whistle, and in whose family it\\nhad continued; and Alexander Ferguson,\\nEsq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended\\nof the great Sir Robert, which last gentle-\\nman carried off the hard-won honours of\\nthe field.\\nIn this Prefatory Note Burns misdates\\nthe contest by a year, as is proved by (i)\\nthe date of a letter i6th October, 1789\\nto Captain Riddell, in which he refers to the\\ncontest of the evening; and (2) by the\\nmemorandum of the Bett, now in the pos-\\nsession of Sir Robert Jardine of Castlemilk,\\nfirst published in Notes and Queries, Sec-\\nond Series, vol. x. (i860), p. 423\\nDOQUET\\nThe original Bett between Sir Robert\\nLaurie and Craigdarroch, for the noted\\nWhistle, which is so much celebrated by\\nRobert Burns Poems in which Bett I\\nwas named Judge 1789.\\nThe Bett decided at Carse i6th Oc-\\ntober, 1789.\\nWon by Craigdarroch he drank upds.\\nof 5 Bottles of Claret.\\nMEMORANDUM FOR THE WHISTLE\\nThe Whistle gained by Sir Robert\\nLaurie (now) in possession of Mr. Riddell\\nof Glenriddell, is to be ascertained to the\\nheirs of the said Sir Robert now existing,\\nbeing Sir R. L., Mr. R. of G., and Mr. F. of\\nC. to be settled under the arbitration ol\\nMr. Jn. M Murdo: the business to be de-\\ncided at Carse, the 16th of October, 1789.\\n(Signed) Alex. Ferguson.\\nR. Laurie.\\nRoBT. Riddell.\\nCOWHII.L, \\\\oth October, 1789.\\nJohn M Murdo accepts as Judge.\\nGeo. Johnston witness, to be present.\\nPatrick Miller witness, to be pre. if\\npossible.\\nMinute of Bett between Sir Robert\\nLaurie and Craigdarroch, 1789.\\nThe question, whether or not Burns was\\npresent, has been hotly debated. The ref-\\nerences in his letter on the day of the fight,\\nas well as the terms of the Bett, seem to\\nshow that, tradition notwithstanding, he was\\nnot. But there are no data for an absolute\\nconclusion. Centenary Edition.\\nTHE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nThis immortal poem was partly given\\nin manuscript by Burns, as rich men give\\nwho care not for their gifts, to one Rich-\\nmond, in whose company, in 1785, he had\\nwatched a festival of vagrom men. In\\n1793, Burns had forgotten the Cantata, and\\nkept no copy. Shakespeare was not more\\nregardless of his works. The rest of the\\nmanuscript was presented by Burns to a\\nMr. David Woodburn, without Richmond s\\npart, which has been added it runs from\\nPoor Merry-Andrew to he s far dafter\\nthan I. The whole MS. has wandered to\\nthe Azores, to Nova Scutia, and home\\nagain (Scott Douglas). Part of Tennyson s\\nVision of Sin is clearly inspired by this\\nCantata. It is characteristic of Burns that\\nhe neither published nor took any pains to\\nsecure the future of this extraordinary piece,\\nfirst printed in 1799, by Stewart and Meikle,\\nwithout Richmond s portion, added in iSoi\\nby Thomas Stewart. ANDREW Lang.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0430.jp2"}, "429": {"fulltext": "NOTES.\\n383\\nThe form of the piece is a mere can-\\ntata, the theme the half-drunken snatches\\nof a joyous band of vagabonds, while the\\ngrey leaves are floating on the gusts of the\\nwind in the autumn of the year. But the\\nwhole is compacted, refined, and poured\\nforth in one flood of liquid harmony. It\\nis light, airy, and soft of movement, yet\\nsharp and precise in its details every face\\nis a portrait, and the whole a group in clear\\nphotography. The blanket of tlie niglit is\\ndrawn aside; in full ruddy gleaming light\\nthese rough tatterdemalions are seen at\\ntheir boisterous revel wringing from Fate\\nanother hour of wassail and good cheer.\\nThomas Carlyle.\\nOver the whole is flung a half-luimor-\\nous, half-savage satire aimed, like a two-\\nedged sword, at the laws and the law-\\nbreakers, in the acme of which the grace-\\nless crew are raised above the level of\\nordinary gipsies, footpads, and rogues, and\\nare made to sit on the hills like gods to-\\ngether, careless of mankind, and to launch\\ntheir Titan thunders of rebellion against\\nthe world. John Nichol, LL.D.\\nSYLVANDER TO CLARINDA.\\nClarinda was Mrs. Agnes Maclehose,\\nnee Craig, daughter of Andrew Craig, sur-\\ngeon, Glasgow. She was born in April,\\n1759 the same year as her Poet and when\\nhe met her in Edinburgh (7th December,\\n1787) she had for some time been sepa-\\nrated from her husband. The Bard, who\\nwas (as ever) by way of being a buck,\\naccepted an invitation to take tea with her\\non the gth but an accident obliging him to\\nkeep liis room, he wrote to express his\\nregret, and at the same time intimated his\\nresolve to cherish lier friendship with the\\nenthusiasm of religion. Mrs. Maclehose\\nresponding in the same key, the friendship\\nproceeded apace. On Christmas Eve she\\nsent him certain verses, signed Clarinda,\\nOn Burns saying He had nothing else to\\nDo, three of which he quoted in the Glen-\\nriddell Book\\nWhen first you saw Clarinda s charms,\\nWhat rapture in your bosom grew!\\nHer heart was shut to Love s alarms,\\nBut then you d nothing else to do.\\nApollo oft had lent his harp,\\nBut now t was strung from Cupid s bow;\\nYou sung it reached Clarinda s heart\\nShe wish d you d nothing else to do.\\nFair Venus smil d, Minerva frown d,\\nCupid observed, the arrow flew:\\nIndifference (ere a week went round)\\nShow d you had nothing else to do.\\nThus challenged, Sylvander (he became\\nSylvander there and then) replied as in\\nthe text and the romantic terms in which\\nthe two went on to conduct their corre-\\nspondence soon served the ardent youth as\\na pretext for the expression of fiercer senti-\\nments than Clarinda s principles of reason\\nand religion should have allowed. She\\nsent lier Arcadian poems, which he amended\\nfor Johnson s Museum; and he fell so deeply\\nenamoured that, on leaving Edinburgh (24th\\nMarcli) he must write thus to a friend:\\nDuring these last eight days I have been\\npositively crazy. Clarinda (like Maman\\nVauquer) avait des idees as what lady in\\nthe circumstances would not? And when\\nClarinda learned, in August, that Burns had\\nmarried Armour, Clarinda resented her\\nSylvander s defection as an unpardonable\\nwrong. They were partly reconciled in the\\nautumn of 1791 and ere she rejoined her\\nhusband in Jamaica, they had an interview\\non 6tlr December, which the gallant and\\nromantic little song, O May, Thy Morn\\nWas Ne er sae Sweet, is held to com-\\nmemorate. On the 27th he sent her Ae\\nFond Kiss and Then We Sever, with the\\nfinest lines he ever wrote\\nHad we never loved sae kindly,\\nHad we never loved sae blindly,\\nNever met or never parted,\\nWe had ne er been broken-hearted\\nBehold the Hour, the Boat Arrive, and\\npart of Gloomy December, with the re-\\nmark The remainder of this song is on\\ntiie wheels Adieu 1 Adieu Mrs. Macle-\\nhose, still unreconciled to her husband, re-\\nturned to Scotland in August, 1792. Burns\\nand she corresponded occasionally, but\\nnever met again. She died 22nd October,\\n1841. His letters to her were pirated in\\nStewart s Edition (1802). The greater part\\nof the Correspoidence appeared in 1843.\\nCentenary Edition,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0431.jp2"}, "430": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0432.jp2"}, "431": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\nA all.\\nA-back, (i) behind (2) away.\\nAbiegh, aloof, off: stand abiegh.\\nAblins, V. Aiblins.\\nAboon, (i) above [the usual sense]; also\\n(2) up: a lift aboon, temper-pins\\naboon, heart aboon, his heart will\\nnever get aboon his heart will never\\nagain rejoice.\\nAbread, abroad beauties a abread.\\nAbreed, in breadth (R. B.) spread abreed\\nthy weel-fill d brisket.\\nAdo, io-do: mickle ado.\\nAdle, cow-Iant, putrid water: deal brim-\\nstone like adle.\\nAe, one.\\nAff, off.\\nAff-hand, at once a carpet weaver aff-\\nhand, marriage aff-hand.\\nAff-loof, off-hand, extempore Just clean\\naff-loof.\\nA-fiel, a-field.\\nAfore, before.\\nAft, oft.\\nAften, often.\\nAgley, askew gang aft agley.\\nAhin, behind lan -ahin, fur-ahin.\\nAiblins, may be, perhaps.\\nAik, oak.\\nAiken, oaken.\\nAin, own.\\nAir, early.\\nAirle, hansel, earnest money airle-pennies\\nthree, an airle-penny.\\nAirles, hansel the airles an the fee.\\nAim, iron.\\nAirt, direction.\\nAirt, to direct airt me to my treasure,\\nairted till her a guid chiel.\\nAith, oath.\\nAits, oats.\\nAiver, an old horse (R. B.) a noble\\naiver.\\nAizle, a cinder an aizle brunt.\\nA-jee, (i) ajar: the back-yett be a-jee\\n(2) to one side: his bonnet he a\\nthought a-jee.\\nAlake, alas.\\nAlane, alone.\\nAlang, along.\\nAviaist, almost.\\nAmang, among.\\nAn, if.\\nAn and.\\nAnce, once.\\nAne, one.\\nAneath, beneath.\\nAnes, ones.\\nAnitker, another.\\nAqua-fontis spring-water: aqua-fontis,\\nwhat you please.\\nAgzia-vitae, whisky.\\nArle, V. Airle.\\nAse, ashes.\\nAsklenf,{i) askew [not according to Hoyle]\\ncam to the warl asklent (2) askance;\\nlook d asklent.\\nAspar, aspread the lasses lie aspar.\\nAsteer, astir.\\nA thegither, altogether.\\nAthort, athwart.\\nAtweel, in truth eh 1 atweel na.\\nAtiueen, between.\\nAught, eight.\\nAught, possession whase aught, who\\nowns.\\nAughten, eighteen.\\nAughtlins, at all, in any way: Aughtlins\\nfawsont v. Oughtlins.\\nAidd, old.\\n385", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0433.jp2"}, "432": {"fulltext": "386\\nGLOSSARY.\\nAiildfarran, auldfarrant, (i) shrewd: a\\nchap that s damn d auldfarran (2) old-\\nfasliioned in the sense of sagacious:\\nyour auld-farrant frien ly letter.\\nAuld Reekie, Edinljurgh.\\nAuld-warld, old-world.\\nAumous, alms: just like an aumous dish.\\nAva, at all.\\nAii)a, away.\\nAwald, backways and bent together fell\\nawald beside it.\\nAwauk, awake.\\nA lvaitken, awaken.\\nAwe, owe devil a shilling I awe, man.\\nAwkart, awkward.\\nAwnie, bearded aits set up their awnie\\nhorn.\\nAyont, beyond.\\nBa, a ball.\\nBaby-clouts, babie-clonts, baby clothes like\\nbaby-clouts a-dryin, O wha my babie-\\nclouts will buy.\\nBacket, bucket or box auld saut-backets.\\nBackit, backed howe-backit now, an\\nknaggie.\\nBackUns-comin, coming back, returning\\n(R. B.).\\nBack-yett, gate at the back the back-yett\\nbe a-jee.\\nBade, endured bade an unco bang.\\nBade, asked and bade nae better.\\nBaggie, the belly, the stomach a ripp to\\nthy auld baggie.\\nBaig nets, bayonets.\\nBailie, magistrate of a Scots burgh.\\nBainie, bony, big-boned the brawnie,\\nbainie, ploughman chiel.\\nBairn, child.\\nBairntime, brood, issue thae bonie bairn-\\ntime, my pleugh is now thy bairntime a\\nBaith, both.\\nBakes, biscuits bakes and gills.\\nBallots, ballads.\\nBaloii, lullaby: The Highland Balou.\\nBamboozle, to trick by mystifying wicked\\nmen bamboozle him.\\nBan, swear [special Scottish meaning in\\naddition to curse] the devil-haet that I\\nsud ban.\\nBan band \\\\i.e. of the Presbyterian clergy-\\nman] gown an ban the clergyman.\\nBane, bone.\\nBang, an effort (R. B.), a blow, a large\\nnumber. Unco bang, great or prolonged\\neffort: he bade an unco bang.\\nBang, to thump bang your hide, she\\nbang d me, bang d the despot.\\nBanie, v. Bainie.\\nBannet, bonnet.\\nBannock, bannock, a soft cake twa mash-\\nlum bonnocks, Saxpence an a ban-\\nnock, Bannocks o Bear Meal, Ban-\\nnocks o Barley, hauvermeal bannock.\\nBardie, dim. oi bard.\\nBare/it, barefooted.\\nBarkct, barked,\\nDarlcy-brie or -bree, barley-brew ale or\\nwhisky barley-brie cement the quarrel,\\ntaste the barley-bree.\\nBarm, yeast that clarty barm should\\nstain my laurels.\\nBarmie, yeasty.\\nBarn-yard, stackyard.\\nBar tie, the Devil as fou as Bartie.\\nBashing, abashing: bashing and dashing.\\nBatch, a number, a company: batch o\\nwabster lads.\\nBatts, the botts [applied to horses], the\\ncolic: a couniiy Inird had taen the\\nbatts.\\nBauckic-bird, the bat wavering like the\\nbauckie-bird.\\nBaudrons, Baudrans, the cat a winkin\\nbaudrons, like baudrons by a rattan,\\nauld baudrans by the ingle sits.\\nBank, cross-beam grapit for the bauks.\\nBank, V. Bavjk.\\nBank-en beam-end: or whether t was a\\nbank -en\\nBauld, bold.\\nBanldest, boldest.\\nBaiildly, boldly.\\nBaumy, balmy.\\nBawbee, a halfpenny [probably a babie\\npenny].\\nBarvdrons, v. Baudrons.\\nBawk, a field-path a corn-inclos6d bawk.\\nBaws nt, white-streaked sonsie, baws nt\\nface.\\nBawtie, pet name for a dog my auld teeth-\\nless Bawtie.\\nBe, alone [i.e. as one is already] an let\\npoor damntid bodies be, let a body be.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0434.jp2"}, "433": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n3S7\\nBear, barley.\\nBeas\\\\ beasts, vermin {i.e. lice]: grey wi\\nbeas\\nBeastie, dim. ol beast.\\nBeck, a curtsy she 11 gie ye a beck.\\nBeet, feed, kindle, fan, add fuel to: beet\\nhis hymeneal flame, it heats me, it beets\\nme, or noble Elgin beeis, it s plenty\\nbeets the lover s fire. Cf. Chaucer, Two\\nfires on the autor [altar] gan she beete,\\nKnight s Tale, Canterbury Tales, 2292.\\nBcfa, befall.\\nBeliin behi?tf, behind.\\nBeild, V. Biel.\\nBelang, belong.\\nigf/rf, bald.\\nBelliiin, assault brawlie ward their bel-\\nlum.\\nBellys, bellows.\\nBelyve, by and by belyve the elder bairns,\\nweel-swall d kytes belyve are bent.\\nBen, a parlour.\\nBen, into the spence or parlour (R. B.).\\nBenniost, inmost benmost bore, benmost\\nneuk.\\nBe-nortk, to the northward of.\\nBe-south, to the southward of.\\nBcthankit, the grace after meat (R. B.),\\nBeuk, a book devil s pictur d beuks\\nplaying-cards.\\nBey on t, beyond.\\nBicker, a wooden cup: in cog or bicker.\\nBicker, a cupful, a glass: a hearty bicker.\\nBicker, a short run I took a bicker.\\nBicker, to flow swiftly and with a slight\\nnoise: bicker d to the seas, bickerin\\ndancin dazzle. Cf. also smoke and\\nbickering flame, Milton s Paradise Lost,\\nvi. 766.\\nBickerin, noisy and keen contention there\\nwill he bickerin there.\\nBickering, liurrying bickering brattle.\\nBid, to ask, to wish, to offer: bid nae bet-\\nter, ne er bid better. See also Bade.\\nBide, abide. See also Bade.\\nBiel, bield, a. shelter: hap him in a cozie\\nbiel, the random bield o clod or stane,\\nbut buss and bield, thy bield should be\\nmy bosom.\\nBiel, bield, a sheltered spot the sun blinks\\nkindly in the biel, roses blaw in ilka\\nbield.\\nBien, prosperous, comfortable bien and\\nsnug, her house sae bien.\\nBien, bienly, comfortably that deeds me\\nbien, bienly clad.\\nBig, to build.\\nBiggin, building.\\nBiggin, a structure, a dwelling the auld\\nclay biggin, houlet-haunted biggin.\\nBike, V. Byke.\\nBill, the bull as yell s the bill.\\nBillie, fellow, comrade, brother [several\\nexamples of each of these meanings],\\nBilly, William.\\nBings, heaps: potatoe-bings.\\nBirdie, d \\\\vc\\\\. of bird, also maidens: bonie\\nbirdies. See also Bardie.\\nBirk, the birch.\\nBirken, birchen.\\nBirkie, a fellow [usually implies conceit].\\nBirr, force, vigour: wi a my birr.\\nBirring, whirring birring paitricks.\\nBirses, bristles tirl the huUions to the\\nbirses.\\nBirth, berth a birth afore the mast.\\nBit, small [e.g. a bit beauty, bit brugh, bit\\nlassie, etc.].\\nBit, nick of time just at the bit.\\nBitch-fou, completely drunk.\\nBizz, a flurry that day when in a bizz,\\nBizz, to buzz.\\nBizzard, the buzzard,\\nBizzie, busy.\\nBlack-bonnet, the elder a greedy glowr\\nblack-bonnet throws, an douse black-\\nbonnet.\\nBlack-nebbit, black-beaked black-nebbit\\nJohnie.\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0Blue, blue, livid.\\nBlastet, blastit, blasted [used in contempt\\nand damn d] wee, blastit wonner,\\ncreepin, blastit wonner, onie blastit,\\nmoorland toop.\\nBlastie, a blasted [i.e. damn d] creature:\\nthe blastie s makin, red-wud Kilbirnie\\nblastie.\\nBlate, (i) modest owre blate to seek (2)\\nbashful, shy: nor blate nor scaur, some\\nunco blate, but blate and laithfu young\\nand blate, steer her up, an be na blate.\\nBlather, bladder.\\nBland, a large quantity, a screed a hearty\\nblaud, a blaud o Johnie s morals.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0435.jp2"}, "434": {"fulltext": "388\\nGLOSSARY.\\nBlaud, to slap he s the boy will blaud her.\\nDlaiidin, driviiig.pelting the bitter, blaudin\\nshow r.\\nBUiw, to blow.\\nBlaw, to brag, to boast blaw about my-\\nsel, he brags and he blaws o his siller.\\nBlawing, blowing.\\nBlmon, blown.\\nBleer, to blear.\\nBker t, bleared.\\nBlcez d, blazed.\\nBleeze, a blaze.\\nBleezin, blazing.\\nBlellum, (i) a babbler drunken blellum\\n(2) a railer sour-mou d, girnin blellum\\n(3) a blusterer to cowe the blellums.\\nBlether, blethers, nonsense.\\nBlether, to talk nonsense.\\nBletherin talking nonsense.\\nBlin, blind.\\nBlin, to blind.\\nBlink, a glance, a moment, a short period\\n[several examples of each of these mean-\\nings].\\nBlink, to glance, to shine.\\nBlinkers, (i) spies: seize the blinkers\\n(2) oglers delicious blinkers.\\nBlinkin, blinking, shining.\\nBlinkin, (i) smirking: Blinkin Bess of\\nAnnandale (2) leering: are blinkin at\\nthe entry.\\nBlin t, blinded blin t his e e.\\nBlitter, the snipe blitter frae the boggle.\\nBlue-gown, the livery of the licensed beg-\\ngar the Blue-gown badge.\\nBluid, blood.\\nBliiidy, bloody.\\nBlu9iie, to bloom.\\nBluntie, a stupid \\\\i.e. one who is n t sharp]\\ngar me look like bluntie.\\nBlypes, shreds: till skin in blypes cam\\nhaurlin.\\nBobbed, curtsied When She Cam Ben\\nShe Bobbed.\\nBacked, vomited: or thro the mining out-\\nlet booked.\\nBoddle, a farthing [properly two pennies\\nScots, or one-third of an English penny]\\nhe car d na deils a boddle, I 11 wad a\\nboddle.\\nBodkin, tailor s needle your bodkin s\\nbauld.\\nBody, bodie, a person, a creature.\\nBoggie, dim. of bog: the blitter frae the\\nboggle.\\nBogle, a bogie, a hobgoblin lest bogles\\ncatch him unawares, nae nightly bogle\\nmake it eerie, Ghaist nor bogle, the\\nsilly bogles, Wealth and State.\\nBole, a hole, or small recess in the wall\\nthere sat a bottle in a bole.\\nBonie, bonnie, pretty, beautiful.\\nBonilie, prettily.\\nBonnock, v. Bannock.\\nBoon, above.\\nBoard, board, surface the jingling icy\\nbooid.\\nBoord-c7i\\\\ board end sitting at yon boord-\\nen\\nBoortrees, the shrub-elder, planted much\\nof old in hedges of barnyards, etc. (R.\\nB.) thro the boortrees comin.\\nBoost,hehoove, must needs I shortly boost\\nto pasture, like a blockhead, boost to\\nride.\\nBoot, payment to the bargain the boot and\\nbetter horse, the saul of boot, O boot\\nthat night.\\nBore, a chink, a small hole, an opening\\nthro ilka bore the beams were glancing,\\nthe benmost bore, to guard, or draw, or\\nwick a bore.\\nBotch, an angry tumor (R. B.) scabs and\\nbotches.\\nBouk, a human trunk [Eng. bulk cf. to\\nshatter all his bulk, Shak. Hamlet, ii. I.\\n95] and monie a bouk did fa\\nBout, about.\\nBow-hough d, bandy-thighed she s bough-\\nhough d, she s hem-shin d.\\nBow-kail, cabbage wandered thro the\\nbow-kail, his bow-kail runt.\\nBow t, bent like a sow-tail sae bow t.\\nBrachens, ferns amang the bra ch ens.\\nSee also Breckan.\\nBrae, a small hill, the slope of a hill.\\nBraid, broad.\\nBraid-claith, broadcloth.\\nBraik, a harrow in pleugh or braik.\\nBraing t, pulled rashly thou never braing t,\\nan fetch t, an fliskit.\\nBrak, broke.\\nBrake, broke.\\nBrak s, broke his.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0436.jp2"}, "435": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\nBranks, a wooden curb, a bridle As cheeks\\no branks, goavin s he d been led wi\\nbranks, wi braw new branks, if the\\nbeast and branks be spar d.\\nBranky, spruce whaur hae ye been sae\\nbrankie, O.\\nBran brandy.\\nBrash, short illness: monie a pain an\\nbrash.\\nBrats, small pieces, rags: brats o claes,\\nbrats o duddies.\\nBrats, small children our ragged brats\\nand callets, wives and dirty brats.\\nBrattle, a spurt, a scamper: waur t thee\\nfor a brattle, wi bickering brattle.\\nBrattle, noisy onset brattle o winter war.\\nBraw, handsome, fine, gaily dressed [many\\nexamples of each of these meanings].\\nBrawlie, finely, perfectly, heartily.\\nBraxies, sheep that have died of braxie\\n[a disease] guid fat braxies.\\nBreastie, dim. oi breast.\\nBreastit, sprang forward thou never lap,\\nan sten t, an breastit.\\nBrechan, a horse collar a braw new\\nbrechan.\\nBreckan, ferns yon lone glen o green\\nbrechan. See also Brackens.\\nBreedin, breeding, i.e. manners has nae\\nsic breedin.\\nBreeks, breeches.\\nBreer, briar.\\nBre7it, brand brent new frae France.\\nBrent, straight, steep \\\\i.e. not sloping from\\nbaldness] your bonie brow was brent.\\nBrief, writ King David o poetic brief.\\nBrier, briar.\\nBriery, briary.\\nBrig, bridge.\\nBrisket, breast thy weel-fill d brisket.\\nBr it her, brother.\\nBrock, a badger a stinking brock, wil-\\ncat, brock, an tod.\\nBrogue, a trick an play d on man a curs6d\\nbrogue.\\nBroo, soup, broth the flesh to him, the broo\\nto me, suppin hen-broo, dogslike broo.\\nBroo, brew, liquid, water the snaw-broo\\nrowes, I ve borne aboon the broo.\\nBrooses, wedding races from the church to\\nthe home of the bride at brooses thou\\nhad ne er a fellow.\\nBrose, a thick mixture of meal and warm\\nwater, also a synonym for porridge they\\nmaun hae brose, then cogs o brose, ye\\nbutter d my brose.\\nBrowst, malt liquor [and properly the whole\\nliquor brewed at one time] the browst\\nshe brew d.\\nBrowster wives, ale wives browster wives\\nan whisky-stills.\\nBrugh, a burgh, a borough.\\nBriilzie, brulyie, (i) a brawl: than mind\\nsic brulzie (2) brangle: Hell mi.\\\\ed\\nin the brulyie, wha in a brulyie.\\nBrunstane, brimstone.\\nBrunt, burned.\\nBrust, burst.\\nBuckie, dim. of buck, a smart younker that\\ndaft buckie, Geordie Wales, envious\\nbuckies.\\nBuckle, a curl his hair has a natural\\nbuckle.\\nBuckskin, Virginian the buckskins claw,\\nthe buckskin kye.\\nBudget, tinker s bag of tools the budget\\nand the apron, here s to budgets.\\nBuff, to bang, to thump buff our beef.\\nBughtin, folding \\\\i.e. gathering sheep into\\nthe fold] tells bughtin time is near, my\\njo.\\nBuirdly, (i) stout, stalwart buirdlychiels\\n(2) stately a filly buirdly.\\nBum, the buttocks many a tatter d rag\\nhanging over my bum.\\nBum, to hum ayont the dyke she s heard\\nyou bummin, bum owre their treasure.\\nBum-clock, the beetle the bum-clock\\nhumm d wi lazy drone.\\nBummle, a drone, a useless fellow some\\ndrowzy bummle.\\nBunker, a seat a wunnock-bunker in the\\neast.\\nBunters, harlots and kissing barefit hun-\\nters.\\nBur dies, dim. of bird or burd [a lady],\\nmaidens: ae blink o the bonie burdies.\\nSee also Birdie. Cf. Burd Ellen.\\nBure, bore.\\nBurn, a rivulet.\\nBurneiuin, the blacksmith [i.e. burn the\\nwind] then Burnewin comes on like\\ndeath.\\nBurnie, dim. oi burn [a rivulet].", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0437.jp2"}, "436": {"fulltext": "390\\nGLOSSARY.\\nBurr-thistle, spear-thistle the rough burr-\\nthistle spreading wide.\\nDusk, (i) to dress, to garb New Brig was\\nbuskit in a braw new coat, they 11 busk\\nher like a fright, busking bowers (2)\\nto dress up busks his skinklin patches\\n(3) to trim, to adorn her bonie buskit\\nnest, weel buskit up sae gaudy.\\nDusking, V. Dusk.\\nIhiskit, V. Busk.\\nDuss, a bush like a rash-buss stood in\\nsight, but buss or bield.\\nDusslc, bustle.\\nDut, without.\\nBut, butt, in the kitchen the outer apart-\\nment], butt the house in the kitchen.\\nSee also Den.\\nBy, past, aside.\\nDy, beside.\\nDy himsel, beside himself, off his wits:\\nmonie a day was by himsel.\\nBye attour \\\\i.e. by and attour beside\\nand at a distance], moreover: bye attour\\nmy gutcher has.\\nByke, (i) a bees nest, a hive assail their\\nbyke (2) a swarm, a crowd the glow-\\nrin byke, the hungry bike.\\nByre, a cowhouse.\\nCa a call.\\nCa, to call.\\nCa a knock.\\nCa to knock [e.g. a nail], to drive [e.g.\\ncattle].\\nCa d, ca t, called.\\nCa d, ca t, knocked, driven.\\nCadger, a hawker: a cadger pownie s\\ndeath, like onie cadger s whup.\\nCadie, caddie, a varlet e en cowe the\\ncadie, Auld-Light caddies.\\nCaff, chaff.\\nCaird, a tinker.\\nCalf-ward, grazing plot for calves [i.e.\\nchurchyard].\\nCallan, callant, a stripling.\\nCaller, cool, refreshing: the caller air,\\nlittle fishes caller rest.\\nCallet, a trull my bottle and my callet,\\nour ragged brats and callets.\\nCatn, came.\\nCatiie, caniiie, (i) gentle: bonie wee\\nthing, cannie wee thing, cannie young\\nman (2) tractable tawie, quiet, an\\ncannie (3) quiet: a cannie errand, a\\ncannie hour at e en, then cannie, kind\\nand cannie (4) prudent wi cannie\\ncare (5) careful: cannie for hoarding\\no money.\\nCankrie, crabbed O cankrie Care.\\nCanna, cannot.\\nCannie, (i) gently: straik her cannie (2)\\nquietly: slade cannie to her bed (3)\\nsensibly: and cannie wale (4) care-\\nfully: I maun guide it cannie (5) ex-\\npertly nickin down fu cannie.\\nCanniest, quietest the canniest gate, the\\nstrife is sair.\\nCannilie, cannily, quietly, prudently, cau-\\ntiously: cannilie he hums them, can-\\nnily keekit ben, cannily steal on a bonie\\nmoor-hen.\\nCantie, cheerful, lively, jolly, merry [very\\nmany examples].\\nCantraip, (i) magic: by cantraip wit, can-\\ntraip sleiglit (2) witching some can-\\ntraip hour.\\nCants, (i) merry stories: monie cracks\\nand cants (2) canters or sprees or\\nmerry doings a my cants.\\nCape-stane, cope-stone.\\nCapon, castrate their capon cries.\\nCar d na by, cared not a jot.\\nCare na by, (i) do not care, (2) care noth-\\ning, (3) care not although you do.\\nCarl, carle [from churl], a man, an old man.\\nCarl-hemp, male-hemp: thou stalk o carl-\\nhemp.\\nCarlie, a mannikin: a fusionless carlie.\\nCarlin, carline, a middle-aged, or old\\nwoman, a beldam, a witch.\\nCarmagnole, a violent Jacobin that curst\\ncarmagnole Auld Satan.\\nCartes, playing cards.\\nCartie, dim. of cart or hurl in a cartie.\\nCa t, v. Ca d.\\nCatch-the-piack, the hunt for coin.\\nCaudron, a caldron fry them in his cau-\\ndrons. V. Cauldron.\\nCauf, a calf.\\nCauf-leather calf-leather.\\nCauk, chalk o caulk and keel in chalk\\nand ruddle.\\nCauld, cold.\\nCauld, the cold.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0438.jp2"}, "437": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n391\\nCauldness, coldness.\\nCauldron, caldron clout the cauldron.\\nV. Caudron.\\nCaup, a wooden drinking-vessel [i.e. cup]\\nthe lugget caup, vill-caup commenta-\\ntors, ill cogs an caups, that kiss d his\\ncaup.\\nCausey-cleaners, causeway-cleaners.\\nCavie, a hen-coop behint the chicken-\\ncavie.\\nChamer, chaumer, chamber.\\nChange-house, tavern.\\nChanter, (i) bagpipes, the pipe of the bag-\\npipes which produces the melody your\\nchanters tune, chanters winna hain\\n(2) syn. for song: quat my chanter.\\nChap, a fellow, a young fellow.\\nChap, to strike ay chap the thicker.\\nChapman, a pedler.\\nChaumer, v. Chamer.\\nChaup (or chap), a stroke, a blow at ev ry\\nchaup.\\nChear, cheer, to cheer.\\nChearfu cheerful.\\nChearless, cheerless.\\nCheary, cheery.\\nCheek-for-chozv, cheek by jowl [i.e. close\\nbeside] cheek-for-chow a chuffie vint-\\nner, cheek-for-chow, shall jog thegither.\\nCheep, peep, squeak wi tunefu cheep,\\ncheeps like some bewildered chicken.\\nChiel, chield [i.e. child], a fellow, a young\\nfellow [indicates approval].\\nChimla, chimney.\\nChow, V. Cheek-for-chow.\\nChows, chews.\\nChuck, a hen, a dear: the martial chuck.\\nCf. pray chuck come hither, Shak.\\nOthello, iv. 2. 24.\\nChuckie, dim. oi chuck, but usually signifies\\nmother-hen, an old dear auld chuckie\\nReekie, a daintie[y] chuckie.\\nChuffie, fat-faced a chuffie vintner.\\nChuse, to choose.\\nat, the civet the cit and polecat stink.\\nat, a citizen, a merchant.\\nClachan, a small village about a church, a\\nhamlet (R. B.) the clachan yill, Jock\\nHornbook i the clachan, within the\\nclachan.\\nClacding, clothing.\\nClaes, claise, clothes.\\nClaith, cloth.\\nClaithing, clothing.\\nClaivers, v. Clavers.\\nClankie, a severe knock Clavers got a\\nclankie, O.\\nClap, the clapper of a mill and still the\\nclap plays clatter.\\nClark, clerkly, scholarly learned and\\ndark.\\nClark, a. clerk like onie dark.\\nClarkit, clerked, wrote in a bank and\\nclarkit.\\nClarty, A\\\\x\\\\.y: clarty barm.\\nClash, an idle tale, the story of a day (R.\\nB.) the countra clash.\\nClash, to tattle.\\nClatter, (i) noise the dap players clatter\\n[i.e. dapper], bade me mak nae clatter\\n(2) tattle, gossip kintra clatter (3)\\ntalk sangs and clatter, anither gies\\nthem clatter (4) disputation: a this\\nclatter (5) babble rhymin clatter.\\nClatter, (i) to make a noise by striking:\\nthe pint-stowp clatters, gar him clatter\\nclatter on my stumps (2) to batjble\\nthe gossips clatter bright (3) to prattle\\nclatters, Tam Samson s dead.\\nClaught, clutched, seized claught her by\\nthe rump, claught th unfading garland.\\nClaughtin, clutching, grasping: claughtin\\nt together.\\nClaut, (i) a clutch our sinfu saul to get\\na claut on (2) a handful a claut o\\ngear.\\nClaut, to scrape ye claut my byre.\\nClautet, scraped the laggen they hae\\nclautet.\\nClaver, clover.\\nClavers, (i) gossip clavers and havers\\n(2) nonsense: heaps o clavers.\\nClaw, a scratch, a blow.\\nClatv, to scratch, to strike.\\nClay-cauld, clay-cold.\\nClayjnore, a two-handed Highland sword\\nan guid claymore, wi dirk, claymore.\\nCleckin, a brood its minnie and the\\ncleckin.\\nCleed, to clothe.\\nCleek, to snatch cleek the sterlin pinch\\nthe ready.\\nCleekit, took hold they cross d, they cleekit.\\nCleg, gadfly the clegs o feeling stang.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0439.jp2"}, "438": {"fulltext": "392\\nGLOSSARY.\\nClink, (i) a sharp stroke her doup a\\nclink (2) jingle o rhymin clink.\\nClink, (i) money, coin: o needfu clink\\n(2) wealth: the name o clink.\\nClink, to chink: he ll clink in the hand.\\nClink, to rhyme: mak it clink, gar them\\nclink.\\nClinkin, with a smart motion clinkin\\ndown beside him.\\nClinkum, Clinkumbell, tlie beadle, the bell-\\nman auld Ciinkiim at the inner port,\\nClinkumbell, wi rattlin tow.\\nClips, shears ne er cross d the clips.\\nClish-ma-claver, (i) gossip, tale-telling:\\nfor a their clish-ma-cIaver (2) non-\\nsense, idle talk what farther clish-ma-\\nclaver might been said.\\nClockin-time, clucking- hatching-] time:\\nthe clockin-time is by.\\nCloot, the hoof in general, the half of the\\ncloven hoof: upon her cloot she coost a\\nhitch, an wear his cloots.\\nClootie, Cloots, Hoofie, Hoofs [a nickname\\nof the Devil]: Auld Cloots, Nick or\\nClootie, auld Cloven-Clootie s haunts.\\nClour, a bump or swelling after a blow (R.\\nB.) clours an nicks.\\nClout, (i) a cloth, a rag: wi lies seam d\\nlike a beggar s clout (2) a patch per-\\nhaps a clout may fail in t. See also\\nBabie-clout.\\nClout, to patch clout the cauldron, clout\\nthe bad girdin o t, reft and clouted,\\ncloutin a kettle.\\nClud, a cloud.\\nClunk, to make a hollow sound made\\nthe bottle clunk.\\nCoqtie, dim. of coat.\\nCoble, a broad and flat boat wintle like a\\nsaumont-coble.\\nCock, the mark [in curling] station at the\\ncock.\\nCockle, dim. of cock [applied to an old\\nman] my guid auld cockie.\\nCocks, fellows, good fellows my hearty\\ncocks, the wale o cocks.\\nCod., a pillow a cod she laid below my\\nhead, the cradle wants a cod.\\nCoft, bought coft for her wee Nannie, I\\ncoft a stane o haslock woo, that coft\\nenjoyment.\\nCog, (i) a wooden drinking-vessel in\\ncogs an caups, in cog or bicker, cog\\nan ye were ay fou, a cog o guid swats\\n(2) a porridge-dish their cogs o brose\\n(3) acorn measure for horses: thy cog\\na wee bit heap.\\nCoggie, dim. of cog, a little dish.\\nCoil, Coila, Kyle [one of the ancient dis-\\ntricts of Ayrshire].\\nCollie, (i) a general, and sometimes a par-\\nticular, name for country curs (R. B.)\\n(2) a sheep-dog: a ploughman s collie.\\nColUeshangie, a squabble or how the\\ncollieshangie works.\\nCood, cud.\\nCoof, V. Cuif.\\nCookin, cooking.\\nCookit, hid cookit underneath the braes.\\nCoo7-, cover: coor their fuds.\\nCooser, a courser, a stallion: a perfect\\nkintra cooser.\\nCoost [i.e. cast], (i) looped coost a hitch\\n(2) threw off: coost their claes, coost\\nherduddies {3) tossed: Maggie coost\\nher head (4) chucked coost it in a\\ncorner.\\nCootie, a small pail the brunstane cootie.\\nCootie, leg-plumed cootie moorcocks.\\nCorbies, ravens, crows corbies and clergy.\\nCore, corps.\\nCorn mou, corn heap commend me to the\\ncorn mou.\\nCorn t, fed with corn thou was corn t.\\nCorse, corpse the pale corse on the plain.\\nCorss, cross Mauchline Corss.\\nCou dna, couldiia, could n t.\\nCountra, country.\\nCoup, to capsize coup the cran upset\\nthe pot.\\nCouthie, couthy, (i) loving: couthie For-\\ntune (2) affable fu couthy and sweet.\\nCouthie, comfortably kindle couthie, side\\nby side.\\nCoii)e,\\\\o scare, to daunt: cowe the cadie,\\ncowe the louns, cowe the blellums,\\ncowe the lairds, cowe the rebel genera-\\ntion.\\nCo-iVe, to crop cowe her measure shorter.\\nCrack, (i) tale tell your crack (2) a chat\\na hearty crack, ca the crack have a\\nchat (3) talk hear your crack, for\\ncrack that day.\\nCrack, to chat, to talk the father cracks", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0440.jp2"}, "439": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n39-\\nof horses, wha will crack to me my\\nlane.\\nCrackin, conversing crackin arouse.\\nCracks, (i) stories: cracks anrl cants\\n(2) conversation gashing at their\\ncracks, an friendly cracks.\\nCraft, croft.\\nCraft-rig, croft-ridge.\\nCraig, the throat that nicket Abel s craig.\\nCraig, a crag.\\nCraigie, dim. of craig, the throat vveet my\\ncraigie, thy bonie craigie.\\nCraigy, craggy.\\nCraik, the corn-crake, the land-rail the\\ncraik amang the clover hay, mourn\\nclam ring craiks, at close o day.\\nCrambo-clink, rhyme live by crambo-\\nclink.\\nCrambo-jingle, rhyming I to the crambo-\\njingle fell.\\nCran, the support for a pot or kettle coup\\nthe cran.\\nCrankous, fretful in crankous mood.\\nCranks, creakings what tuneless cranks.\\nCranreiich, hoar-frost, rime cranreuch\\ncauld, hoary cranreuch drest.\\nCrap, crop.\\nCrap, to crop that crap the heather bud.\\nCraps, (i) crops: his craps and kye,\\n(2) tops craps o heather heather-\\ntops.\\nCraw, crow.\\nCreel, an osier basket my senses wad be\\nin a creel I would be perplexed, in\\nDeath s fish-creel, nieves, like midden-\\ncreels.\\nCreepie-chair, stool of repentance mount\\nthe creepie-chair. See also Cutty-\\nstools.\\nCreeshie, greasy.\\nCrocks, old ewes tent the waifs an crocks.\\nCronie, intimate friend.\\nCrooded, cooed: a cushat crooded o er\\nme.\\nCroods, coos the cushat croods.\\nCroon, (i) moan wi eldritch croon (2) a\\nlow an outler quey gat up an gae a\\ncroon, (3) note: the melancholious\\ncroon, melancholious, sairie croon.\\nCroon, to toll jow an croon.\\nCroon d, hummed: croon d his gamut.\\nCrooning, humming crooning to a body s\\nsel, crooning o er some auld Scots son-\\nnet.\\nCroose, crouse, (i) cocksure: keen an\\ncroose (2) set when I grow crouse\\n(3) proud crouse and canty.\\nCrouchie, hunchbacked crouchie Merran\\nHumphie.\\nCrouse, cheerfully: crackin crouse. V.\\nCroose.\\nCrousely, confidently crousely craw.\\nCroiodie, meal and cold water, meal and\\nmilk, porridge: wi crowdie unto me,\\nance crowdie, twice crowdie, etc.\\nCrowdie-time, porridge-time [i.e. breakfast-\\ntime].\\nCrowlin, crawling: ye crowlin ferlie.\\nCrummie, a horned cow auld Crummie s\\nnicks.\\nCrtanmock, cummock, a cudg,el, a crooked\\nstaff [cf. the Gaelic or Welsh cam or\\ncum the crook of a stick, and camon\\nIrish hockey]: louping and flinging on\\na crummock, on a cummock driddle.\\nCrump, cr\\\\sY farls fu crump.\\nCrunt, a blow wi hearty crunt.\\nCuddle, to fondle: bairns bairns kindly\\ncuddle, cuddle my kimmer.\\nCuddl d, fondled: cuddl d me late and\\nearly.\\nCuif, coof, (i) a dolt, a ninny, a weakling:\\nfumbling cuifs, blockhead, coof, coofs\\non countless thousands rant, cuifs o\\nlater times, a wealthy coof, a coof\\nwi routh o gear, he s but a cuif, will\\nbe nae coof; (2) a dastard: a cuif like\\nhim.\\nCummock, v. Crum7nock.\\nCurch, a kerchief for the head her curch\\nsae clean, I tint my curch.\\nCurchie, a curtsy wi a curchie low did\\nstoop.\\nCurler one who plays at curling [a game\\non the ice] the curlers quat their roar-\\ning play, to the loughs the curlers\\nflock.\\nCurmurring, commotion curmurring in\\nhis guts.\\nCurpin, the crupper of a horse: haurls at\\nhis curpin.\\nCurple, the crupper [i.e. buttocks] hingin\\nowre my curple.\\nCushat, the wood pigeon.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0441.jp2"}, "440": {"fulltext": "394\\nGLOSSARY.\\nCustock, the pith of the colewort gif the\\ncustock s sweet or sour.\\nCutes, feet [properly of an animal] ankles\\nher bonie cutes sae sma\\nCutty, short: cutty sark, cutty sarks.\\nCutty-stools, stools of repentance daft bar-\\ngains, cutty-stools.\\nDad, daddie, father.\\nDaez t, dazed.\\nBaffin, larking, fun to spend an hour in\\ndaffin, fits o daffin, towsing a lass i\\nmy daffin.\\nDaft, mad, foolish.\\nDails, planks some carryin dails.\\nDai?!ien icker, an odd ear of corn a\\ndaimen icker in a thrave.\\nDam, pent up water, urine ye tine your\\ndam.\\nDamie, dim. oi dame.\\nDang, dung [pret. ol ding].\\nDanton, v. Daunton.\\nDarena, dare not.\\nDarg, labor, task, a day s labor nought\\nbut his han darg, monie a sair darg.\\nDarklins, in the dark an darklins grapit\\nfor the banks.\\nDaud, to pelt set the bairns to daud her,\\nthe bitter, daudin showers.\\nDaunton, to daunt.\\nDaur, dare.\\nDaurna, dare not.\\nDaur t, dared.\\nDaut, dawte, to fondle, to pet I kiss and\\ndaut thee, kiss and dawte.\\nDautet, daiot it, petted unco muckle\\ndautet, dawtit twal-pint hawkie.\\nDaiv, to dawn the day may daw.\\nDawds, lumps, large portions an dawds\\nthat day.\\nDawing, dawning.\\nDawtingly, pettingly, caressingly dawt-\\ningly did cheer me.\\nDead-sweer, extremely reluctant.\\nDearie, dim. oi dear.\\nDeave, to deafen.\\nDeevil, v. Deil.\\nDeil, devil.\\nDeil-haet (i) nothing [Devil have it]\\nthe deil-haet ails them (2) Devil\\nhave my soul the devil-haet that I\\nsud ban.\\nDeil-ma-care, no matter [the Devil may\\ncare, but not I].\\nDeleerct, delirious, mad an liv d an died\\ndcleeret.\\nDelvin, digging dubs of your ain delvin.\\nDern d, hid [from the Old Eng. dearn or\\ndcrn that dern time, Craig s Oxford\\nShak. A iftg Lear, iii. i. 62] dern d in\\ndens and hollows.\\nDescrive, to describe.\\nDeuk s, the duck has: The Deuk s Dang\\nO er My Daddie.\\nDeuks, ducks your deuks and geese.\\nDevel, a stunning blow: an unco devel.\\nDiddle, to move quickly [of fiddling]\\nelbuck jink an diddle.\\nDig/it, to wipe.\\nDight, winnowed, sifted the cleanest corn\\nthat e er was dight.\\nDin, dun, muddy of complexion dour and\\ndin.\\nDing, to beat, to surpass.\\nDing, be beaten or upset facts are chiels\\nthat winna ding.\\nDink, trim my lady s dink, my lady s\\ndrest.\\nDinna, do not.\\nDirl, to vibrate, to ring played dirl\\nwent tinkle, roof and rafters a did dirl,\\nshe dirl d them aff fu clearly.\\nDiz n, dizzen, dozen.\\nDochter, daughter.\\nDoggie, dim. of dog.\\nDoited, (i) muddled: doited Lear, a\\ndoited monkish race, my very senses\\ndoited (2) stupid, bewildered doited\\nstots, the doited beastie stammers, sae\\ndoited and blin\\nDonsie, (i) vicious, bad-tempered: ye\\nne er was donsie (2) restive: their\\ndonsie tricks (3) testy ye wad na been\\nsae donsie, O.\\nDool, (i) woe: sing dool, may dool and\\nsorrow be his lot, O, dool on the day\\n(2) sorrow: to sit in dool, bitter in\\ndool, care and dool, dool and care\\n(3) dool to tell sad to tell.\\nDoolfu, doleful, woful doolfu clamour,\\nthe doolfu tale.\\nDorty, pettish tho a minister grow dorty.\\nDouce, douse, sedate, sober, serious, pru-\\ndent douce honest woman, O ye douce", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0442.jp2"}, "441": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n395\\nfolk, douce or merry tale, douce con-\\nveners, douce folk, thrifty citizens an\\ndouce, douce Wisdom s door, for ye\\nsae douce, sae cursed douce.\\nDouce, doucely,dousely, (i) sedately: douce\\nliingin owre my curple (2) prudently:\\ndoucely manage our affairs, doucely\\nfill a throne.\\nDoiidl d, dandled doudl d me up on his\\nknee.\\nDought [pret. of doit)\\\\, could as lang s he\\ndought, do what I dought, dought na\\nbear us.\\nDouked, ducked in monie a well been\\ndouked.\\nDoup, the bottom.\\nDotip-skelper, bottom-smacker: vile doup-\\nskelper, Emperor Joseph.\\nDour, doure, (i) stubborn, obstinate:\\nteughly doure, the tither s dour, and\\nSackville doure, dour and din\\n(2) cutting fell and doure.\\nDouse, V. Douce.\\nDouser, sedater oughtlins doucer.\\nDow, dowe, am [is or are] able, can the\\nbest they dow, dow but hoyte and hob-\\nble, as lang s I dow, dow scarcely\\nspread her wing, hirples twa-fold as he\\ndow, dow nocht but glow r.\\nDow, a dove, a pigeon: like frighted dows,\\nman.\\nDowf, dowff, dull: her dowff excuses,\\ndowff an dovvilie, dowf and weary.\\nDoivie, drooping, mournful our Bardie,\\ndowie, dowie, stiff and crazy, dowie\\nshe saunters, I wander dowie up the\\nglen, some that are dowie.\\nDowie, mournfully his sad complaining\\ndowie raves.\\nDowilie, drooping: dowff and dowilie they\\ncreep.\\nDowna, cannot.\\nDotuna-do, cannot-do.\\nDoy/t, stupid, stupefied: doylt, drucken\\nhash, he s doylt and he s dozin.\\nDoytin, doddering cam doytin by.\\nDozen d, torpid: dearest member nearly\\ndozen d.\\nDozin, torpid he s doylt and he s dozin.\\nDraigl t, draggled.\\nDranfs, prosings to wait on their drants.\\nDrap, drop.\\nDrappie, dim. of drop.\\nDraunting, tedious draunting drivel.\\nDree, (i) endure dree the kintra clatter\\n(2) suffer: the pangs I dree.\\nDreigh, v. Driegh.\\nDribble, drizzle the winter s sleety dribble.\\nDriddle, to toddle us d to trystes an fairs\\nto driddle, on a cummock driddle.\\nDriegh, tedious, dull: stable-meals\\nwere driegh, the moor was dreigh.\\nDroddum, the breech dressyour droddum.\\nDrone, part of the bagpipe.\\nDroop rumpl t, short rumped droop-\\nrumpl t cattle.\\nDrouk, to wet, to drench to drouk the\\nstourie tow.\\nDroukit, wetted, soaked my droukit sark-\\nsleeve.\\nDrouth, thirst: Scotland s drouth, their\\nhydra drouth, holy drouth.\\nDrouthy, thirsty drouthy neebors, drouthy\\ncronie.\\nDrukett, drucken, drunken.\\nDrumlie, (i) muddy: drumlie German-\\nwater, the drumlie Dutch (2) turbid\\ndrumlie wave, waters never drumlie\\n(3) dull drumlie winter.\\nDrumtnock, raw meal and cold water a\\nbellyfu o drummock.\\nDrunt, the huff: took the drunt.\\nDiy, thirsty confoundedly dry, a dry wi\\ndrinken o t.\\nDry, dryly answer him fu dry.\\nDub, puddle, slush thro dub and mire,\\nthro dirt and dub.\\nDub, a puddle gumlie dubs, the burning\\ndub.\\nDuddie, ragged tho e er sae duddie, dud-\\ndie weans, duddie boy, duddie, des-\\nperate beggar.\\nDuddies, dim. of duds, rags coost her\\nduddies, their orra duddies, brats o\\nduddies.\\nDuds, rags, clothes: wi reekit duds,\\npawn d their duds, flaffin wi duds,\\ntartan duds, shook his duds.\\nDung, V. Dang.\\nDunted, throbbed wi life-blood dunted.\\nDunts, blows.\\nDurk, dirk.\\nDusht, touched eerie s I d been dusht.\\nDwalling, dwelling.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0443.jp2"}, "442": {"fulltext": "396\\nGLOSSARY.\\nDwalt, dwelt.\\nDyke, (i) a fence [of stone or turf], a wall\\na sheugh or dyke, biggin a dyke, yont\\nthe dyke, your lives a dyke, sun our-\\nsels about the dyke, about the dykes,\\nowre a dyke, lap o er the dyke.\\nDyke-back, the back of a fence.\\nDyke-side, side of a fence a lee dyke-\\nside.\\nDyvor, a bankrupt rot the dyvors, dyvor,\\nbeggar loons.\\nEar early.\\nEastlin, eastern.\\nE e, eye.\\nE ebrie, eyebrow.\\nEeJi, eyes.\\nE en, even.\\nE e7t, evening.\\nE enin, evening.\\nE er, ever.\\nEerie, apprehensive, inspiring ghostly fear\\n[many examples of both meanings].\\nEild, eld.\\nEke, also.\\nElbuck, elbow.\\nEldritch, (i) unearthly eldritch squeel,\\neldritch croon, an eldritch, stoor\\nquaick, quaick, eldritch laugh, el-\\ndritch skriech (2) haunted eldritch\\ntower (3) fearsome eldritch part.\\nElekit, elected.\\nEll [Scots], thirty-seven inches.\\nEller, elder me the Eller s dochter.\\nEn end.\\nEneugh, enough.\\nEnfauld, infold.\\nEnow, enough.\\nErse, Gaelic a Lallan tongue or Erse.\\nEther-stane, adder-stone and make his\\nether-Stan e.\\nEttle, aim wi furious ettle.\\nEvermair, evermore.\\nEv n (fc ww, downright, positive ev n down\\nwant o wark.\\nExpeckit, expected.\\nKydent, diligent wi an eydent hand.\\nFa fall, to fall.\\nFa lot, portion.\\nFa (i) to have best deserves to fa that\\n(2) suit weel does Selkirk fa that\\n(3) claim guid faith he mauna fa that.\\nCf. Alexander Scott s When His Wife\\nLeft Him For fient a crumb of thee\\nshe fa s [i.e. claims].\\nFaddoni d fathomed.\\nFile, foe.\\nFaem, foam.\\nFaiket, let off, excused sic ban s as you\\nsud ne er be faiket.\\nFain, fond, glad. V. Fidgin-fain.\\nFainness, fondness wi fainness grat.\\nFair fa good befall welcome fair fa\\nyour honest sonsie face, fair fa my col-\\nlier laddie. Cf. fair fall the bones that\\ntook the pains for me, Shak. A ing John,\\ni. I. 78.\\nFail in, a present from a fair he gets his\\nfairin, thou 11 get thy fairin.\\nFalloiu, fellow.\\nFa ni fallen.\\nFand, found.\\nFar-aff, far-off.\\nFarls, small, thin oat-cakes farls, bak d\\nwi butter.\\nFash, annoyance to gie ane fash, or\\nfash o fools.\\nFash, (i) to trouble: fash your thumb\\ncare a rap; I never fash I never\\ntrouble about; fash your head (2)\\nworry: fash me for t, fash nae mair.\\nFash d, fash t, (i) bothered: they re lash t\\neneugh, they seldom fash t him (2)\\nirked: fash d wi fleshly lust.\\nFashions, troublesome fin them fashions.\\nFasten-e en, Fasten s Even [the evening\\nbefore Lent].\\nFaitght, a fight.\\nFauld, the sheep-fold.\\nFaiild, folded within his mouth was\\nfauld.\\nFaulding, folding, sheep-folding a-fauld-\\ning let us gang, faulding slap fold\\ngate steeks his faulding slap.\\nFaun, fallen.\\nFanse, false.\\nFause-house, hole in a cornstack kiutlin in\\nthe fause-house, the fause-house in her\\nmin\\nFaiit, fault.\\nFautor, transgressor syne, say I was a\\nfautor, tho he be the fautor.\\nFawsont, (i) seemly, well-doing: honest", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0444.jp2"}, "443": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n397\\nfawsont folk (2) good-looking aught-\\nHns fawsont.\\nFcaf, spruce.\\nFfc/it, a fight.\\nFfc/if, to fight.\\nFc ck, the bulk, the most part the feck of a\\nthe Ten Comman s, the feck o my life.\\nFeck, value, return for little feck.\\nFeckct, (i) sleeve-waistcoat [used by farm-\\nservants as both vest and jacket] got\\nme by the fecket (2) waistcoat [without\\nsleeves] his fecket is white.\\nFeckless, weak, pithless, feeble as feckless\\nas a wither d rash, an auld wife s tongue s\\na feckless matter.\\nFeckly, partly, or mostly carts are\\nfeckly new.\\nFeg, a fig.\\nFegs, faith but fegs the Session.\\nFeide, feud wi deadly feide.\\nFeint, v. Fient.\\nFeirrie, lusty the feirrie auld wife.\\nFell, (i) keen, cruel, dreadful, deadly [many\\nexamples of each shade of meaning] (2)\\npungent her weel-hain d kebbuck fell.\\nFell, the cuticle under the skin the skin\\nan fell. Cf. flesh and fell, Shak. A i//g\\nLear, v. 3. 24.\\nFelly, relentless felly spite.\\nF en a shift might mak a fen\\nFen fend, (i) to look after, to care for:\\nfend themsel (2) keep off: fend the\\nshow rs (3) defend fecht and fen\\nshift for themselves how do ye fen\\nhow are you getting on?\\nFenceless, defenceless.\\nFerlie, ferfy, (i) a wonder [implying also\\ndisgust] ye crowlin ferlie (2) nae\\nferlie[y] no wonder, no marvel.\\nFerlie, to marvel an ferlie at the folk in\\nLon on.\\nFetches, catches, gurgles: fetches at the\\nthrapple.\\nFetch t, stopped suddenly braing t, an\\nfetch t, an fliskit.\\nFey, fated to death fey men died.\\nFidge, (i) to fidget, to wriggle fidge your\\nback, fidge an claw (2) fidge fu\\nfain tingle with delight; (3) fidg dfu\\nfain fidgeted with fondness.\\nFidgin-fain, (i) tingling wild fidgin-fain to\\nhear t (2) tingling with fondness.\\nFiel, well haps me fiel and warm.\\nFient, fiend, a petty oath (R. B.).\\nFient a, not a the fient a nothing of a.\\nFient hact, nothing [fiend have it].\\nFient haet o not one of.\\nFient-ma-care, the fiend may care [I don t\\nFier,fLere, companion my trusty fier[e].\\nFier, sound hale and fier.\\nFin to find.\\nFish-creel, v. Creel.\\nFissle, tingle, fidget with delight [it is also\\nused of the agitation caused by frying]\\ngar me fissle.\\nFit, foot.\\nFittie-lan the near horse of the hindmost\\npair in the plough a noble fittie-lan\\nFlae, a fiea.\\nFlaffin, flapping flaffln wi duds.\\nFlainin,flannen, flannel.\\nFlang, flung.\\nFlee, to fly.\\nFleech d, wheedled Duncan fleech d, and\\nDuncan pray d.\\nFleechin, wheedling a fleechin, fleth rin\\nDedication.\\nFleesh, fleece a bonier fleesh ne er cross d\\nthe clips.\\nFleg, (i) either a scare [as the word is used\\nby Ramsay], or a blow: jirt an fleg\\n(2) action, movement: uncouth countra\\nfleg.\\nFletlirin, flattering fleth rin dedication.\\nFleivit, a sharp lash a hearty flewit.\\nFley, to scare Want and Hunger fley me.\\nFliy d, scared fley d an eerie, but be na\\nfley d, fley d awa.\\nFlichterin, fluttering: as young nestlings\\nwhen their dam approaches (R. B.)\\nflichterin noise and glee.\\nFlinders, shreds, broken pieces (R. B.).\\nFlinging, kicking out in dancing, capering\\nlouping and flinging on a crummock.\\nFlingin-tree, a piece of timber hung by way\\nof partition between two horses in a\\nstable, a flail (R. B.) the thresher s\\nweary flingin-tree.\\nFliskit, fretted, capered fetch t an fliskit.\\nFlit, to shift.\\nFlittering, fluttering.\\nFlyte, scold e en let her flyte her fill.\\nFock,focks, folk.\\nFodgel, dumpy a fine, fat, fodgel wight.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0445.jp2"}, "444": {"fulltext": "398\\nGLOSSARY.\\nFoor, fared {i.e. wenfl o er the moor they\\nlightly foor.\\nFoorsdiiy, Tiiursday.\\nForbears, forebears, forefathers.\\nForby, forbye, besides.\\nForfairn, (i) worn out: vvi crazy eild I m\\nsair forfairn (2) forlorn Fenwick, sair\\nforfairn.\\nForfoughten, exhausted \\\\i.e. by labour or\\nconflict] tho forfoughten, sair eneugh.\\nForgather, to meet with, to fall in with.\\nForgie, to forgive.\\nForjesket, yM\\\\ii.dk with fatigue (R. B.) for-\\njesket sair, with weary legs.\\nForrit, forward.\\nFother, fodder.\\nFoil, foiu, full {i.e. drunk].\\nFojtghten, troubled {i.e. by conflict with dif-\\nficulties] sae loughten an harass d.\\nSee Forfoughten\\nFoursome, a quartette foursome reels.\\nFoiith, fulness, abundance fouth o auld\\nnick-nackets.\\nFow, V. Fou.\\nFow, a bushel.\\nFrae, from.\\nFreath, to froth.\\nFremit, estranged, hostile: is now a fremit\\nknight.\\nFu\\\\ full. V. also Fou.\\nFu -han f, full-handed [having abundance]\\nay fu -han t is fechtin best.\\nFud, a short tail [of a rabbit or hare]\\ncock your fud fu braw, to coor their\\nfuds.\\nFuff t, puffed she fuff t her pipe wi sic a\\nlunt.\\nFur, fur r, a furrow.\\nFur-ahin, the hindmost plough-horse in the\\nfurrow my fur-ahin s a wordy beast.\\nFurder, success.\\nFurder, to succeed.\\nFurm, a wooden form.\\nFusionless, pithless, sapless, tasteless: he\\nis but a fusionless carlie.\\nFyke, fret as bees bizz out wi angry fyke.\\nFyke, (i) to fuss: fyke an fumble (2)\\nto fidget {i.e. from annoyance or pain]\\nuntil ye fyke.\\nFyle, to defile, to foul her face wad fyle the\\nLogan Water.\\nFyled, soiled that fyl d his shins.\\nGab, the mouth, the jaw his gab did gape,\\nsteck your gab for ever, she held up her\\ngreedy gab, his teethless gab, set a\\ntheir gabs a-steerin.\\nGab, to talk, to speak: gab like Boswell.\\nGabs, talk some wi gabs.\\nGae, gave.\\nGae, to go.\\nGaed, went.\\nGaen, gone.\\nGacts, ways, manners learn the gaets.\\nGairs, slashes my lady s gown, there s\\ngairs upon t.\\nGaue, gone.\\nGang, to go.\\nGangrel, vagrant o randie, gangrel\\nbodies.\\nGar, to cause, to make, to compel.\\nGar t, made, compelled.\\nGarten, garter.\\nGarten d, gartered.\\nGash, (i) wise: a gash an faithfu tyke\\n(2) self-complacent [implying prudence\\nand prosperity]: here farmers gash\\n(3) talkative and self-complacent a\\ngawsie, gash guidwife.\\nGashing, talking, gabbing gashing at\\ntheir cracks.\\nGat, got.\\nGate, way, road, manner.\\nGatty, enervated auld an gatty.\\nGaucie, v. Gawsie.\\nGaud, a goad.\\nGaudsnian, goadsman, driver of the plough-\\nteam a gaudsman ane, a thrasher\\nt other.\\nGau n, Gavin.\\nGaun, going.\\nGauntt d, gaped, yawned I ve grain d and\\ng;iunted.\\nGawky, a foolish woman or lad [the female\\nof gowk, q.v. gawkies, tawpies, gowks,\\nand fools.\\nGawky, cuckooing, foolish the senseless,\\ngawky million. Cf. A Dream, stanza ii.\\nlines 3-4\\nCod save the King s, a cuckoo song,\\nThat s unco easy said ay.\\nGawsie, (i) buxom her strappin limb an\\ngawsie middle (2) buxom and jolly:\\na gawsie, gash guidwife (3) big and\\njoyous his gawsie tail.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0446.jp2"}, "445": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n399\\nGay/ics, gaily but they do gaylies.\\nGear, (i) money, wealth (2) goods; (3)\\nstuff: taste sic gear as Johnie brews.\\nGeek, (i) to sport: may Freedom geek\\n(2) to toss the head: ye geek at me\\nbecause I m poor.\\nGed, a pike: and geds for greed, Johnie\\nGed s Hole the grave.\\nGentles, gentry.\\nGeiify, trim and elegant genty waist, her\\ngenty limbs.\\nGetify, trimly: sae genty sma\\nGeordie, dim. of George, a guinea.\\nGet, issue, offspring, breed nae get o\\nmoorlan tips, a true, guid fallow s get.\\nGhdist, ghost.\\ndie, to give.\\nGied, gave.\\nGien, given.\\nGif, if.\\nGiftie, dim. of gift.\\nGiglets, giggling youngsters or maids: the\\ngiglets keckle. Cf. a giglet wench a\\nlight woman, Shak. i Henry VI., iv. 7. 41.\\nGillie, dim. of gill [glass of vvhisky.j\\nGilpey, young girl I was a gilpey then.\\nGimmer, a young ewe.\\nGin, (i) if, should, whether; (2) by: their\\nhearts o stane, gin nicht, are gane.\\nGirdle, plate of metal for firing cakes, ban-\\nnocks, etc. the vera girdle rang.\\nGirn, (i) to grin, to twist the face [but from\\npain or rage, not joy] it makes good\\nfellows girn an gape (2) gapes: that\\ngirns for the fishes and loaves (3)\\nsnarls girns and looks back.\\nCiVv////, grinning, snarling [see under Girri\\\\\\nwi girnin spite, thy girnin laugh, every\\nsour-mou d girnin blellum.\\nGizz, wig: an reestit gizz. See also\\nJiz.\\nGlaikit, foolish, thoughtless, giddy glaikit\\nFolly s portals, I m red ye re glaikit,\\nye glaikit, gleesome, dainty daniies,\\nglaikit Charlie.\\nGlaizie, glossy, shiny: sleek an glaizie.\\n(7/a\u00c2\u00ab/\u00c2\u00ab (j grasped [Coll. a glaum or glam\\na grab glaum d at kingdoms three,\\nman.\\nGled,A hawk, a kite [Anglo Sax. Gleida\\nthe glider] a bizzard gled, or I had\\nfed an Athole gled,\\nGleede, a glowing coal, a blaze [Anglo-Sax.\\nGled cf. the cruel ire reed [red] as\\nany gleede, Chaucer, Knight s lale,\\nCanterbury Tales, 1997] cheery blinks\\nthe ingle-gleede.\\nGleg, (i) nimble: gleg as oniewumble\\n(2) sharp, quick, keen Death s gleg\\nguUie, as gleg s a whittle (3) keen-\\nwitted he s gleg enough, wee Uavoc s\\ngrown sae gleg, gleg as light are lover s\\neen.\\nGleg, smartly he 11 shape you aff fu\\ngleg.\\nGleib, a portion a gleib o Ian\\nGlib-gabbet, smooth-tongued.\\nGlinted, sparkled: thou glinted forth,\\nglinted by.\\nGlintin wi glorious light was glintin.\\nV. Glinted.\\nGloa?nin, (i) gloaming, twilight, dusk\\n[gleaming of light after the sun has set]\\nan darker gloamin brought tlie night,\\nwhen ance life s day draws near the\\ngloamin, the hour o gloamin grey,\\nbeside me gin the gloamin, now it was\\nthe gloamin (2) gloamin-shot sun-\\nset.\\nGlow r, a stare.\\nGlow r, to stare.\\nGlcnurin, staring.\\nGliinch, a frown, a growl twists his gruntle\\nwi a glunch.\\nGlunch, to frown, to growl.\\nGoavin, (i) looking dazedly: goavin s\\nhe d been led wi branks (2) mooning\\nidly goavin, whyles we saunter.\\nGorcock, the moorcock: the gorcock\\nsprings on whining wings, where\\ngorcocks thro the heather pass.\\nGotten, got.\\nGowan, the wild or mountain daisy.\\nGowaiiy, covered with wild daisies.\\nGoTvd, gold.\\nGowdie, the head heels o er gowdie\\ntopsy-turvy.\\nGowff d, struck as in the game of golf:\\ngowff d Willie like a ba man.\\nGo ivk, the cuckoo, a dolt conceited gow k,\\nAndro Gowk, gowks and fools.\\nGowling, lamenting [as a dog in grief]\\nMisfortunes gowling bark.\\nGraff, (i) a grave: cauld in his graff,", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0447.jp2"}, "446": {"fulltext": "400\\nGLOSSARY.\\nyour green graff (2) a vault: your\\nmarble giaffs.\\nGrain d, groaned.\\nGraip, a dunsj-fork.\\nGraith, (i) implements, gear ploughmen\\ngather wi tlieir graith {2) instruments\\nher spinnin-graith (3) furniture of\\nall kinds: a my graith (4) attire, garb:\\nfarmers gash in ridin graith, in shootin\\ngraith adorned, in heav nly graith.\\nGraithing, gearing, vestments Episcopal\\ngraithing.\\nGrane, a groan.\\nGrane, to groan.\\nGrannie, Grannie, grandmother.\\nGrape, grope.\\nGraped, grapet, groped.\\nGrat, wept.\\nGrannie, v. Grannie.\\nGree, (i) the prize [degree], bear st the\\ngree fak st the prize carry the gree\\nbear the bell; bear the gree have\\nthe first place bure the gree bore off\\nthe prize \\\\i.e. won the victory] wan the\\ngree gained the prize.\\nGree, to agree.\\nGree t, agreed.\\nGreet, to weep.\\nGreefin, weeping.\\nGroanin maid, groaning malt.\\nGrozet, a gooseberry plump an grey as\\nonie grozet.\\nGrumphie, the pig wha was it but grum-\\nphie.\\nGrun the ground.\\nGrimtle, the face, the phiz: twists his\\ngruntle.\\nGruntle, dim. of grunt: a grane an\\ngruntle.\\nGrunzie, the snout: she dights her grunzie\\nwi a hushion.\\nGrushie, growing grushie weans an faith-\\nfu wives.\\nGrutten, wept.\\nCude, God.\\n(Uiid [also Glide good.\\nGuid-een, [also Gudc m~\\\\, good evening.\\nGuid-father, father-in-law.\\nGuid-7nan [also Gudc-mati\\\\, the husband.\\nGuid-wi/e [also Gude-wife], the mistress of\\nthe house, the landlady.\\nGuid-Willie [also Gude-WilUe hearty,\\nfull of good-will a right guid-wiliie\\nwaught.\\nGullie, gully, a large knife: see, there s a\\ngully, Death s gleg gullie, lang-kail\\ngullie.\\nGutnlie, muddy gumlie dubs of your ain\\ndelvin, gumlie jaups up to the pouring\\nskies.\\nGumption, wisdom, skill [sometimes of the\\nnostrum variety] her cracks wi a their\\ngumption.\\nGusty, tasty an gusty sucker.\\nGutcher, goodsire, grandfather Byeattour,\\nmy gutcher has.\\nHa, hall.\\nHa folk, the servants the ha folk fill their\\npechan.\\nHaddin, holding, inheritance Hell for his\\nhaddin.\\nHae, have.\\nHaet, V. Devil-haet, and Fient-haet.\\nHaffet, hauffet, the temple, the side of the\\nhead in some beggar s hauffet, her\\nhaffet locks as brown s a berry.\\n//rt^i-A, side-locks his lyart haffets.\\nHafflins, half, partly; hafflins is afraid to\\nspeak, like hafflins-wise o ercomes him\\nnearly half overcomes him.\\nHag, a moss, a broken bog owre monie a\\nweary hag, sendin the stuff o er muirs\\nan haggs.\\nHaggis, a special Scots pudding, made of\\nsheep s entrails, onions, and oatmeal\\nboiled in a sheep s stomach [the piece de\\nresistayice at Burns Club dinners, and an\\nesteemed antidote to whisky],\\nHain, to spare, to save.\\nHairst, har st, harvest.\\nHaith, faith [an oath].\\nHaivers, v. Havers.\\nHal hald, holding, possession house an\\nhar[d] house and possession.\\nHale, hail, the whole.\\nHale, hail, whole, healthy.\\nHaicsome, wholesome.\\nHalf, half.\\nHallan, a partition wall, a porch yont the\\nhallan, ne er at your hallan ca glowrin\\nby the hallan en jouk behint the hallan,\\nto his ain hallan door.\\nHalloween, All Saints Eve (31st October).", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0448.jp2"}, "447": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n40t\\nHallowmas, All Saints Day (ist November).\\nHaly, holy.\\nHame, home.\\nHan haiDi, hand.\\nHan-darg [or daurk See Darg.\\nHand- jjald, hand-picked \\\\i.e. choicest]\\nmy hand-wal d curse.\\nHangle, hangman [nickname of the Devil]\\nhear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee.\\nHansel, the first gift blew hansel in on\\nRobin.\\nHap, a wrap, a covering against cold mair\\nvauntie o my hap, the stacks get on their\\nwinter hap.\\nHap, to shelter: hap him in a cozie biel,\\nand haps me fiel.\\nHap, to hop while tears hap o er her auld\\nbrown nose.\\nHapper, hopper [of a mill].\\nHapping, hopping [as a bird].\\nHap-stfp-an -lomp, hop-step-and-jump [an\\nimportant item in Scots athletic gatherings\\nbut here used, of course, metaphorically].\\nHarkit, hearkened to guid advice but\\nharkit.\\nHam, coarse cloth [cloth spun of hards,\\ni.e. coarse flax] her cutty sark, o Pais-\\nley harn.\\nHarst, V. Hairst.\\nHash, (i) an oaf; doylt, drucken hash*;\\n(2) a dunderhead: conceited hashes.\\nHaslock woo, the wool on the neck \\\\_i.e.\\nthroat] of a sheep.\\nHand, to hold, to keep.\\nHauf, half.\\nHaughs, low-lying rich lands, valleys (R.\\nB.) let husky wheat the haughs adorn,\\nhaughs ah woods, holms and haughs.\\nHaun, V. Han\\nHaurl, to trail and haurls at his curpin.\\ntill skin in blypes cam haurlin, haurl\\ntliee hame to his black smiddie.\\nHaiisc, cuddle hause in ither s arms.\\nHaverel, hav rcl, one who talks nonsense, a\\nhalf-witted person: poor liav rel Will,\\nhav rel Jean.\\nHavers, nonsense.\\nHavins, manners, conduct pit some havins\\nin his breast, havins, sense, an grace,\\nto havins and sense.\\nHawkie, a white-faced cow, a cow.\\nHeal, v. Hale.\\nHcalsome, v. Halesome.\\nHecht, (i) to promise: they hecht him\\nsome fine braw ane, hecht them courtly\\ngifts, hecht an honest heart (2) to\\nmenace some mortal heart is hechtin.\\nHeckle, a fiax-comb.\\nHeels-o er-gowdie. See Gowdie.\\nHeeze, to hoist higher may they heeze ye,\\nheeze thee up a constellation.\\nHeidi, heigh, high.\\nHelicon, a mountam in Greece.\\nHem-shin d, crooked shin d.\\nHere azua, here about.\\nHerry, to harry.\\nHerryment, spoliation the herryment and\\nruin of the country.\\nHersel, herself.\\nHet, hot.\\nHeugh, (i) a hollow or pit: yon lowin\\nheugh (2) a crag, a steep bank the\\nwater rins owre the heugh.\\nHeuk, a hook, a reaping hook.\\nHilch, to hobble, to halt hilchin Jean\\nM Craw, hilch, an stilt, an jimp.\\nHillock, dim. of hill, a mound.\\nHiltie-skiltie, helter-skelter.\\nHimsel, himself.\\nHiney, hintiy, honey.\\nHing, to hang.\\nHirple, to move unevenly, to hop, to limp\\nthe hares were hirplin down the furs,\\nhirplin owre the field, he hirpl d up,\\nan lap like daft, November hirples o er\\nthe lea, he hirples twa-fauld as he dow,\\nhe hoasts and he hirples.\\nHissels, so many cattle as one person can\\nattend (R. B.) the herds an hissels\\nwere alarm d.\\nHistie, bare histie stibble-field.\\nHizzie, a hussy, a wench.\\nHoast, a cough an barkin hoast, hoast-\\nprovoking smeek.\\nHoast, to cough hoast up some palaver,\\nhe hoasts and he hirples.\\nHoddin, the motion of a sage countryman\\nriding on a cart horse (R. B.) gaed\\nhoddin by their cotters.\\nHoddin-grey, clownish-grey, coarse grev\\nwoollen [and retaining the natural color\\nof the wool] wear hoddin grey, an a\\nthat.\\nHaggle, dim. oi hog, a lamb My Hoggie.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0449.jp2"}, "448": {"fulltext": "402\\nGLOSSARY.\\nHog-score, a term in curling: Death s hog-\\nscorc\\nHog-shoiither, a kind of horse-play by jus-\\ntling with the shoulder, to justie (R. B.)-\\nHoodie-craw, the hooded crow, the carrion-\\ncrow.\\nHoodock, grasping, vulturish the harpy,\\nhoodock, purse-proud race.\\nHooked, caught monie a pursie she had\\nhooked.\\nHool, the outer case, the sheath: poor\\nLeezic s heart maist lap the hool.\\nHoo/ie, softly: something cries Hoolie.\\nHoard, hoard.\\nHoordet, hoarded.\\nHorn, (i) a horn spoon horn for horn\\nthey stretch an strive (2) a toothed\\ncomb of horn whare horn nor bane\\nne er daur unsettle.\\nHoniie, the Devil.\\nHost, V. Hoast.\\nHotclid, jerked [the action of a bagpiper s\\narm] hotch d and blewwi might and\\nmain.\\nHouglunagandie, fornication (R. B.).\\nHoulet, V. Howlet.\\nHoiipe, hope.\\nHowdie, howdy, a midwife: nae howdie\\ngets a social night, afore the howdy.\\nHowe, a hollow, a dell.\\nHowe, hollow.\\nHowk, (i) to dig mice and moudieworts\\nthey howkit, howkin in a sheugh\\n(2) howkit dead disburied dead.\\nHowlet, the owl.\\nHoyse, a hoist they II gie her on the rape\\na hoyse.\\nHoy t, urged (R. B.) they hoy t out Will,\\nwi sair advice.\\nHoyte, to amble crazily (R. B.) r Now ye\\ndow but hoyte and hobble.\\nHug/toe, dim. oi Hugh.\\nH/////0/IS, slovens: tirl the bullions to the\\nbirses.\\nHitiider, a hundred.\\nHunkers, hams upon his hunkers bended.\\nHurcheon, the hedgehog: o er hurcheon\\nhides.\\nH urchin, urchin.\\nHurdles, the loins, the crupper (R. B.) \\\\i.e.\\nthe buttocks] hung owre his hurdles wi\\na swirl, row t his hurdies in a hammock,\\nmeekly gic your hurdies to the smiters,\\nyour hurdies like a distant hill, I wad\\nhae gi en them off my hurdies, their\\nample hurdies.\\nHurl, to trundle or hurl in a cartie.\\nHushion, a footless stocking: she dights\\nher grunzie wi a hushion.\\nHyte, furious.\\nin.\\nJckcr, an ear of corn a daimen icker in a\\nthrave.\\nler-oe, a great-grandchild: wee curlie\\nJohn s ier-oe.\\nIlk, ilka, each, every.\\no t, bad at it wretched ill o t.\\nIll-taen, ill-taken.\\nIll-Thief, the Devil: the Ill-Thief blaw the\\nHeron south.\\nIll-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly\\n(R. B.) your native soil was right ill-\\nwillie.\\nIndentin, indenturing his saul indentin.\\nIngine, (i) genius, ingenuity (R. fi.) he\\nhad ingine (2) wit wi right ingine.\\nIngle, the fire, the fireside [very frequent].\\nIngle-cheek, fireside [properly i\\\\wjamb of the\\nfireplace] lanely by the ingle-cheek.\\nIngle-gleede, v. Glecde.\\nIngle-lowe, ingle low, the flame or light of\\nthe fire by my ingle-lowe I saw, beyont\\nthe ingle low at the back of the fire-\\nplace.\\nI se, I shall, or will.\\nIthcr, other, another.\\nItsel itself.\\nyad, a jade.\\nJamvar, January.\\nJauk, (i) to trifle, to dally: she made nae\\njaukin, to jnuk and play.\\nJauner, gabber baud your tongue and\\njauncr.\\nJauntie, dim. of jaunt: your wee bit\\njauntie.\\nJaup, to splash that jaups in luggies.\\nyaups, splashes: gumlie jaups up to the\\npouring skies.\\nyaiv, talk, impudence: deil-ma-care about\\ntheir jaw.\\njfaiv, to throw, to dash and in the sea did\\njaw, man.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0450.jp2"}, "449": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n403\\nJeeg, to jog and jeeg the cradle wi my\\ntae.\\nJillet, a jilt a jillet brak his heart at\\nlast.\\nJimp, small, slender thy waist sae jimp.\\nyiiiiply, neatly: sae jimply lac d.\\nJimps, stays but Jenny s jimps.\\nJink, the slip our billie s gien us a a jink.\\nJink, (i) to frisk: thro wimplin worms\\nthou jink (2) to sport: and jinkin\\nhares, in amorous whids (3) jink an\\ndiddle dance and shake (4) to dodge\\nhe 11 turn a corner jinkin, Rab slips\\nout, an jinks about, jink there or here\\n(5) the swallow jinkin the swallow\\ndarting; (6) move out and in: and\\ndrawers jink.\\nJinker, (i) a jinker noble a noble goer\\n(2) dodger, gamester \\\\j.e. coquette].\\nJirkinet, bodice: Jenny s iimps and jirki-\\nnet.\\nJirt, a jerk monie a jirt and fieg.\\nJiz, a wig.\\nJo, a sweetheart: John Anderson, My Jo.\\nJocteleg, a clasp-knife.\\nJouk, to duck, to cower, to dodge: jouk\\nbeneath Misfortune s blows, to Nobles\\njouk, jouk behint the hallan.\\nJo7V, to jow, a verb which includes both the\\nswinging motion and pealing sound of a\\nlarge bell (R. B.) to jow an croon.\\nJumpet,jiimpit, jumped.\\nJundie, to justle (R. B.).\\nJui-r, a servant wench Geordie s jurr.\\nKac, a jackdaw thievish kaes.\\nKail, kale, (i) the colewort [also cabbage,\\nbut see Doiv-kail^ (2) Scots broth.\\nKail-blade, the leaf of the colewort.\\nKail-gullie, a cabbage-knife. V. Gullie.\\nKail-t unf, the stem of the colewort.\\nKail-whittle, a cabbage-knife.\\nKail-yard, a kitchen garden.\\nKain, kane, rents in kind his kain, an a\\nhis stents, to Death she s dearly pay d\\nthe kain.\\nKaine, a comb clawed her wi the ripplin-\\nkame.\\nKebars, rafters he ended and the kebars\\nsheuk.\\nKebbuck, a cheese: syne draws lier keb-\\nbuck an her knife, her weel-hain d\\nkebbuck, fell, a kebbuck-heel the\\nlast crust of a cheese.\\nKeckle, to cackle, to giggle loudly [as a girl]\\nthe giglets keckle.\\nKeek, (i) a look, a glance he by his\\nshouther gae a keek (2) a stolen\\nglance at ev ry kindling keek.\\nKeek, (i) to look, to peep, to glance now\\nthe sinn keeks in the wast, I cannily\\nkeekit ben, the gossip keekit in his\\nloof (2) to pry but keek thro ev ry\\nother man.\\nKeekin-glass, the looking-glass.\\nKeel, V. Cauk.\\nKeepit, kept.\\nKelpies, river-demons [usually shaped as\\nhorses] water-kelpies haunt the foord,\\nfays, spunkies, kelpies.\\nKen, to know.\\nKcnd, kent, known.\\nKenna, know not.\\nKeunin, a very little [merely as much as can\\nbe perceived] a kennin wrang.\\nKe7tt, V. Kend.\\nKep, to catch [a thing thrown or falling]\\nshall kep a tear.\\nKef, the fleece on a sheep s body tawted\\nket, an hairy hips.\\nKey, quay.\\nKey-stane, key-stone.\\nA7(Z7/^/i, cark his weary kiaugh and care\\nbeguile.\\nKilt, to tuck up her tartan petticoat she 11\\nkilt, she kiltit up her kirtle wee).\\nKinimer, (i) a wench, a gossip despite\\nthe kittle kimmer [Dame Fortune] ye\\nweel ken, kimmers a loosome kim-\\nmers lovable girls, guid e en to you,\\nkimmer (2) a wife or bed-fellow the\\nkimmers o Largo, I cuddle my kim-\\nmer.\\nKin kind.\\nKing s-hood, the second stomach in a rumi-\\nnant [equivocal for the scrotum] Deil\\nmak his king s-hood in a spleuchan.\\nKintra, country.\\nKirk, church.\\nKirn, a churn plunge an plunge the kirn\\nin vain.\\nKirn, harvest-home the jovial, ranting\\nkirns, an ay a rantin kirn we gat, at\\nkirns an weddins we se be there.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0451.jp2"}, "450": {"fulltext": "404\\nGLOSSARY.\\nKirsen, to christen and kirsen him wi\\nreekin water.\\nKist, (i) a chest (2) a counter [humorous]\\nbehint a kist to he an sklent.\\nKitchen, lo rehsh [to add reUsh to] thou\\nkitchens fine.\\nKittle, (i) difficult kittle to be misleared\\n(2) ticklish: are a shot right kittle\\n(3) delicate to paint an angel s kittle\\nwark (4) fickle despite the kittle\\nkimmer.\\nKittle, to tickle: to kittle up our notion,\\nkittle up your moorland harp, I kitile\\nup my rustic reed, while I kittle hair on\\nthairms.\\nKittlin, a kitten as cantie as a kittlin.\\nKiutUn, cuddling kiutlin in the fause-\\nhouse.\\nKnaggie, knobby tho thou s howe-backit\\nnow, an knaggie.\\nKnappin-hammers, hammers for breaking\\nstones [from knap, to strike].\\nKnowe, a knoll, a hillock.\\nKye, cows, kine.\\nKyles, V. Nine-pin kyles.\\nKytes, bellies weel-swalled kytes.\\nKythe, to show fu sweetly kythe hearts\\nleal.\\nLaddie, dim. oi lad.\\nLade, a load.\\nLag, backward thou s neither lag nor\\nlame.\\nLaggen, the bottom of a wooden dish the\\nlaggen they hae clautet.\\nLaigh, low.\\nLair, lore, learning.\\nLaird, landowner [the lord of houses or\\nlands].\\nLairing, sticking or sinking in moss or\\nmud deep-lairing, sprattle.\\nLaith, loath.\\nLaithfii loathful, sheepish but blate and\\nlaithfu scarce can weel behave.\\nLallan, Lalland, lowland wad ding a Lal-\\nlan tongue, or Erse, the lalland laws he\\nheld in scorn, a lalland face he feared\\nnone.\\nLallans, Scots Lowland vernacular in\\nplain, braid Lallans.\\nLamniie, dim. oi lamb.\\nLan land.\\nLan -afore, tbe foremost horse on the un-\\nploughed land side.\\nLan-ahin, the hindmost horse on the un-\\nploughed land side.\\nLane, lone.\\nLa7ig, long.\\nLang sync, long since.\\nLap, leapt.\\nLassie, dim. of lass.\\nLave, the rest, the remainder, the others.\\nLaverock, Lav rock, the lark.\\nLawin, the reckoning, landlady, count the\\nlawin, guidwife, count the lawin.\\nLea, grass, untilled land [also used in an\\nequivocal sense].\\nLear, lore, learning.\\nLeddy, lady.\\nLee-lang, live-long.\\nLeesome, lawful [allowable] the tender\\nheart o leesome loove.\\nLeeze me on [from Leis me dear is to me],\\nblessings on, commend me to leeze me\\non thee, John Barleycorn, leeze me on\\ndrink, leeze me on rhyme, leeze me on\\nthe calling, etc. O leeze me on my spin-\\nnin-wheel, leezemeon thy bonie craigie.\\nLeister, a fish-spear a three-tae d leister\\non the ither.\\nLeti\\\\ to lend.\\nLeugli, laugh d how graceless Ham leugh\\nat his dad.\\nLeuk, look.\\nLey-crap, lea-crop [used equivocally] waly\\nfa the ley-crap.\\nLibbet, castrate how libbet Italy was sing-\\ning.\\nLicket, lickit, licked, beaten, whipt ye sud\\nbe lickit, how I ve been licket.\\nLicks, a beating, punishment monie a\\nfallow gat his licks.\\nLien, lain.\\nLicve, lief.\\nLift, the sky.\\nLift, a load gie me o wit an sense a lift.\\nLightly, (1) to disparage vvhyles ye may\\nlightly my beauty a wee (2) to scorn\\nfor lack o gear ye lightly me.\\nLilt, to sing lilt wi holy clangor.\\nLimmer, (i) a jade: still persecuted by\\nthe limmer, ye little skelpie-limmer s-\\nface (2) a mistress or speakin lightly\\no their limmer.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0452.jp2"}, "451": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n405\\nLimpet, limpit, limped.\\nLin, V, Linn.\\nLink, (i) to trip or dance with the utmost\\npossible activity; and linket at it in her\\nsark (2) to hurry will send him linkin.\\nLinn, a waterfall.\\nLint, flax sin lint was i the bell, I\\nbought my wife a stane o lint.\\nLint-iohite, flax-colored [a pale yellow]\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks.\\nLintivkife, the linnet the lintwhites chant\\namang the buds, the mavis and the\\nlintwhite sing, the blackbird strong, the\\nlintwhite clear, the lintwhites in the hazel\\nbraes, the little lintwhite s nest.\\nLippen d, trusted I lippen d to the chiel.\\nLippie, dim. of lip.\\nLoan, a lane, a field-path, the private road\\nto a farm or house the kye stood rowtin\\ni the loan, and up the loan she shaw d\\nme.\\nLoanin, the private road to a farm, a road\\nwi double plenty o er the loanin.\\nLo ed, loved.\\nLon on, London.\\nLoof [pi. looves], the palm of the hand:\\nan s loof upon her bosom, an heav d\\non high my waukit loof, hear st thou,\\nladdie there s my loof, an wi her loof\\nher face a-washin, O lay thy loof in mine,\\nlass, the gossip keekit in his loof, wi\\nwell-spread looves, an lang wry faces.\\nLoon, loiin, lown, a fellow, a varlet [very fre-\\nquent].\\nLoaome, lovable: loosome kimmers.\\nLoot, let: loot a winze, I never loot on\\nthat I kenn d it.\\nLoove, love.\\nLooves, V. Loof.\\nLosh, a minced oath [a mild form of Lord]\\nI^osh, man, hae mercy wi your natch.\\nLough, a pond, a lake: ayont the lough,\\nwhen to the loughs the curlers flock.\\nLoup, loiip, to leap.\\nLo-iv, hnue, a flame: the sacred lowe o\\nweel-plac d love. See also Ingle-lowe.\\nLojvin, lowing, (i) flaming: lowin bnm-\\nstane, tho yon lowin hough s thy\\nhame (2) burning: to quench their\\nlowin drouth.\\nLown, v. Loon.\\nLowp, V. Loup.\\nLowse, louse, (i) to untie lowse his pack\\n(2) let loose lows d his ill-tongued\\nwicked scaul, lows d his tinkler jaw,\\nlouse Hell upon me.\\nLucky, (i) a grandmother, an old woman\\nhonest Lucky (2) an ale-wife: Lady\\nOnlie, Honest Lucky.\\nL.ug, the ear.\\nLugget, having ears lugget caup twy-\\neared cup.\\nLuggie, a porringer the luggies three are\\nranged, that jaups in luggies.\\nLuni, the chimney.\\nLume, a loom wark-lume a tool.\\nLunardi, a balloon- bonnet [named after\\nLunardi, a famous balloonist] Miss s\\nfine Lunardi.\\nLunches, full portions dealt about in\\nlunches.\\nLunt, a column of smoke or steam she\\nfuff t her pipe wi sic a lunt, butter d\\nsow ns, wi fragrant lunt.\\nLuntin, smoking the luntin pipe.\\nLuve, love.\\nLyart, (i) grey in general but ane wi\\nlyart lining (2) discolored by decay or\\nold age lyart haffets wearing thin and\\nbare, lyart pow, lyart gray, lyart\\nleaves.\\nLyiii7i, lining.\\nMae, more.\\nMailen, mailin, a farm than stocket\\nmailins, there s Meg wi a mailen, a\\nmailen plenish d fairly, a weel-stocket\\nmailen.\\nA/ailie, Molly.\\nMair, more.\\nMaist, most.\\nAfaist, almost.\\nMak, make.\\nMak o make 0 to pet, to fondle: I will\\nmak o my guidman, makin of s the\\nbest thing.\\nMall, A f ally, Moll, Molly [Mary].\\nManfeele, a mantle.\\nMark, or me?-k, an old Scots coin [iSsd-\\nsterling].\\nMashlum, of mixed meal mashlum bon-\\nnocks.\\nMaskin-pat, the teapot.\\nMaukin, a hare hunger d maukin taen", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0453.jp2"}, "452": {"fulltext": "4o6\\nGLOSSARY.\\nher way, ye maukins, cock your fud fu\\nbraw, ye maukins, whidilin through the\\nglade, the coward maukin sleep secure,\\nskip t like a maukin owre a dyke, r.re\\nhunted like a maukin.\\nMaun, must.\\nAfauiiiia, mustn t.\\nA/aiit, malt.\\nMavis, the thrush.\\nMawin, mowing.\\nMawn, mown.\\nMaion, a large basket and cover him\\nunder a mawn, O. Cf. A thousand\\nfavours from a maund she drew, Shake-\\nspeare, Lover s Complainf, 1. 36.\\nMear, a mare.\\nMeikle, mickle, imickle, much, great.\\nAtelder, the quantity of corn sent to be\\nground ilka melder wi the miller.\\nMell, to meddle wi bitter deathfu wines\\nto mell, to moop an mell.\\nMelvie, to meal-dust melvie his braw\\nclaithing.\\nMen to mend.\\nMense, tact, discretion could behave her-\\nsel wi mense, ye but show your little\\nmense.\\nMetiseless, unmannerly: like other mense-\\nless, graceless brutes.\\nMerle, the blackbird the merle, in his\\nnoontide bower.\\nMerran, Marian.\\nMess jfchn. Mass John [the parish priest,\\nthe minister in Chaucer and Shakespeare\\nSir John is the name for the priest].\\nMessin, a cur, a mongrel a tinkler-gipsy s\\nmessin.\\nMidden, a dunghill: better stuff ne er\\nclaw d a midden.\\nMidden-creels, manure-baskets: her walie\\nnieves like midden-creels.\\nMidden dub, midden puddle.\\nMiddcn-hole, a gutter at the bottom of the\\ndunghill (R. B.) an ran thro midden-\\nhole an a\\nMilking shiel, a milking shed.\\nAlim, prim, affectedly meek (R. B.) an\\nmeek an mim has view d it.\\nMim-moii d, prim-lipped: some mim-\\nmou d, pouther d priestie, mim-mou d\\nMeg o Nith.\\nMin tnind, remembrance.\\nMind, to remember, to bear in mind.\\nMinnie, mother.\\nMirk, dark, gloomily dark.\\nMisca to miscall, to abuse: an Russell\\nsair misca d her, they sair misca thee,\\nmisca d waur than a beast.\\nMishanter, mishap: mishanter fa me,\\ntill some mishanter.\\nMislear d, mischievous, unmannerly(R. B.).\\nMiss t, mist, missed.\\nMislak, mistake.\\nMisteuk, mistook.\\nMitlier, mother.\\nMonie, many.\\nMools, crumbling earth, dust: worthy\\nfrien s laid i the mools, he wha could\\nbrush them down to mools.\\nMoop, (i) to nibble: to moop an iiiell\\n(2) to keep close company, to med-\\ndle gars me moop wi the servant\\nhizzie.\\nMottic, dusty: mottie, misty clime.\\nMou the mouth.\\nMoudieworts [Old Engl, mold-warp, -i.e. the\\nwarper of the mold or earth], moles:\\nwliyles mice an moudieworts they\\nhowkit.\\nMucklc, v. Meikle.\\nMuslin-kail, beefless broth: water brose\\nor muslin-kail.\\nMutchkin, an English pint her mutchkin\\nstowp as tooni s a whistle, come, bring\\nthe tither mutchkin in, ae hauf-mutch-\\nkin does me prime.\\nMy set, myself.\\nNa, nae, no, not.\\nNaething, naithing, nothing.\\nNaig, a nag.\\nNaigie, dim. oi ?taig.\\nNane, none.\\nNappy, ale, liquor: twalpennie worth o\\nnappy, the nappy reeks wi mantling\\nream, while we sit bousing at the\\nnappy, drown d himsel amang the\\nnappy, there s naething like the honest\\nnappy.\\nNatch, a notching implement: hae mercy\\nwi your natch.\\nNecbor, neibor, neighbour.\\nNeedna, needn t.\\nNegleckit, neglected.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0454.jp2"}, "453": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n407\\nNeive, v. Nieve.\\nNeuk, newk, a nook, a corner.\\njWw-faV, newly-driven [not newly calved]\\nwhile new-ca d kye rowle at the stake\\n[Burns s kye did not make it a habit to\\ncalve, all, or the most of them, at a par-\\nticular hour of the same evening, and\\nthat the 21st of April].\\nNick [Atild], Nickie-ben, a name of the\\nDevil.\\nNick, (i) to sever to nick the thread,\\nnickin down fu cannie, the staff o\\nbread (2) to slit: that nicket Abel s\\ncraig (3) to nail, to seize away: by\\nfell Death was nearly nicket.\\nNickie-ben, v. Nick.\\nNick-nackets, curiosities.\\nNicks, (i) cuts: clours an nicks (2) the\\nrings on a cow s horns auld Crumiiiie s\\nnicks.\\nNiest, next.\\nNieve, the fist.\\nNieve-fu fistful: their worthless nieve-fu\\nof a soul.\\nNiffer, exchange and shudder at the nif-\\nfer.\\nNit, a nut.\\nNo, not.\\nNocht, nothing.\\nNorland, Northern [Northland].\\nNowt, nowte [Engl. Neat\\\\, cattle.\\n0\\\\ of.\\nO erword, (i) the refrain: the o erword o\\nthe spring (2) catchword prudence\\nis her o erword ay.\\nOnie, any.\\nOr, ere, before.\\nOrra, extra their orra duddies.\\nO t, of it.\\nOught, aught.\\nOughtlins, aughtlins, aught in the least, at\\nall oughtlins douser. V. Aughtlins.\\nCurie, shivering, drooping (R. B.) the\\nourie cattle.\\nOursel, oursels, ourselves.\\nOutler, unhoused, in the open fields: an\\noutler quey.\\nOwre, over, too.\\nOivsen, oxen.\\nOxter d, held up under the arms the\\npriest he was oxter d.\\nPack an thick, confidential unco pack an\\nthick thegither.\\nPaidle, (i) to paddle, to wade: thro dirt\\nand dub for life I 11 paidle, we twa hae\\npaidl d in the burn (2) to walk with a\\nweak action he was but a paidlin\\nbody, O.\\nPainch, the paunch.\\nPaitrick, (i) a partridge; (2) used equivo-\\ncally [the bird was once esteemed sala-\\ncious] I brocht a paitrick to the grun.\\nPang, to cram it pangs us fu o knowl-\\nedge.\\nParishen, the parish \\\\i.e. the persons of the\\nparish] the pride of a the parishen.\\nParr itch, porridge.\\nParr itch-pats, porridge-pots.\\nPat, pot.\\nPat, put.\\nPattle, petite, a plough-staff: my new\\npleugh-pettle, wi murdering pattle, as\\never drew before a pettle.\\nPauglity, haughty yon paughty dog, the\\npaughty feudal throne.\\nPaiikie, paiiky, pawkie, artful the slee st,\\npavvkie thief, her paukie een, a thief\\nsae pawkie is my Jean.\\nPechan, the stomach the ha folk fill their\\npechan.\\nPechin, panting, blowing up Parnassus\\npechin.\\nPenny-ioheep, small beer: be t whisky-gill\\nor penny-wheep.\\nPdtle, V. Pattle.\\nPhilibeg, the Highlander s kilt Adam s\\nphilibeg, with his philibeg an tartan\\nplaid, the philibegs and skyrin tartan\\ntrews.\\nPhraisin, flattering, wheedling phraisin\\nterms.\\nPhrase, to flatter, to wheedle to phrase\\nyou an praise you.\\nPickle, (i) a few, a little: a pickle nits\\n(2) a pickle siller.\\nPint [Scots], two English quarts.\\nPit, put.\\nPlack, four pennies Scots [but only the\\nthird of an English penny].\\nPlacklcss, penniless poor, plackless devils\\nlike mysel.\\nPlaiden, coarse woollen cloth: to warp a\\nplaiden wab, a wab o plaiden.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0455.jp2"}, "454": {"fulltext": "4o8\\nGLOSSARY.\\nPlaister, plaster.\\nPlentsh d, stocked: a niailen plenished\\nfairly.\\nPleusrli-pettle, v. Rattle.\\nPUugli,plc7v, a plough.\\nPliskie, a trick play d her that pliskie.\\nPllver, a plover.\\nPock, a poke, a small bag, a wallet: the\\nauld guidman rauglit down the pock,\\nthey toom d their pocks.\\nPoind, to seize [originally in war, or as\\nprey], to distrain, to impound: poind\\ntheir gear.\\nPoind, distrained poind and herriet.\\nPoortith, poverty.\\nPoll, to pull.\\nPouch, pocket.\\nPoiik, to poke and pouk my hips.\\nPoupit, pulpit.\\nPause, a push a random pouse.\\nPoHSsie, a hare [also a cat] poussie whid-\\ndin seen. V. Pussie.\\nPouther, powther, powder.\\no/zA, chicks an the wee pouts begin to cry.\\nPov}, the poll, the head.\\nPownie, a pony.\\nPoiv t, pulled an povv t, for want o better\\nshift.\\nPree d, pried [proved], tasted: for ay he\\npree d the lassie s mou Rob, stownlins,\\npried her bonie mou\\nPreen, a pin my memory s no worth a\\npreen.\\nPrent, print.\\nPrief, proof: for ne er a bosom yet vas\\nprief, stuff o prief.\\nPriggin, haggling priggin owre hops an\\nraisins.\\nPrimsie, dim. of prim, precise primsie\\nMallie.\\nProveses, provosts [chief magistrate of a\\nScots burgh] ye worthy proveses.\\nPu to pull.\\nPuddock-stools, toad-stools, mushrooms\\nlike simmer puddock-stools.\\nPuir, poor.\\nPun pund, pound.\\nPursie, dim. ol purse.\\nPussie, a hare as open pussie s mortal\\nfoes. V. Poussie.\\nPyet, a magpie cast my een up like a\\npyet.\\nPy ke, to pick sae merrily the banes we 11\\npyke.\\nPyles, grains: may hae some pyles o caff\\nQuat, quit, quitted.\\n(Jueaii, a young woman, a lass npw Tarn,\\nO Tam had thae been queans. tlie\\nsonsie quean, wlia follows onie saucie\\nquean.\\nQuey, a young cow [that has not calved].\\nQuire, choir.\\nQuo quod, quoth.\\nRab, Rob [dim. of Robert\\\\\\nRade, rode.\\nKaep, a rope.\\nRagweed, ragwort, benweed \\\\Senecio Jaco-\\nbea, Linn.] on ragweed nags.\\nRaiblcs, recites by rote an Orthodoxy\\nraibles.\\nRair, to roar.\\nRairin, roaring.\\nRair t, roared.\\nRaise, rase, rose.\\nRaize, to excite: that daur t to raize\\nthee.\\nRamfeczl d, exhausted the tapetless, ram-\\nfeezl d hizzie.\\nRamgunshoch, surly: our ramgunshoch,\\nglum guidman.\\nRam-slam, headlong: harum-scarum, ram-\\nstam boys.\\nRaiidie, lawless, obstreperous a merrie\\ncore o randie, gangrel bodies.\\nRandie, randy, (i) a scoundrel: bann d\\nthe cruel randy (2) a rascal reif\\nrandies, I disown thee.\\nRant, (i) to rollick; (2) to roister [frequent\\nexamples of both meanings].\\nRants, (i) merry meetings, sprees: our\\nfairs and rants, druckcn [drunken]\\nrants (2) rows an bloody rants.\\nRape, v. Raep.\\nRaploch, homespun tho rough an rap-\\nloch be her measure.\\nRash, a rush as feckless as a wither d\\nrash, green grow the rashes.\\nRash-buss, a clump of rushes: ye, like a\\nrash-buss, stood in sight.\\nRashy, rushy aboon the plain sae\\nrashy, O.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0456.jp2"}, "455": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n409\\nRattan, ration, a rat an heard the restless\\nrattons squeak, a ratton rattl d up the\\nwa while frighted rattons backward\\nleuk, like baudrons by a ratton. V. Rot-\\ntan.\\nRattun-key, tlie Rat-Quay.\\nRaucle,{i) strong, bitter a raucle tongue\\n(2) sturdy: a raucle carlin.\\nRatight, reached the auld guidman raught\\ndown the pock.\\nRau\\\\ a row.\\nRax, to stretch, to extend and may ye rax\\nCorruption s neck, rax your leather\\nfill your stomach ye wha leather rax,\\nraxin conscience elastic conscience;\\nhow cesses, stents, and fees were rax d.\\nReam, cream, foam: the nappie reeks vvi\\nmantling ream.\\nReam, to cream, to foam ream owre the\\nbrink, thou reams the horn in, wi\\nreaming swats, that drank divinely, the\\nswats sae ream d in Tammie s noddle,\\nbut there it streams, an richly reams.\\nReave, to rob reave an steal.\\nRebiite, rebuff: ne er break your heart for\\nae rebute.\\nRed, advised, afraid I m red ye re\\nglaikit.\\nRed, 7-ede, to advise, to counsel.\\nRede, counsel and may ye better reck the\\nrede. Cf. Recks not his own rede,\\nShakespeare, Hamlet, i. 3. 51.\\nRed-ivat-shod, red-wet-shod still pressing\\nonward, red-wat-shod.\\nRed-ii)t(d, stark mad an now she s like to\\nrin red-wud.\\nReek, smoke.\\nReek, to smoke.\\nReekie, reeky, smoky.\\nReestit, scorched wi reekit duds an\\nreestit gizz.\\nReestit, refused f o go in cart or car thou\\nnever reestit.\\nReif, thieving reif randies. V. Rief,\\nRemead, remedy.\\nRicklcs, ricklets [small stacks of corn in the\\nfields] nor kick your rickles aff their\\nlegs.\\nRief, plunder that e er attempted stealth\\nor rief. V. Reif.\\nRig, a ridge [of land],\\nRiggin, (i) the roof-tree: rattons squeak\\nabout the riggin (2) the roof or kirk\\ndeserted by its riggin.\\nRigtvoodie, ancient, lean rig-woodie hags\\nwad spean a foal.\\nRin, to run.\\nRipp, a handful of corn from the sheaf:\\nteats o hay an ripps o corn, there s a\\nripp to thy auld baggie.\\nRipplin-kame, the wool- or flax-comb: he\\nclaw d her vvi the ripplin-kame.\\nRiskit, cracked wad rair t an riskit.\\nRive, (i) to split: he rives his father s\\nauld entails, they 11 rive it wi the plew\\n(2) to tear: are riven out baith root an\\nbranch, rives t aff their back, riven the\\nwords to gar them clink (3) to lug:\\ntill him rives Horatian fame (4) to\\nburst: maist like to rive.\\nRock, a distaff.\\nKockin, a social meeting.\\nRoon, round, shred: wore by degrees, till\\nher last roon.\\nRoose, to praise, to flatter.\\nRoose, reputation ye hae made but toom\\nroose.\\nRoost} rusty.\\nRottan, a rat the tail o a rottan. V,\\nRattan.\\nRoun round.\\nRoitpet, exhausted in voice: my roupet\\nmuse is haerse, till ye are haerse an\\nroupet.\\nRouth, v. Rowth.\\nRouthie, well-stocked a routhie butt, a\\nrouthie ben.\\nRow, rowe, (i) to roll if bowls row right\\n(2) to flow, as a river [very frequent]\\n(3) to wrap [also very frequent].\\nRowte, to low, to bellow while new-ca d\\nkye rowte at the stake, rowte out-owre\\nthe dale, to hear you roar and rowte,\\nthe kye stood rovvtin.\\nRowth, plenty, a store: ay, a rowth,\\nrowth o rhyme[s], routh o gear.\\nRozet, rosin mercurial rozet.\\nRun-deils, downright devils.\\nRung, a cudgel she s just a devil wi a\\nrung, a meikle hazel-rung, round about\\nthe fire wi a rung she ran, wi a rung\\ndecide it.\\nRunkl d, wrinkled yon runkl d pair.\\nRunt, a cabbage- or colewort-stalk a", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0457.jp2"}, "456": {"fulltext": "410\\nGLOSSARY.\\nrunt, was like a sow-tail,\\nrunt, runts o grace.\\nRyke, to reach.\\nhis bow-kail\\nSab, to sob.\\nSae, so.\\nSiift, soft.\\nSair, sore, hard, severe, strong.\\nSair, to serve what sairs your gram-\\nmars what avails your grammars;\\nsome less maun sair, your clerkship he\\nshould sair, I d better gaen an sair t the\\nking, your billie Satan sair us, he ll\\nsair them as he sair t his King.\\nSair, sairly, sorely, etc.\\nSairie, (i) sorrowful the melancholious,\\nsairie croon (2) sorry some sairie\\ncomfort at the last.\\nSail, shall.\\nSandy, Saimock, dim. of Alexander.\\nSark, a. shirt.\\nSaugh, the willow: o saugh or hazle,\\nsaugh woodies willow twigs.\\nSaul, soul.\\nSaivnont, sawmont, the salmon.\\nSaunt, saint.\\nSaut, salt.\\nSaut-backets, v. Backets.\\nSaw, to sow.\\nSawney, v. Sandy.\\nSax, six.\\nScar, to scare.\\nScathe, scaith, damage v. Skaith.\\nScaud, to scald.\\nScaul, scold: his ill-tongu d wicked scaul.\\nScauld, to scold.\\nScaur, afraid, apt to be scared nor blate\\nnor scaur.\\nScaur, a jutting cliff or bank of earth\\nwhyles round a rocky scaur it strays,\\nbeneath a scaur.\\nScho, she.\\nScone, a soft cake: souple scones, hale\\nbreeks, a scone, and whisky gill, an\\nbarley-scone shall cheer me.\\nScanner, disgust.\\nScanner, sicken [with disgust] until they\\nsconner.\\nScraichin, c Wmg hoarsely: and paitricks\\nscraichin loud at e en.\\nScreed, a rip, a rent a screed some day,\\nor lasses gie my heart a screed.\\nScreed, to repeat rapidly, to rattle he 11\\nscreed you aff Effectual Calling.\\nScriechin, screecliing: and scriechin out\\nprosaic verse. V. Skriech.\\nScriegh, skriegli thou wad prance, an\\nsnore, an skriegh. V. Skriegh.\\nScrievin, careering gae down-hill,\\nscrievin, owre the hill gaed scrievin,\\nthen hiltie-skeltie, we gae scrievin.\\nScroggie, scraggy, scrubby amang the\\nbraes sae scroggie, down yon scroggy\\nglen.\\nSculdudd ry, bawdry: sculdudd ry an he\\nwill be there.\\nSee d, saw [pret. oi sei\\\\.\\nSeisins, freehold possessions in bonds\\nand seisins.\\nSel, seV sell, self.\\nSell d, sell t, sold.\\nSemple, simple semple folk humble\\nfolk.\\nSen send.\\nSet, to set off, to start for Hornbook sets,\\nwhile for the barn she sets.\\nSet, sat.\\nSets, becomes it sets you ill, nane sets\\nthe lawn-sleeve sweeter.\\nShachl d, shapeless: how her new shoon\\nfit her auld, shachl d feet.\\nShaird, shred, shard the hindmost shaird.\\nShangan, a cleft stick he 11 clap a shangan\\non her tail.\\nShanna, shall not.\\nShaul, shallow an Peebles shaul.\\nShaver, a funny fellow he was an unco\\nshaver.\\nShaw, a wood.\\nShaw, to show.\\nShearer, a reaper [with a hook originally,\\nbut now reapers in general].\\nSheep-shank, a sheep s trotter nae sheep-\\nshank bane a person of no small\\nimportance.\\nSheerly, wholly priests wyte them sheerly.\\nSheers, scissors.\\nSherra-viaor, Sheriffmuir.\\nShcitgh, a small cutting to allow water to\\nrun away, a ditch, a furrow as ever lap\\na sheugh or dyke, a cottar howkin in a\\nsheugh, they 11 a be trench d wi monie\\na sheugh, and reekin-red ran monie a\\nsheusrh.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0458.jp2"}, "457": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n411\\nShci/k, shook.\\nSkid, a shed, cottage the swallow jinkin\\nround my shiel. See also Milkiug-\\nshlel.\\nSkill, shrill.\\nShog, a shake an gied the infant warkl a\\nshog. Cf. His gang garis all your chalm-\\neris schog, Dunbar, On James Dog.\\nShoot, a shovel.\\nShoot?, shoes.\\nShore, (i) to offer even as I was he shor d\\nme, and shor d them Dainty Davie,\\nI doubt na Fortune may you shore\\n(2) to menace, to threaten had shor d\\nthem with a glimmer of his lamp, has\\nshor d the Kirk s undoin, an shore him\\nweel wi Hell, if e er Detraction\\nshore to smit you, like good mothers,\\nshore before ye strike, first shore her\\nwi a gentle kiss.\\nShort syne, a little ago as short syne\\nbroken-hearted.\\nShonldna, should not.\\nShouther, shoivther, shoulder.\\nSkure, shore [did shear] Robin shure in\\nhairst.\\nSic, such.\\nSiccan, such very.\\nSicker, (i) steady: to keep me sicker\\n(2) sicker score strict conditions\\n(3) certain thy sicker treasure.\\nSidelins, sideways sidelins sklented.\\nSiller, silver, money in general, wealth.\\nSimmer, summer.\\nSin, son his sin gat Eppie Sim wi wean.\\nSin since.\\nSindry, sundry.\\nAV/ftV, singed, shrivelled: singet Sawnie.\\nSinn, the sun the sinn keeks.\\nSinny, sunny in the pride o sinny noon.\\nSkaifk, damage.\\nSkiiith, to harm, to injure: the Deil he\\ncouldna skaith thee, think, wicked sin-\\nner, wha ye re skaithing.\\nSkelltim, a good-for-nothing, a scullion\\nthou was a skellum, ilk self-conceited\\ncritic-skellum, by worthless skellums.\\nSkeigk, skiegh, skittish when thou an\\nI were young and skiegh, and Meg\\nwas skeigh, look d asklent and unco\\nskeigh.\\nSkelp, a slap, a smack I gie them a skelp\\nas they re creeping along, skelp a\\nshot crack a shot.\\nSkelp, (i) to spank \\\\i.e. to trounce, to slap]\\nto skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,\\nor else I fear, some ill ane skelp him, wi\\nyour priest-skelping turns (2) skelpin\\nat it driving at it (3) to spank {i.e. to\\nhasten, to move quickly] cam skelpin\\nup the way, skelpin barefit, the words\\ncome skelpin rank an file, Tarn skelpit\\non thro dub and mire, and barefit\\nskelp (4) skelpin jig an reel danc-\\ning jig and reel (5) a skelpin kiss\\na sounding kiss.\\nSkelpie-Ummer s-face, a technical term in\\nfemale scolding [R. B.] ye little skelpie-\\nlimmer s-face.\\nSkelzy, shelvy: foaming down the skelvy\\nrocks.\\nSkiegh, V. Skeigh.\\nSkinking, watery nae skinking -ware.\\nSkinklin, small skinklin patches.\\nSkirl, to cry or sound shrilly skirlin\\nweanies squalling babies, loud skirl d\\na the lasses, an skirl up the Bangor\\nhe screw d his pipes, and gart them skirl,\\nhe skirled out encore.\\nSklent, a slant, a turn my notion s taen a\\nsklent.\\nSklent, (i) to slant, to squint: wi sklentin\\nlight, an sklented on the man of Uzz,\\nironic satire, sidelins sklented, an\\nsklent on poverty their joke (2) to\\ncheat: to lie an sklent.\\nSkoiith, play [freedom] to gie their malice\\nskouth.\\nSkriech, a scream wi monie an eldritch\\nskriech and hollo.\\nSkriegh, to scream, to whinny: prance an\\nsnore an skriegh.\\nSkyrin, flaring skyrin tartan trews, man.\\nSkyte, squirt, lash [the primary meaning of\\nto skyte is to eject forcibly to stool]\\nwhen hailstanes drive wi bitter skyte.\\nSlade, slid.\\nilae, the sloe.\\nSlap, (i) a breach in a fence, an opening:\\nto slink thro slaps, at slaps the billies\\nhalt a blink, the mosses, waters, slaps,\\nand styles (2) a gate the sheep-herd\\nsteeks his faulding slap.\\nSlaio, slow.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0459.jp2"}, "458": {"fulltext": "412\\nGLOSSARY.\\nSlee, sly, ingenious.\\nS/eekif, (i) sleek: wee, sleelcit, cow rin,\\ntim rous beastie (2) crafty: sleekit\\nChatham Will.\\nSlidd ry, slipiiery Fortune s slidd ry ba\\ni loken, to slake: their hydra drouth did\\nsloken.\\nSfypet, slipped an slypet ow re fallen\\nsmoothly over.\\nSma small.\\nSmcddum, a powder or fell, red smeddum.*\\nSmeek, smoke.\\nSmiddy, smithy.\\nSmoor d, smothered.\\nSmoutie, smutty.\\nSmytrie, a small collection, a litter: a\\nsmytrie o wee duddie weans.\\nSnakin, sneering wi hingin lip an snakin.\\nSnapper, to stumble Blind Chance let her\\nsnapper and stoyte on her way.\\nSnash, abuse how they maun thole a\\nfactor s snash.\\nSnaw, snow.\\nSnaw-broo, snow-brew [melted snow] the\\nsnaw-broo rowes. Cf. A man whose\\nblood is very snow-broth, Shak. Measure\\nfor Measure, i. 4. 58.\\nSned, (i) to crop an legs, an arms, an\\nheads will sned (2) to prune I 11 sned\\nbesoms.\\nSneeshin mill, a snuff-box: the luntin pipe,\\nthe sneeshin mill.\\nSnell, bitter, biting snell and keen, the\\nsnellest blast at mirkest hours.\\nSnick, a latch when click the string the\\nsnick did draw snick-drawing schem-\\ning: ye auld, snick-drawing dog, he\\nweal a snick can draw he is good at\\ncheating. Cf. Engl, a draw-latch.\\nSnirtle, to snigger: he f(;ign d to snirtle in\\nhis sleeve.\\nSnoods, fillets: and silken snoods he gae\\nme twa.\\nSnool, (i) to cringe owre proud to snool\\n(2) to snub: they snool me sair.\\nSnoove, to go slowly: (1) thou snoov t\\nawa thou jogged along (2) snoov d\\nawa toddled off.\\nSnowkit, pried with the nose [expressive of\\nthe sound made by the dog s nose]\\nsnuff d and snowkit.\\nSodger, soger, a soldier.\\nSonsie, sonsy, pleasant, good-natured, jolly\\nhis honest, sonsie, bawsn t face, an unco\\nsonsie, fair fa your honest, sonsie face,\\nsonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,\\nwomen sonsie, saft, and sappy, the\\nsonsie quean, sae sonsy and sweet.\\nSoo/n, to swim.\\nSoor, sour.\\nSough, V. Sug/i.\\nSouk, suck and ay she took the tither\\nsouk.\\nSoupe, sup, liquid: the soupe their only\\nhawkie does.afford the milk. V. Soup.\\nSonple, supple souple scones, souple tail,\\nsouple jad.\\nSouter, cobbler: Souter Hood, Souter\\nJohnie.\\nSoivps, sups wi sowps o kail, sowps o\\ndrink.\\nSowth, to hum or whistle in a low tone:\\nwe 11 sit an sowth a time.\\nSowther, to solder sowther a in deep\\ndebauches, a night o guid fellowship\\nsowthers it a\\nSpae, to foretell to spae your fortune.\\nSpails, chips a to spails.\\nSpairge, (i) to splash: spairges about the\\nbrunstane cootie (2) to spatter a\\nname not envy spairges.\\nSpak, spoke.\\nSpates, floods bombast spates. See also\\nSpt-at.\\nSpavie, the spavin.\\nSpavit, spavined.\\nSpean, to wean: wad spean a foal [by\\ndisgust]\\nSpeat, a flood the roaring speat.\\nSpeel,Xo climb: Moodie speels the holy\\ndoor, ance that five-an -forty s speel d,\\nto speel the braes o fame, if on a\\nbeastie I can speel, now sma heart hae\\nI to speel the steep Parnassus.\\nSpeer, spier, to ask.\\nSpeet, to spit to speet him like a pliver.\\nSpence, the parlor keeps the spence,\\nben i the spence.\\nSpier, V. Speer.\\nSpleuchan, (i) tobacco-pouch made of some\\nsort of peltry: Deil mak his king s-hood\\nin a spleuchan (2) [equivocally], hurt\\nher spleuchan.\\nSplore, (i) a frolic: a random-splore", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0460.jp2"}, "459": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n413\\n(2) a carousal in Poosie-Nansie s held\\nthe splore (3) a row: he bred sic a\\nsplore.\\nSpiachl d, clambered: I sprachl d up the\\nbrae.\\nSp) attic, scramble sprawl and sprattle,\\ndeep-lairing, sprattle.\\nSprecklcd, speckled.\\nSpring, a quick tune, a dance I ve play d\\nniysel a bonie spring, he play d a spring,\\nand danc d it round, Charlie gat the\\nspring to pay, the o erword o the spring.\\nSpr ittie, full of roots of sprits [a kind of\\nrush] sprittie knowes.\\nSpriish, spruce.\\nSpunk, (i) a match: we ll light a spunk\\n(2) a spark: a spunk o Allan s glee\\n(3) fire, spirit a man o spunk, life\\nand spunk.\\nSpunkie, sprightful, full of spirit a spunkie\\nNorland billie.\\nSpunkie, liquor, spirits: and spunkie ance\\nto mak us mellow.\\nSpunkies, jack-o -lanthorns moss-travers-\\ning spunkies, fays, spunkies, kelpies.\\nSpurtle-blade, the pot-stick sword].\\nSquattle, to squat, to settle in some beg-\\ngar s hauffet squattle.\\nStache?-, (i) to totter: th expectant wee-\\nthings, toddlin, stacher through (2) to\\nstagger I stacher d whyles, except\\nwhen drunk he stacher t thro it.\\nStaggie, dim. of sfaig [a young horse].\\nStaig, a young horse.\\nStan stand.\\nStane, stone.\\nStan t, stood.\\nStang, sting.\\nStank, (i) a moat: out-owre a stank\\n(2) a pond the Muses stank, soor\\nArminian stank.\\nStap, to stop.\\nStapple, a stopper for every hole to get a\\nstapple.\\nSta?-k, strong an thou was stark, baith\\nwight and stark.\\nStarnies, dim. of starn or star: ye twin-\\nkling starnies bright.\\nStains, stars: ye hills, near neebors o the\\nstarns.\\nStartle, to course or down Italian vista\\nstartles.\\nStaitmrcl, half-witted: staumrel, corky-\\nheaded, graceless gentry.\\n^\u00e2\u0096\u00a0/(JTti, a stall your horns shall tie you to\\nthe staw.\\nStaiv, to surfeit, to sicken olio that would\\nstaw a sow.\\nStaw, stole auld hermit Ayr staw thro his\\nwoods, the lasses staw frae niang them\\na staw my rose, staw the linin o t,\\nstaw a branch.\\nStechin, cramming the gentry first are\\nstechin.\\nSteek, a stitch thro the steeks, ne er a\\nwrang steek in them a man.\\nSteek, to shut, to close their solemn een\\nmay steek, steek their een, steek your\\ngab for ever, the sheep-herd steeks his\\nfaulding slap, and bonie bosoms steekit\\n\\\\i.e. closed in].\\nSteer, (i) to stir: steer about the toddy,\\nset a their gabs a-steerin \\\\i.e. moving]\\n(2) rouse: O steer her up (3) to\\ntouch, meddle with the Deil, he daurna\\nsteer, nae cauld nor hunger e er can\\nsteer them, thy servant true wad never\\nsteer her, misfortunes sha na steer thee.\\nSteeve, compact a filly, buirdly, steeve, an\\nswank.\\nStell, a still.\\nSten, a leap, a spring foaming, Strang, wi\\nhasty stens, my heart to my mou gied a\\nsten.\\nStent, sprang: thou never lap an sten t an\\nbreastit.\\nStented, erected, set on high my watchman\\nstented.\\nStetits, assessments, dues an a his stents,\\nhow cesses, stents, and fees were rax d.\\nSteycst, steepest the steyest brae thou wad\\nhae fac t it.\\nStibble, stubble.\\nStibble-rig, chief harvester [with the hook].\\nStick-an-stowe, completely: ruin d stick-\\nan -stowe.\\nStilt, limp [with the aid of stilts] hilch\\nan stilt, an jump.\\nStimpart, a quarter peck.\\nStirk, a young bullock or heifer [after one\\nyear old].\\nStock, a plant of cabbage or colewort.\\nStoited, stumbled down George s Street I\\nstoited.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0461.jp2"}, "460": {"fulltext": "414\\nGLOSSARY,\\nStoiter d, staggered stoiter d up strug-\\ngled up.\\nStoor, (i) harsli [in sound]: an eldritch,\\nstoor quaick, quaick (2) stern a\\ncarlin stoor and grim.\\nStoiin, stound.\\nStoiire, dust [literal and figurative].\\nStourie, dusty.\\nSfown, stolen.\\nStownlins, by stealth Rob, stownlins, prie d\\nher bonie iiiou, an stow nlins we sail\\nmeet again.\\nStoyte, to stagger let her snapper and\\nstoyte on her way.\\nStrae death, death in bed \\\\i.e. on straw].\\nStraik, to stroke.\\nStrak, struck.\\nStrang, strong.\\nStraight, straight.\\nStraught, to stretch will straught on a\\nboard.\\nStreekit, stretched ance ye were streekit\\nowre frae bank to bank, streekit out to\\nbleach.\\nStriddle,io%\\\\.X2iA^\\\\Q: striddle owre a rig.\\nStront, lanted.\\nStrtint, liquor: a social glass o strunt, a\\ndram o guid strunt.\\nStrmit, to swagger ye strunt rarely.\\nStuddie, an anvil till block an studdie\\nring an reel, come o er his studdie.\\nStumpie, dim. of stump, a worn quill\\ndoun gaed stumpie in the ink.\\nSturt, worry, trouble sturt and strife.\\nStart, to fret, to vex ay the less they hae\\nto sturt them.\\nSturthi, frighted, staggered: tho he was\\nsomething sturtin.\\nStyme, the faintest outline: or see a\\nstyme.\\nSucker, sugar gusty sucker.\\nSlid, should.\\nSugh, sough, (i) sigh: sough for sough\\n(2) moan: wi waving sugh (3) wail:\\nwi angry sugh (4) swish the clang-\\ning sugh of whistling wings.\\nSumph, a churl ye surly sumphs.\\nSu?ie, soon.\\nSuthron, Southern \\\\i.e. English].\\nSwaird, the sword.\\nSiva/l d, swelled.\\nSwank, limber steeve, an swank.\\nSwankies, strapping fellows: swankies\\nyoung.\\nSwap, exchange a swap o rhymin-ware,\\nthe swap we yet will do t.\\niirt//i fl swopped, exchanged we swapped\\nfor the worse.\\nSwarf, to swoon amaist did swarf, man.\\nS7uat, sweated.\\nSwatch, a sample: a chosen swatch, a\\nswatch o Hornbook s way, a swatch o\\nManson s barrels.\\nS7tHits,r\\\\ v/ ale: reaming swats, that drank\\ndivinely, the swats sae reani d in Tam-\\nniie s noddle.\\nSweer, v. Dead-sweer.\\nSwirl, a curl hung owre his hurdles wi a\\nswirl.\\nSwirlie, twisted, knaggy a swirlie, auld\\nmoss-oak.\\nSwith, (i) haste, off and away then\\nswith I an get a wife to hug, swith in\\nsome beggar s hauffet squattle, swith to\\nthe Laigh Kirk, swith awa.\\nSwither, doubt, hesitation a hank ring\\nswither, an eerie swither, I ve little\\nswither.\\nSwoom, swim.\\nSiuoor, swore.\\nSyboiv, a young onion a sybow-tail.\\nSyne, since, then.\\nTack, possession, lease stand as tightly by\\nyour tack, or Poland, wha had novv the\\ntack o t, a tack o seven times seven.\\nTacket, shoe nail wad haud the Lothians\\nthree in tackets.\\nTae, to.\\nTae, toe.\\nTac d, toed a three-tae d leister.\\nTaed, toad sprawlin like a taed.\\nTaen, taken.\\nTairgc, to target [with importunities] I\\non the Questions tairge them tightly.\\nTak, to take.\\nTald, told.\\nTane, one in contrast to other the tane is\\ngame, the heat o the tane.\\nTangs, tongs.\\nTap, top.\\nTapetless, pithless the tapetless, ramfeezl d\\nhizzie.\\nTapmosf, topmost.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0462.jp2"}, "461": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n415\\nTappet-heii a crested hen-shaped bottle\\nholding three quarts of claret: the tap-\\npet hen, gae bring her ben.\\nTap-pickle, the grain at the top of the stalk\\nher tap-pickle maist was lost.\\nTapsalteerie, topsy-turvy.\\nTarrow, to tarry [the original sense in\\nHenryson and the older writers, a sec-\\nondary sense being to haggle], to be\\nreluctant, to murmur that yet hae tar-\\nrow t at it (2) to weary: if you on\\nyour station tarrow.\\nTassie, a goblet the silver tassie.\\nTank, talk.\\nTauld, told.\\nTawic, tractable hamely, tawie, quiet, an\\ncannie.\\nTaiipie, a foolish woman gawkies, taw-\\npies, gowks, and fools.\\nTaivted, matted \\\\i.e. hanging with matted\\ntawts or teats] nae tawted tyke, wi\\ntawted ket.\\nTeats, small quantities wi teats o hay.\\nT een, vexation [common in Shakespeare,\\ne.g. of sorrow and of teen, Love s La-\\nbour s Lost, iv. 3. 164] spite and teen.\\nTell d, told.\\nTemper-pin, (i) a fiddle-peg: screw your\\ntemper-pins (2) the regulating pin of\\nthe spinning-wheel and ay she shook\\nthe temper-pin.\\nTent, heed tak [or took] tent take\\n[or took] care.\\nTent, to tend, to heed, to observe [very\\nfrequent]\\nTentie, (i) watchful: wi tentie e e, wi\\ntentie care (2) careful wi joy the\\ntentie seedsman stalks (3) heedful\\nsome tentie rin.\\nTetiticr, more watchful a tentier way.\\nTentless, careless tentless heed.\\nTester [Old Fr. Test, a head], an old Scots\\nsilver coin about sixpence in value till\\nshe has scarce a tester. Cf. Hold, here s\\na tester for thee, Shak., 2 Henry IV., iii.\\n2. 296.\\nTeugh, tough.\\nTeuk, took.\\nThack, thatch thack and rape the\\ncovering of a house, and therefore used\\nas a simile for home necessities; thack\\nand rape [of a corn-stack].\\nThae, those.\\nThairm, (i) small guts: painch, tripe, or\\nthairm (2) catgut [a fiddle-string]\\nthairm-inspiring, o er the thairms be\\ntryin, kittle hair on thairms.\\nTheckit, thatched an theckit right.\\nThegithcr, together.\\nThcmsel, themseh, themselves.\\nThick, V. Pack an thick.\\nThieveless, forbidding, spiteful thieveless\\nsneer.\\nThiggin, begging: come thiggin at your\\ndoors an yetts.\\nThir, these.\\nThirl d, thrilled it thirl d the heart-\\nstrings.\\nThole, to endure, to suffer thole a factor s\\nsnash, thole the winter s sleety dribble,\\nthole their blethers, thole their mither s\\nban, the scathe and banter We re\\nforced to thole.\\nThou se, thou shalt.\\nThotve, thaw.\\nThowless, lazy, useless Conscience,\\nsays I, ye thowless jad.\\nThrang, (i) busy: that were na thrang at\\nhame, aiblins thrang a parliamentin,\\nthrang winkin on the lasses (2) throng-\\ning in crowds, the lasses, skelpin barefit,\\nthrang, thick an thrang (3) busily:\\ncomplimented thrang (4) at work\\nare whistling thrang.\\nThrang, (i) a throng, a crowd: aff the\\ngodly pour in thrangs (2) a company\\nthe jovial thrang.\\nThrapple, the windpipe: see now she\\nfetches at the thrapple, as murder at\\nhis thrapple shor d.\\nThrave, twenty-four sheaves of corn a\\ndaimen icker in a thrave.\\nThraw, a twist she turns the key wi can-\\nnie thraw.\\nThraw, (i) to twist, to turn: for thrawin\\nagainst twisting or bending great\\nMackinlay thrawn his heel, thraw saugh\\nwoodies, did our hellim thraw (2) to\\nthwart: the German chief to thraw,\\nman, did his measures thraw, a mortal\\nsin to thraw that.\\nThraios, throes ease the thraws.\\nThreap, maintain [with asseverations]\\nwad threap auld folk the thing misteuk.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0463.jp2"}, "462": {"fulltext": "4i6\\nGLOSSARY,\\nThreesome, v. Foursome.\\nThretteen, thirteen.\\nThretty, thirty.\\nThrissle, thistle.\\nThristed, thirsted.\\nThrough mak to through make good.\\nThrou ther [through other], pell-mell: cry\\na throu ther.\\nThunimart, polecat.\\nThy lane, alone no thy lane, In proving\\nforesight may be vain.\\n7 ^/i/, girt, prepared: he should been tight\\nthat daur t to raize thee.\\nTill, to.\\nTill t, to it.\\nTimmer, (i) timber [common] (2) ma-\\nterial [as also timber in English], the\\ntimmer is scant, when ye re taen for a\\nsaunt the saintly material is scant\\nwhen you are taken for one. [Some\\nwisacres affirm the meaning to be the\\nwood (for the gallows) is scant: but\\n(i) if this were the meaning the article\\nthe would be superfluous (2) it is\\nabsurd to suppose that there was then\\nnot wood enough to erect a gallows;\\n(3) wood was less essential than a rope,\\nand (4) material is quite a common\\nmeaning of timmer.\\nTine, to lose, to be lost [frequent].\\nTinkler, a tinker.\\nTint, lost [very frequent] tint as win\\nlost as soon as won.\\nTippetice, twopence.\\nTippenny, two-penny ale wi tippenny we\\nfear nae evil.\\nTirl, to strip tirlin the kirks, tirl the\\nbullions to the birses.\\nTirl, to knock for entrance tirl d at your\\ndoor, tirl d at the pin.\\nTither, the other [very frequent].\\nTittlin, whispering a raw o tittlin jads.\\nTocher, dowry.\\nTocher, to give a dowry.\\nTod, the fox.\\nlb-fa the fall to-fa o the night.\\nTi om, empty.\\nloop, a tup.\\nToss, the toast the toss of Ecclefechan.\\nTousie, shaggy his tousie back, a tousie\\ntyke.\\nTow, flax, a rope.\\nToiomond, torumont, a twelve-month.\\nTowsing, rumpling [equivocal] towsing a\\nlass i my daffin. Cf. Damn me if he\\nsha t have the tousling of her, Fielding,\\nTom yones.\\nTiy /f, to totter: toyte about wi ane anither.\\nTozie, flushed with drink the tozie drab.\\nTrams, shafts [of a barrow or cart] baith\\nthe trams are broken.\\nTraslitrie, small trash sauce, ragouts, an\\nsic like trashtrie.\\nTrews, trousers skyrin tartan trews. V.\\nTrouse.\\nTrig, neat, trim the lads sae trig, and\\ntrig an braw, he sae trig lap o er the\\nrig, Willie s wife is nae sae trig.\\nTrin le, the wheel of a barrow.\\nTioggin, wares buy braw troggin.\\nTroke, to barter wi you nae friendship I\\nwill troke.\\nTrouse, trousers will be him trouse and\\ndoublet.\\nTrozvth, In truth.\\nTryste, a fair, a cattle-market to trystes\\nan fairs to driddle, the tryste o Dalgar-\\nnock, he gaed wi Jeanie to the tryste.\\nTrysted, appointed, agreed upon the\\ntrysted hour.\\nTrysting, meeting trystin time, trysting\\nthorn.\\nTulyie, tulzie, a squabble, a tussle The\\nHoly Tulyie, in logic tulzie, amid this\\nmighty tulyie, the tulyie s teugh tween\\nPitt and Fox.\\nTwa, two.\\nTwafauld, two-fold, double: he hirples\\ntwa-fauld.\\nTzca/, twelve the twal twelve at night.\\nT^calpennie worth a penny worth [ster-\\nling].\\nTwang, a twinge.\\nTii a-three, two or three.\\nTway, two ne er a ane but tway.\\nTwin, also Twine, to rob twins o\\nhalf his days, may twin auld Scotland\\no a life, has twined ye o your stately\\ntrees.\\nTwistle, a twist, a sprain the Lord s\\ncause gat na sic a twistle.\\nTyke, a dog.\\nTyne, to tine.\\nTysday, Tuesday.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0464.jp2"}, "463": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n417\\nUlzie, oil wi pouther and wi ulzie.\\nUnchancy, dangerous an mair unchancy.\\nSee VVanckancie.\\nUrhco, (i) remarkably, uncommonly: unco\\npack an thick, unco happy, unco\\nweel (2) excessively, mightily [sar-\\ncastic] Address to the Unco Guid.\\nUnco, (i) remarkable, uncommon: an\\nunco calf; (2) terrible [sarcastic]: an\\nunco loan (3) strange: unco folk.\\nUncos, news, strange things, wonders each\\ntells the uncos that he sees or hears.\\nUnkend, unknown.\\nUnsicker, uncertain feeble, and unsicker.\\nUnskaithed, unhurt.\\nUsquabae, usquebae, whisky.\\nVauntie, proud: and she was vauntie,\\nvauntie o my hap, your letter made\\nme vauntie.\\nVera, very.\\nVirls, rings virls and whirly-gigums.\\nVMle [victual], (i) grain: a the vittel in\\nthe yard (2) food a my winter vit-\\ntle.\\nVo^ie, vain and vow but I was vogie.\\nWa waw, a wall.\\nWab, a web.\\nW abster, a weaver.\\nWad, to wager I 11 wad my new pleugh-\\npettle, I 11 wad a groat, wad a boddle.\\nWad, to wed: and or I wad another jad.\\nWad, would, would have.\\nWad a, would have.\\nWadna, would not.\\nH adset, a mortgage here s a little wadset.\\nWae, woful, sorrowful [also sarcastic].\\nWae, woe wae s me woe is to me.\\nCf. I, am woe for it, sir, Shakespeare,\\nTempest, v. i. 139.\\nWaesucks, alas vvaesucks for him that\\ngets nae lass.\\nWae ivorth, woe befall.\\nWair, V. Ware.\\nWale, to choose.\\nWale, choice.\\nI f alie, zoawlie, choice, ample, large walic\\nnieve, walie nieves, this walie boy, ae\\nwinsome wench and wawlie.\\nWallop, (i) to kick, to dangle may Envy\\nwallop in a tether, wallop in a tow\\n2E\\n(2) to gallop, to dance walloped about\\nthe reel.\\nWafy/a ill befall.\\nM at/ie, the belly.\\nWamefou, bellyful.\\nWan, won.\\nWauchancie, dangerous: that vile wan-\\nchancie thing a rape. See Unchancie.\\nWanrest/u restless wanrestfu pets.\\nWare, wair, to spend, bestow: and ken\\nna how to ware t, to ware his theologic\\ncare on, tho wair d on Willie Chalm-\\ners.\\nWare, worn gratefully be ware.\\nWark, work.\\nWark-lume, v. Lume.\\nWarV loarld, world.\\nWarlock, a wizard.\\nWariy, luarldly, worldly.\\nWarran, warrant.\\nH arse, worse.\\nH arsle, warstle, wrestle.\\nWas na, was not.\\nWast, west.\\nWastrie, waste.\\nWat, wet.\\nWat, wot, know.\\nWater-Jit, water-foot [the river s mouth].\\nH ater-kelpies, v. Kelpies.\\nWauble, to wobble ran them a till they\\ndid wauble.\\nWaught, a draught: a right guid-willie\\nwaught.\\nWauk, to awake.\\nWauken, to waken.\\nWauiin, awake.\\nl\\\\ aiikit [with toil], horny: my waukit\\nloof.\\nWaiikrife, wakeful: till waukrife morn,\\nwaukrife winkers.\\nWaur, worse.\\nWaiir, to worst and faith, he 11 waur me,\\nwaur them a\\nWaur t, worsted, beat [in running] might\\naiblins waur t thee for a brattle.\\nWean [wee one], a child.\\nI eaiiies, babies when skirlin weanies see\\nthe light.\\nWeason, weasand.\\nWec/it,a. measure for corn: three wechts\\no naething.\\nWee, a little a wee, a short space, or time.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0465.jp2"}, "464": {"fulltext": "4i8\\nGLOSSARY.\\nWee things, children.\\nWhlssle, whistle.\\nWeel, well.\\nWhitter, a draught: tak our whitter.\\nWell-faured, well-favoured.\\nWhittle, a knife.\\nWeel-gaun, well-going.\\nWi with.\\nWeel-hain d, well-saved her weel-hain d\\nWick. wick a bore.\\nkebbuck, weel-hain d gear.\\nWt s, with his.\\nWeepers, mournings [on the sleeve, or hat]\\nH V t, with it.\\nauld cantie Kyle may weepers wear.\\nWiddi/u gallows-worthy: a widdifu\\nWerena, were not.\\nbleerit knurl.\\nWe se, we shall.\\nWidd/e, wriggle the weary widdle.\\nHVj-///^, western.\\nWie/, eddy: whyles in a wiel it dimpl t.\\nW/ia, who.\\nWght, strong, stout: wight an wilfu\\nI f liaizle, wheeze and gar t them whaizle.\\nwight and stark.\\nI r/r-;//;. whelped.\\nWig/itcr, more influential.\\nWham, whom.\\nWillcat, wild cat.\\nWhan, when.\\nWillyart, disordered willyart glow r.\\nWhang, a shive, a large slice in monie a\\nWimple, to meander.\\nwhang.\\nWin, won: like fortune s favours, tint as\\nWhang, flog and gloriously she 11 whang\\nwin lost as soon as won.\\nher.\\nWitin, to winnow to winn three wechts o\\nWhar, whare, where.\\nnaething.\\nWha s, whose.\\nWinna, will not.\\nWha s, who is.\\nWinn in, winding: the warpin o t, the\\nWhase. whose.\\nwinnin o t.\\nWhat for, tuhatfore, wherefore What for\\nWinnock, window.\\nno Why not\\nWinnock-bunker, v. Bunker.\\nWhatha, what [partly in contempt] whatna\\nWin t, did wind an ay she win t.\\nday o whatna style.\\nWintle, a. somersault tumbled wi a\\nWhat reck, what matter, nevertheless but\\nwintle.\\nyet, what reck, he at Quebec, when I,\\nWintle, (i) to stagger: wintle like a\\nwhatreck, did least expeck.\\nsaumont-cobble (2) to swing, to wrig-\\nM hatt, whittled.\\ngle wintle in a woodie, that wintles in\\nWhaiip, the curlew.\\na halter.\\nWhatir, where.\\nWinze, a curse loot a winze.\\nWheep, V. Fenny-iohcep.\\nWiss, wish.\\nWheep, jerk to ste our elbucks wheep.\\nWon, to dwell there was a wife wonn d\\nWhid, a fib: a rousing whid at times to\\nin Cockpen, there wons auld Colin s\\nvend.\\nbonie lass, Auld Rob Morris that wons\\nW^/Wrf/;/, scudding: an morning poussie\\nin yon glen. Cf. The wild beast, where\\nwhiddin seen, ye maukins whiddin\\nhe wons, Milton, Paradise Lost, vii. 457.\\nthrough the glade.\\nWanner, a wonder, a marvel blastit won-\\nWhids, gambols jinkin hares, in amorous\\nner.\\nwhids.\\nWoo wool.\\nWhigmcleeries, crotchets: whigmeleeries\\nWoodic, woody, a rope [originally of\\nin your noddle.\\nwithes] (i) the meikle Devil wi a\\nWhingin, whining: if onie whiggish\\nwoodie (2) a gallows rope: wintle in\\nwhingin sot.\\na woodie (3) the gallows: the waefu\\nWhins, furze thro the whins an [and] by\\nwoodie, learning in a woody dance.\\nthe cairn.\\nWoodics, twigs, withes saugh woodies.\\nhirlygigums, flourishes.\\nWooer-bahs, love-knots.\\nH hisht, silence held my whisht kept\\nWordy, worthy: wordy of a grace, a\\nsilence.\\nwordy beast.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0466.jp2"}, "465": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n419\\nWorset, worsted her braw, new worset\\nYerkit, jerked yerkit up sublime.\\napron.\\nYerl, Earl.\\nWor/k, V. l\\\\ ae 7oorth.\\nYe se, ye shall.\\nWrung, wrong.\\nYestreen, last night.\\nWild, wild, mad as wud as wud can be,\\nYclt, 2l gate.\\nlike onie wud bear. See also Rcd-\\nYeuk, to itch If Warren Hastings neck\\nivud.\\nwas yeuUin, yeuks wi joy.\\nWiimhle, wimble: gleg as onie wumble.\\nYUl, ale.\\nWyliecoat, iindervest.\\nYill-caup, ale-stoup. See Caiip.\\nWyle [weight], blame Had I the wyte?\\nYird, y earth, earth v. Yerd.\\nWyte, to blame, to reproach.\\nYokhi, yoking; (i) a spell, a day s work:\\na yokin at the pleugh (2) a set to a\\nYard, a garden, a stackyard.\\nhearty yokin at sang about.\\nYaitd, an old mare the auld grey yaud.\\nYon, yonder.\\nYealhigs, coevals.\\nYont, beyond.\\nYell, dry [milkless] as yell s the bill.\\nYotoe, ewe.\\nYerd, earth their green beds in the yerd.\\nYowie, dim. of ezve; a pet ewe.\\nSee Yird.\\nYule, Christmas.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0467.jp2"}, "466": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0468.jp2"}, "467": {"fulltext": "CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX.\\nTHE POEMS ARRANGED ACCORDING (area) TO THEIR DATES.\\n[The dates in the following index are those given in the Chambers edition, with some of the titles\\nchanged to correspond with those in the present edition.]\\nJuvenile.\\nOnce I lov d a Bonie Lass, 295.\\n1 dream d I lay, 227.\\nTibbie, I hae seen the day, 234.\\nAll villain as I am, a damned wretch, 201.\\nA Ruined Farmer. It s O, fickle Fortune,\\nO 329.\\nThe Tarbolton Lasses, 188.\\nThe Ronalds of the Bennals, 189.\\nAh, Woe is me, my Mother dear 191.\\nMontgomerie s Peggy, 350.\\nThe Ploughman s Life, 358.\\nThe Lass of Cessnock Banks, 330.\\nWinter a Dirge, 44.\\nA Prayer, written under the Pressure of\\nViolent Anguish, 81.\\n1782-84. .^t. 23-25.\\nMy Father was a Farmer, 332.\\nThe Death and Dying Words of Poor\\nMailie, the Author s only Pet Yowe, 15.\\nPoor Mailie s Elegy, 16.\\nJohn Barleycorn A Ballad, 85.\\nMary Morison, 329.\\nBonie Peggy Alison, 233.\\nThe Rigs o Barley, 60.\\nSong, Composed in August, 61.\\nMy Nanie, O, 87.\\nOf all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,\\n201.\\nO ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 64.\\nO why the deuce should I repine, 190.\\nO leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 333.\\nA Prayer in the Prospect of Death, 45.\\nStanzas, on the same Occasion, 80.\\nParaphrase of the First Psalm, 81.\\nThe Ninetieth Psalm Versified, 82.\\nTo John Rankine when the Poet was in\\nTrouble, 136.\\nEpistle to John Rankine, 59.\\nA Poet s Welcome to his Love-begotten\\nDaughter, 123.\\nGreen grow the rashes, 88.\\nNo churchman am I, 89.\\nTho cruel fate should bid us part, 225.\\nOne night as I did wander, 334.\\nThere was a Lad, 334.\\nElegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux,\\n192.\\nThe Belles of Mauchline, 190.\\nWhen first I came to Stewart Kyle, 334.\\nThough fickle Fortune has deceived me,\\n332.\\nO raging Fortune s withering blast, 332.\\nEpistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, 38.\\n1785. yEt. 26.\\nDeath and Dr. Hornbook, 65.\\nEpistle to J. Lapraik, 52.\\nSecond Epistle to J. Lapraik, 54.\\nEpistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock, 137.\\nThe Twa Herds; or, The Holy Tulyie, 117.\\nEpistle to William Simpson, 56.\\nHoly Willie s Prayer, 119.\\nEpitaph on Holy Willie, 215.\\nThird Epistle to J. Lapraik, 138.\\nTo the Rev. John M Math, 139.\\n421", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0469.jp2"}, "468": {"fulltext": "422\\nCHRONOLOGICAL INDEX.\\nTo a Mouse, 37.\\nSecond Epistle to Davie, 140.\\nThe Braes of Ballochmyle, 247.\\nMan was made to mourn, 43.\\nAddress to the Deil, 13.\\nThe Jolly Beggars, iii.\\nFor a that an a that, 115.\\nO Merry hae I been, 246.\\nA Mauchline Wedding, 125.\\n1785-86. /Et. 26-27.\\nHalloween, 28.\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night, 33.\\nEpitaph on John Dove, 216.\\nAdam Armour s Prayer, 126.\\nEpistle to James Smith, 17.\\nThe Vision, 22.\\nA Winter Night, 78.\\nYoung Peggy, 221.\\nScotch Drink, 4.\\nThe Author s Earnest Cry and Prayer, 7.\\nThe Holy Fair, 10.\\n1786. ^t, 27.\\nThe Auld Farmer s New-year Morning\\nSalutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie, 31.\\nThe Twa Dogs, i.\\nTo a Louse, 51.\\nThe Ordination, 73.\\nAddress to tlie Unco Guid, or the Rigidly\\nRighteous, 75.\\nThe Inventory, 124.\\nTo John Kennedy, 141.\\nThou flatt ring mark ot friendship kind, 191.\\nTo a Mountain Daisy, 45.\\nThe Lament. Occasioned by the unfortu-\\nnate issue of a friend s amour, 40.\\nDespondency, 42.\\nTo Ruin, 46.\\nSong, Composed in Spring, 88.\\nTo Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchhne,. 142.\\nEpistle to a Young Friend, 47.\\nSweet Afton, 271.\\nMy Highland Lassie, O, 224.\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary 335.\\nFarewell to Eliza, 62.\\nAddress of Beelzebub, 169.\\nA Dream, 20.\\nOn a Scotch Bard, gone to the West In-\\ndies, 48.\\nA Bard s Epitaph, 64.\\nA Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 49.\\nThe Farewell. To the Brethren of St.\\nJames s Lodge, Tarbolton, 62.\\nYe sons of old Killie, 336.\\nThe lass o Ballochmyle, 335.\\nFarewell, dear Friend may gude luck hit\\nyou, 143.\\nExtempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton,\\nEsq., 145.\\nThe Farewell, 62.\\nLines written on a Bank-note, 191.\\nWritten on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of his\\nPoems, 144.\\nThe Calf, 75.\\nNature s Law, 128.\\nTo Willie Chalmers Sweetheart, 144.\\nReply to an Epistle received from a Tailor,\\n146.\\nTam Samson s Elegy, 76.\\nTarn Samson s Epitaph, 78.\\nTo Mr. M Adam, of Craigen-Gillan, 142.\\nO Thou Dread Power, 80.\\nThe night was still, and o er the hill, 336.\\nThe Gloomy Night is gath ring fast, 89.\\nThe Brigs of Ayr, 68.\\nVerses on Meeting with Lord Daer, 129.\\nEpistle to Major Logan, 147.\\nRusticity s ungainly form, 202.\\nAddress to Edinburgh, 83.\\nTo a Haggis, 83.\\n1787.-^1. 28.\\nTo Miss Logan, 82.\\nTo Mrs. Scott, Guidwife of Wauchope\\nHouse, Roxburghshire, 148.\\nDescription of William Smellie, 202.\\nRattlin, roarin Willie, 234.\\nAt Roslin Inn, 204.\\nInscription for the Tomb of Fergusson, 216.\\nVerses under the Portrait of Fergusson,\\n190.\\nVerses intended to be written below a noble\\nEarl s Picture, 192.\\nWhen Guilford good our Pilot stood, 86.\\nExtempore in the Court of Session, 204.\\nThere was a lad was born in Kyle, 334.\\nPrologue spoken by Mr. Woods on his\\nBenefit Night, 164.\\nAddress to William Tytler, Esq., 149.\\nFair maid, you need not take the hint, 149.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0470.jp2"}, "469": {"fulltext": "CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX.\\n423\\nSymon Gray, 151.\\nYour billet, sir, I grant receipt, 150.\\nAt Inveraray, 205.\\nA Highland Welcome, 206.\\nOn reading in a Newspaper the Death of\\nJohn M Leod, Esq., 105.\\nThe crimson blossom charms the bee, 150.\\nOn the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair,\\n193-\\nTo Miss Ferrier, 151.\\nVerse written on a Window of the Inn at\\nFalkirk, 358.\\nVerses written on a Window of the Inn at\\nCarron, 206.\\nLines written at Stirling, 206.\\nVerses written with my Pencil over the\\nChimney-piece in the Parlour of the Inn\\nat Kenmore, at the Outlet of Loch Tay,\\n107.\\nThe Birks of Aberfeldie, 223.\\nThe Humble Petition of Bruar Water_to\\nthe noble Duke of Athole, 105.\\nVerses written with a Pencil, standing by\\nthe Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness, 108.\\nCastle Gordon, 132.\\nThe Bonie Lass of Albanie [possibly 1788]\\n338.\\nOn Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch-\\nTurit, 107.\\nBlythe was she, 231.\\nA rose-bud, by my early walk, 233.\\nTo Miss Cruickshank, a very Young Lady,\\n104.\\nWhere, braving angry winter s storms, 234.\\nMy Peggy s face, my Peggy s form, 291.\\nThe banks of the Devon, 229.\\nOn the Death of Lord President Dundas,\\n194.\\nWhen dear Clarinda, matchless fair, 152.\\n1788.-^1. 29.\\nOn Mr. Elphinstone s Translation of Mar-\\ntial, 205.\\nA Farewell to Clarinda, 235.\\nWhistle, an I 11 come to ye, my lad, 222.\\nM Pherson s Farewell, 224.\\nStay, my charmer, can you leave me 225.\\nStrathallan s Lament, 225.\\nThe Young Highland Rover, 227.\\nRaving winds around her blowing, 230.\\nMusing on the roaring ocean, 231.\\nTo Clarinda, with a Pair of Drinking-glasses,\\n152-\\nThe Chevalier s Lament, 338.\\nEpistle to Hugh Parker, 153.\\nOf a the airts the wind can blaw, 242.\\nO, were I on Parnassus hill, 243.\\nWritten in Friars Carse Hermitage, 91.\\nTo Mr. Alexander Cunningham, 153.\\nEpistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry,\\n95-\\nThe Fete Champetre, 177.\\nThe day returns, my bosom burns, 239.\\nOn Robert Fergusson, 216.\\nThe lazy mist hangs from the brow of the\\nhill, 241.\\nI hae a wife o my ain, 262.\\nAuld lang syne, 277.\\nGo fetch to me a pint o wine, 241.\\nRobin shure in hairst, 294.\\n1788-89. ^t. 29-30.\\nSweet Tibbie Dunbar, 236.\\nThe Gard ner wi his paidle, 239.\\nBeware o bonie Ann, 238.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, 244.\\nThe banks of Nith, 252.\\nTarn Glen, 252.\\n1789. ^t. 30.\\nElegy on the year 1788, 132.\\nExtempore Verses to Captain Riddel), 156.\\nCaledonia, a ballad, 341.\\nOde, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald\\nof Auchencruive, 91.\\nPegasus at Wanlockhead, 196.\\nOde to the Departed Regency-bill, 1789, 171.\\nO, sing a new song to the Lord 172.\\nDelia, an Ode, 354.\\nSketch, inscribed to Charles James Fox,\\nEsq., 173.\\nVerses on a Wounded Hare, 102.\\nTo James Tennant of Glenconner, 156.\\nThe Kirk s Alarm, 120.\\nTo Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, 154.\\nWillie brew d a peck o niaut, 251.\\nThe Whistle, 109.\\nThou Lingering Star, 247.\\nTo Dr. Blacklock, 158.\\nOn Captain Grose s Peregrinations thro\\nScotland, 103.\\nEpigram on Captain Grose, 207.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0471.jp2"}, "470": {"fulltext": "424\\nCHRONOLOGICAL INDEX.\\nVerses on Captain Grose, 133.\\nElection ballad for W esterha 179.\\nThe Five Carlins, an Election Ballad, 178.\\nThe blue-eyed lassie, 252.\\nSketch New-year s Day, 134.\\nPrologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries,\\non New-year s Day Evening (1790), 165.\\n1790. JEt 31.\\nThine am I, my faithful fair, 316.\\nPrologue for Mrs. Sutherland s Benefit-\\nnight, Dumfries, 166.\\nPeg Nicholson, 195.\\nWritten to a Gentleman who had sent the\\nPoet a Newspaper, and offered to con-\\ntinue it free of Expense, 159.\\nDear Peter, dear Peter, 160.\\nYestreen I had a pint o wine, 339.\\nI murder hate, 209.\\nEpistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fin-\\ntry, 180.\\nElegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 92.\\nEpitaph on Captain Henderson, 94.\\nTam o Shanter a Tale, 99.\\nStanzas on the Birth of a Posthumous Child,\\nborn in peculiar circumstances of Family-\\ndistress, 108.\\nElegy on the late Miss Burnet of Mon-\\nboddo, 196.\\n1791. JEt. 32.\\nLament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the\\napproach of Spring, 94.\\nThere 11 never be peace till Jamie comes\\nhame, 255.\\nLament for James, Earl of Glencairn, 97.\\nLines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart,, 98.\\nDear Sir, Our Lucky humbly begs, 359.\\nSensibility how charming, 257.\\nAddress to the Shade of Thomson, 103.\\nLovely Davies, 261.\\nEpigram on Miss Davies, 208.\\nBonie wee thing, 259.\\nA Fragment on Glenriddell s Fox breaking\\nhis Chain, 174.\\nTo John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughtie, on\\nhis Birthday, 160.\\nAe fond kiss, and then we sever, 260.\\nAnce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decem-\\nber I 291.\\nFarewell, thou fair day, thou green earth,\\nand ye skies, 271.\\nCraigieburn Wood, 253.\\nThe Banks o Doon, 267.\\n1792. ^t. 33.\\nMy Nanie s awa, 313.\\nWandering Willie, 299.\\nLines on Fergusson, 195.\\nThe Deil s awa wi th Exciseman, 274.\\nBonie Lesley, 305.\\nThe lea-rig, 328.\\nMy wife s a winsome wee thing, 328,\\nHighland Mary, 317.\\nThe Rights of Woman an Occasional Ad-\\ndress spoken by Miss Fontenelle, 167.\\nTo Miss Fontenelle, on seeing her in a\\nfavourite Character, 210.\\nAuld Rob Morris, 300.\\nDuncan Gray, 302.\\nHere s to them that s awa, 343.\\n1793. ^t. 34.\\nExtempore on some Commemorations of\\nThomson, 197.\\nO poortith cauld and restless love, 304.\\nGalla Water, 299.\\nSonnet on hearing a Thrush sing, 198.\\nLord Gregory, 303.\\nOpen the door to me, 300.\\nOn General Dumourier s desertion from\\nthe French Republican Army, 197.\\nYoung Jessie, 305.\\nWhen Wild War s deadly blast was\\nblawn, 301.\\nIt is na, Jean, thy bonie face, 258.\\nMeg o the Mill, 296.\\nBlythe hae I been on yon hill, 307,\\nLogan Water, 320.\\nO were my love yon Lilac fair, 326.\\nThere was a lass and she was fair, 327,\\nEpitaph on a Lap-dog, 217,\\nEpigram on Morine, 210.\\nPhillis the Fair, 345.\\nHad I a cave on some wild distant shore, 309.\\nBy Allan stream I chanc d to rove, 307.\\nO, whistle and I 11 come to ye, my lad, 222.\\nAdown winding Nith I did wander, 306.\\nCome, let me take thee to my breast, 308.\\nScots Wha hae, 315.\\nWhere are the joys 320.\\nImpromptu on Mrs. Riddell s Birthday, 4th\\nNovember, 1793, 198.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0472.jp2"}, "471": {"fulltext": "CHRONOLOGICAL INDEX.\\n425\\nAt Brownhill we always get dainty good\\ncheer, 208.\\nGraces before and after meat, 214.\\nHusband, husband, cease your strife, 311.\\nAddress spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her\\nbenefit night, 168.\\nI^ovely Polly Stewart, 286.\\nIn a lady s pocket-book, 210.\\nEpigrams on the Earl of Galloway, 210.\\n1794. ^t. 35.\\nMonody on a Lady famed for her\\ncaprice, 217.\\nEpistle from Esopus to Maria, 135.\\nThe lovely lass of Inverness, 275.\\nOut over the Forth, 279.\\nLouis, what reck I by thee 277.\\nCharlie, he s my darling, 279.\\nThe Cooper o Cuddy, 280.\\nSomebody 280.\\nWilt thou be my Dearie 286.\\nWae is my heart, 287.\\nHere s to thy health, my bonie lass, 289.\\nSonnet on the Death of Glenriddell, 199.\\nTo William Stevvart, 161.\\nExtempore pinned to Mrs. Riddell s car-\\nriage, 211.\\nEpigram on a noted Coxcomb, 218.\\nHere is the Glen, 303.\\nFragment of an Ode for Washington s\\nBirthday, 175.\\nAs I stood by yon roofless tower, 275.\\nA tippling ballad, 357.\\nAddress to the Daughter of Mr. Graham\\nof Fintry, 161.\\nYe true Loyal Natives, attend to my\\nsong, 209.\\nHow can my poor heart be glad 322.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes, 322.\\nSae flaxen were her ringlets, 281.\\nTo Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig s\\nRecovery, 211.\\nTo Chloris, 163.\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks, 319.\\nO saw ye my dear, my Philly 345.\\nHow lang and dreary is the night, 231.\\nLet not Woman e er complain, 303.\\nSleep st thou, or wauk st thou, fairest crea-\\nture, 326.\\nBut lately seen in gladsome green, 288.\\nEpigram on seeing Mrs. Kemble in Yar-\\nico, 212.\\nEpigram on Walter Riddell, Esq., 218.\\nMy Chloris, mark how green the groves, 318.\\nO Philly, happy be that day, 325.\\nContented wi little, 308.\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katy 308.\\nTo the Hon. Wm. R. Maule of Panmure,2i2.\\nThanksgiving for a National Victory, 360.\\n1795. ^t. 36.\\nScroggam, 293.\\nMy Lord a-hunting, 295.\\nJockey s ta ea the parting kiss, 296.\\nO lay thy loof in mine, lass, 297.\\nThere s news, lasses, news, 298.\\nO Mally s meek, Mally s sweet, 298.\\nA Man s a Man for a that, 323.\\nO let me iri this ae night, 324.\\nBallads on Mr. Heron s Election, 1795, 183.\\nDoes haughty Gaul invasion threat 294.\\nInstead of a song, boys, I ll give you a\\ntoast (?I793), 175.\\nOh, wat ye wha s in yon town 284.\\nVerses to John Syine of Ryedale, 212.\\nO stay, sweet warbling woodlark, 304.\\nOn Chloris being ill, 360.\\nCaledonia, 221.\\nT was na her bonie blue e e was my ruin 346.\\nMark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 324.\\nAddress to the Toothache, 129.\\nForlorn, my Love, no comfort near, 321.\\nLast May a braw wooer, 312.\\nO, this is no my ain lassie, 314.\\nNow spring has clad the grove in green, 314.\\nO bonie was yon rosy brier, 320.\\nFor an Altar of Independence, 213.\\nVerses on the Duke of Queensberry, 180.\\nVerses on the Destruction of the Woods\\nnear Drumlanrig, 351.\\nTo Collector Mitchell, 161.\\nO wha is she that lo es me, 368.\\nEpigram on William Cruickshank, 217.\\nThe Philosopher s Stone, 359.\\n1796. ^t. 37.\\nThe Dean of the Faculty, 187.\\nTo Colonel de Peyster, 162.\\nA lass wi a tocher, 307.\\nHere s a health, 310.\\nOh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 346.\\nWha will buy my troggin, 186.\\nVerses to Miss Jessie Lewars, 213.\\nFairest maid on Devon banks, 318.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0473.jp2"}, "472": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nOi\u00c2\u00ab:^00\\nA Bard s Epitaph, 64.\\nAberfeldie, The Birks of, 223.\\nAccept the Gift a Friend Sincere, 364.\\nAdair, Eppie, 248.\\nAdam Armour s Prnver, 126.\\nAdditional Lines at Stirling, 206.\\nAdditional Stanzas on Fergusson, 216.\\nAddress of Beelzebub, 169.\\nSpoken by Miss Fontenelle, 168.\\nto a Haggis, 83.\\nto Edinburgh, 83.\\nto the Deil, 13.\\nto the Shade of Thomson, 103.\\nto the Toothache, 129.\\nto the Unco Guid, 75.\\nA Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 49.\\nAdieu! a Heart-warm, Fond Adieu, 62.\\nAdmiring Nature in her Wildest Grace,\\n107.\\nAdown winding Nith I did wander, 306.\\nA Dream, 20.\\nAe day, as Death, that Gruesome Carl, 215.\\nAe fond Kiss, and then we Sever, 260.\\nAfar the Illustrious Exile Roams, 170.\\nA Fragment: When Guilford Good, 86.\\nAfton, Sweet, 271.\\nAgain Rejoicing Nature Sees, 83.\\nAgainst the Earl of Galloway, 210.\\nAgain the Silent Wheels of Time, 82.\\nA Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie, 31.\\nAh, Chloris, Could I Now but Sit, 360.\\nAh, Chloris, since it may not be, 344.\\nA Head, Pure, Sinless quite of Brain and\\nSoul, 207.\\nA Highland Welcome, 206.\\nAh, Woe is Me, my Mother Dear, 191.\\nAiken, Esq., For Robert, 64.\\nAinslie in Church, On Miss, 205.\\nA Lass \\\\vi a Tocher, 307.\\nAlbanie, The Bonie Lass of, 338.\\nA Little Upright, Pert, Tart, Tripping\\nWight, 202.\\nAllan Stream, By, 307.\\nAll Hail, Inexorable Lord, 46.\\nAll Villain as I am a Damned Wretch,\\n201.\\nAltho he has Left me for Greed o the\\nSiller, 347.\\nAltho my Back be at the Wa 288.\\nAltho my Bed were in yon Muir, 330.\\nAltho Thou maun never be Mine, 310.\\nAmang the Trees, where Humming Bees,\\n338.\\nA Mauchline Wedding, 125.\\nAmong the Heathy Hills and Ragged\\nWoods, 108.\\nA Mother s Lament, 246.\\nAnce Mair I Hail Thee, Thou Gloomy\\nDecember, 291.\\nAnderson My Jo, John, John, 244.\\nAnd I ll Kiss Thee Yet, 233.\\nA New Psalm for the Chapel of Kilmar-\\nnock, 172.\\nAn Honest Man Here Lies at Rest, 215.\\nAnna, Thy Charms My Bosom Fire, 105.\\nAnn, Beware o Bonie, 238.\\nAn Somebodie Were Come Again, 242.\\nA Poet s Grace, 214.\\nA Poet s Welcome to his Love-Begotten\\nDaughter, 123.\\nApology to John Syme, 213.\\nApostrophe to Fergusson, 190.\\nA Prayer in the Prospect of Death, 45.\\nA Red, Red Rose, 275.\\nArmour s Prayer, Adam, 126.\\nA Rose-bud, by My Early Walk, 233.\\nA Ruined Farmer, 329.\\nAs Cauld a Wind as Ever Blew, 208.\\nAs doun the Burn they took their Way, 348.\\nAs Father Adam First was Fool d, 63.\\nAs I Cam Doon the Banks o Nith, 180.\\nAs I Came O er the Cairney Mount, 285.\\nAs I Gaed Down the Water-side, 245.\\nAs I Gaed Up by Yon Gate-end, 344.\\n426", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0474.jp2"}, "473": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n427\\nAs I Stood by Yon Roofless Tower, 275.\\nAs I was a-wandering ae Midsummer\\nE enin 365.\\nAs I was a-wandering ae Morning in Spring,\\n358.\\nAs I was Walking up the Street, 298.\\nAsk why God Made the Gem so Small,\\n208.\\nA Slave to Love s Unbounded Sway, 297.\\nAs Mailie, an her Lambs Thegither, 15.\\nA Sonnet upon Sonnets, 199.\\nAs on the Banks of Winding Nith, 350.\\nAs Tarn the Chapman on a Day, 215.\\nAt Brownhill we Always Get Dainty Good\\nCheer, 208.\\nAt Carron Ironworks, 206.\\nAt Friars Carse Hermitage, 213.\\nA the Lads o Thorniebank, 228.\\nAt Inveraray, 205.\\nA Tippling Ballad, 357.\\nAt Roslin Inn, 204.\\nAt the Globe Tavern, 214.\\nAt the Globe Tavern, Dumfries, 209.\\nAt Whigham s Inn, Sanquhar, 207.\\nAugust, Composed in, 61.\\nAuld Chuckle Reekie s Sair Distrest, 131.\\nAuld Comrade Dear and Brither Sinner,\\n156.\\nAuld Lang Syne, 277.\\nAuld Neebor, I m Three Times Doubly o er\\nYour Debtor, 140.\\nAuld Rob Morris, 300.\\nA Waukrife Minnie, 250.\\nAwa, Whigs, Awa, 245.\\nAwa wi Your Witchcraft o Beauty s\\nAlarms, 307.\\nA Winter Night, 78.\\nA Ye Wha Live by Sowps o Drink, 48.\\nAyr, The Brigs of, 68.\\nAy Waukin, O, 238.\\nBabington s Looks, On Dr., 212.\\nBallads on Mr. Heron s Election, 1795\\nFirst: 183.\\nSecond The Election, 184.\\nThird John Bushby s Lamentation,\\n185.\\nFourth The Trogger, 186.\\nBallochmyle, The Braes o 247.\\nBallochmyle, The Lass o 335.\\nBannocks o Bear Meal, 287.\\nBarleycorn, John, 85.\\nBeauteous Rosebud, Young and Gay, 104.\\nBeelzebub, Address of, 169.\\nBefore I saw Clarinda s Face, 362.\\nBehind Yon Hills Where Lugar Flows, 87.\\nBehold the Hour, the Boat, Arrive, 321, 343.\\nBell, Bonie, 272.\\nBelow Thir Stanes Lie Jamie s Banes, 63.\\nBeware o Bonie Ann, 238.\\nBirthday Ode for 31st December 1787, 170.\\nBlacklock, To Dr., 158.\\nBlair, Elegy on the Death of Sir James\\nHunter, 193.\\nBless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 219.\\nBlest be M Murdo to his Latest Day, 198.\\nBlythe Hae I Been on Yon Hill, 307.\\nBlythe Was She, 231.\\nBoghead, Here lies, 215.\\nBonie Bell, 272.\\nBonie Dundee, 221.\\nBonie Wee Thing, 259.\\nBraw, Braw Lads on Yarrow Braes, 299.\\nBraw Lads o Galla Water, 299.\\nBraw Lads of Galla Water, 371.\\nBright ran thy Line, O Galloway, 210.\\nBrownhill Inn, At, 208.\\nBruar Water, The Humble Petition of, 105.\\nBruce. A Fragment, 374.\\nBurnet of Monboddo, Elegy on the late\\nMiss, 196.\\nBurns, Under the Portrait of Miss, 205.\\nBushby of Tinwald Downs, On John, 219.\\nBushby s Lamentation, John, 185.\\nBut Lately Seen in Gladsome Green, 288.\\nBut Rarely Seen Since Nature s Birth, 213.\\nBut Warily Tent when Ye Come to Court\\nMe, 222.\\nBy Allan Stream I Chanc d to Rove, 307.\\nBy Love and by Beauty, 248.\\nBy Oughtertyre Grows the Aik, 232.\\nBy Yon Castle Wa at the Close of the\\nDay, 255.\\nCaledonia, 341.\\nCan I Cease to Care, 319.\\nCanst Thou Leave Me, 308.\\nCarl, an the King Come, 242.\\nCarron Ironworks, At, 206.\\nCastle Gordon, 132.\\nCa the Yowes to the Knowes (first set), 245.\\n(second set), 322.\\nCauld blaws the Wind frae East to West,\\n226.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0475.jp2"}, "474": {"fulltext": "428\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nCauld is the E enin Blast, 297.\\nCease, ye Prudes, your Envious Railing, 205.\\nCessnock Banks, The Lass of, 330.\\nChalmers Sweetheart, To Willie, 144.\\nCharlie He s My Darling, 279.\\nO er the Water to, 232.\\nChloris, All, 344.\\nInscription to, 163.\\nMark, My, 318.\\nChloris, On, 211.\\nClarinda, Mistress of My Soul, 235.\\nSylvander to, 152.\\nwith a Pair of Wine Glasses, To, 152.\\nCock Up Your Beaver, 254.\\nCome Boat Me O er, Come Row Me O er,\\n233-\\nCome, Bumpers High Express your Joy,\\n342-\\nCome Fill Me a Bumper, 360.\\nCome, Let Me Take Thee to My Breast,\\n308.\\nCome Rede Me, Dame, 364.\\nComin Thro the Rye, Poor Bodie, 278.\\nComposed in August, 61.\\nComposed in Spring, 88.\\nContented wi Little and Cantie wi Mair,\\n308.\\nCorn Rigs, 60.\\nCould Aught of Song, 365.\\nCraigdarroch, Fam d for Speaking Art, 202.\\nCraigieburn, Sweet Fa s the Eve on, 305.\\nWood, 253.\\nCreech, Lament for the Absence of Will-\\niam, 130.\\nOn William, 202.\\nCrochallan Came, 202.\\nCrookieden, I Hae Been at, 258.\\nCruickshank, A. M., For William, 217.\\nTo Miss, 104.\\nCuddy, The Cooper o 280.\\nCunningham, To Alexander, 153.\\nCurs d be the Man, the Poorest Wretch in\\nLife, 208.\\nCurse on Ungrateful Man, that can be\\nPleas d, 190.\\nDaer, Lines on Meeting with Lord, 129.\\nDamon and Sylvia, 370.\\nDaughter of Chaos Doting Years, 171.\\nDavie, a Brother Poet, Epistle to, 38.\\nSecond Epistle to, 140,\\nDavies, Lovely, 261.\\nDavies, On Miss, 208.\\nDavison, Duncan, 228.\\nDear I 11 Gie ye Some Advice, 205.\\nDear I eter, dear Peter, 160.\\nDear Sir, at onie Time or Tide, 156.\\nDear Sir, Our Lucky Humbly Begs, 359.\\nDear Smith, the Slce st, Pawkie Thief, 17.\\nDeath and Dr. Hornbook, 65.\\nDelia, 354.\\nDeluded Swain, the Pleasure, 302,\\nDe Peyster, To Colonel, 162.\\nDespondency, 42.\\nDevon Banks, Fairest Maid on, 318.\\nThe Banks of the, 229.\\nDire was the Hate at Old Harlaw, 187.\\nDoes Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat, 294.\\nDoon, Sweet are the Banks o 340.\\nThe Banks o 267.\\nYe Flowery Banks o Bonie, 340.\\nDost Ask Me Why I send Thee Here, 346.\\nDost Thou not Rise, Indignant Shade, 197.\\nDove, On John, 216.\\nDrumlanrig Woods, On the Destruction\\nof, 351-\\nDumfries, Prologue Spoken at the Theatre\\nof, 165.\\nDumourier s Desertion, 197.\\nDunbar, Sweet Tibbie, 236.\\nDuncan Davison, 228.\\nDuncan Gray (first set), 229.\\n(second set), 302.\\nDundas, On the Death of Lord Presi-\\ndent, 194.\\nDundee, Bonie, 221.\\nDweller in Yon Dungeon Dark, 91.\\nEcclefechan, The Lass o 280.\\nEdina I Scotia s Darling Seat, 84.\\nEdinburgh, Address to, 83.\\nElection Ballad Addressed to Robert Gra-\\nham, Esq., of Fintry, 180.\\nElection Ballad for Westerha 179.\\nElection, Ballads on Mr. Heron s, 1795, 183.\\nElegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 92.\\non Stella, 348.\\non the Death of Sir James Hunter\\nBlair, 193.\\non the Death of Robert Ruisseaux, 192.\\non the Departed Year 1788, 132.\\non the Late Miss Burnet of Mon-\\nboddo, 196.\\non Willie Nicol s Mare, 194.\\n1", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0476.jp2"}, "475": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n429\\nEliza, From Thee, 62.\\nElphinstone s Translation of Martial, On,\\n205.\\nEnvy, if thy Jaundiced Eye, 207.\\nEpistle to a Young Friend, 47.\\nto Davie, a Brother Poet, 38.\\nSecond, 140.\\nto Dr. Blacklock, 158.\\nto James Smith, 17.\\nto J. Lapraik, 52.\\nSecond, 54.\\nThird, 138.\\nto John Rankine, 59.\\nEpitaph on a Henpecked Squire, 63.\\nEpitaph on the Poet s Daughter, 366.\\nEppie Adair, 248.\\nEsopus to Maria, From, 135.\\nEvan Banks, 368.\\nExpect na, Sir, in this Narration, 49.\\nExtempore in the Court of Session, 204.\\nExtempore Lines, 360.\\nExtempore to Gavin Hamilton, 145.\\nFair Eliza, 265.\\nFair Empress of the Poet s Soul, 152.\\nFairest Maid on Devon Banks, 318.\\nFair Fa Your Honest, Sonsie Face, 83.\\nFair Maid, You Need not Take the Hint, 205.\\nFair the Face of Orient Day, 354.\\nFarewell, Dear Friend May Quid Luck\\nHit You, 143.\\nFarewell, Old Scotia s Bleak Domains, 192.\\nFarewell, Thou Fair Day, Thou Green\\nEarth, and Ye Skies, 271.\\nFarewell, Thou Stream that Winding\\nFlows, 309.\\nFarewell to a our Scottish Fame, 269.\\nFarewell to the Brethren of St. James s\\nLodge, Tarbolton, 62.\\nFarewell to the Highlands, Farewell to the\\nNorth, 244.\\nFarewell, ye Dungeons Dark and Strong, 224.\\nFate Gave the Word the Arrow Sped, 246.\\nFergusson, Additional Stanzas on, 216.\\nApostrophe to, 190.\\nLines on, 195.\\nOn Robert, 216.\\nFerrier, To Miss, 151.\\nFill Me with the Rosy Wine, 213.\\nFintry, My Stay in Worldly Strife, 180.\\nsee Graham.\\nFirst When Maggie was My Care, 242.\\nFlow Gently, Sweet Afton, Among Thy\\nGreen Braes, 271.\\nFontenelle, Address Spoken by Miss, 168.\\nOn Miss, 210.\\nFor an Altar of Independence, 213.\\nFor Gabriel Richardson, 220.\\nFor Gavin Hamilton, .Esq., 64.\\nFor Lords or Kings I Dinna Mourn, 132.\\nForlorn My Love, no Comfort Near, 321.\\nFor Mr. Walter Riddell, 218.\\nFor Mr. William Michie, 217.\\nFor Robert Aiken, Esq., 64.\\nFor Shame Let Folly and Knavery, 205.\\nFor the Author s Father, 64.\\nFor Thee is Laughing Nature Gay, 347.\\nFor the Sake o Somebody, 280.\\nForth, Out over the, 279.\\nFor William Cruicksliank, A.M., 217.\\nFor William Nicol, 217.\\nFourteen, a Sonneteer Thy Praises\\nSings, 199.\\nFox, Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J., 173.\\nFrae the Friends and Land I Love, 253.\\nP riars Carse Hermitage, At, 213.\\nVerses in, 131.\\nWritten in, 91.\\nFriday First s the Day Appointed, 143.\\nFriend of the Poet, Tried and Leal, 161.\\nFrom Esopus to Maria, 135.\\nFrom Thee, Eliza, I Must Go, 62.\\nFrom the White-blossom d Sloe My Dear\\nChloris Requested, 211.\\nFrom those Drear Solitudes and Frowsy\\nCells, 135.\\nFull Well Thou Know st I Love Thee\\nDear, 318.\\nFyers, Lines on the Fall of, 108.\\nFy, Let Us A to Kirkcudbright, 184.\\nGalla Water, Braw Lads o 299.\\nGalloway, Against the Earl of, 210.\\nLaird, On a, 219.\\nGane is the Day, and Mirk s the Night, 255.\\nGat Ye Me, O, Gat Ye Me, 2S0.\\nGaul Invasion Threat, Does Haughty, 294.\\nGlen, Tam, 252.\\nGlencairn, Lament for James, Earl of, 97.\\nGlenriddell s Fox Breaking his Chain,\\nOn, 174.\\nGlobe Tavern, Dumfries, At the, 209, 214.\\nGo, Fetch to Me a Pint o Wine, 241.\\nGoldie s Brains, On Commissary, 209.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0477.jp2"}, "476": {"fulltext": "430\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nGoldie, To John, 137.\\nGordon Castle, 132.\\nGordon s Reel Dancing, On the Ducliess\\nof. 133.\\nGracie, Thou Art a Man of Worth, 213.\\nGraham, Esq., of Fintry, Election Ballad\\nAddressed to Robert, 180.\\nEsq., of Fiiitry, Sonnet to Robert, 15S.\\nTo Robert, 95,. 154.\\nof Fintry, Inscription to Miss, 161.\\nGraham of Mossknowe, On William, 219.\\nGrant Me, Indulgent Heaven, that I may\\nLive, 210.\\nGray, Duncan (first set), 229.\\n(second set), 302.\\nTo Symon, 151.\\nWee Willie, 292.\\nGreen Grow the Rashes, O, 88.\\nGregory, Lord, 303.\\nGrieve, Laird of Boghead, Tarbohon, On\\nJames, 215.\\nGrizzel Grim me. On, 199.\\nGrose, On Captain Francis, 207.\\nGrose s Peregrinations Thro Scotland, On\\nthe Late Captain, 103.\\nGude Pity Me, Because I m Little, 126.\\nGuid E en to You, Kimmer, 292.\\nGuid-mornin to Your Majesty, 20.\\nGuid Speed and Furder to You, Johnie, 138.\\nGuidwife, Count the Lawin, 255.\\nI Mind it Weel, in Early Date, 148.\\nGuilford Good, When, 86.\\nHad I a Cave, 309.\\nHad I the Wyte Had I the Wyte, 277.\\nHail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv d, 350.\\nHail, Thairm-inspirin, Rattlin Willie, 147.\\nHalloween, 28.\\nHamilton, Esq., A Dedication to Gavin, 49.\\nExtempore to Gavin, 145.\\nFor Gavin, 64.\\nTo Gavin, 142.\\nHampden, On Johnson s Opinion of, 205.\\nHappy Friendship, 363.\\nHark, the Mavis E ening Sang, 322.\\nHarry, Highland, 237.\\nHas Auld Kilmarnock Seen the Deil, 76.\\nHa! Whare Ye Gaun, Ye Crowlin Fer-\\nlie, SI.\\nHealth to the Maxwells Vet ran Chief, 160.\\nHear, Land o Cakes, and Brither Scots,\\n103.\\nHeard ye o the Tree o France, 352.\\nHe Clench d His Pamphlets in His Fist,\\n204.\\nHee Balou, My Sweet Wee Donald, 287.\\nHe Looked Just as Your Sign-post Lions\\nDo, 207.\\nHenderson, Elegy on Captain Matthew, 92.\\nHer Daddie Forbad, Her Minnie Forbad,\\n226.\\nHere am I, Johnny Peep, 373.\\nHere around the Ingle Bleezing, 363.\\nHere Awa There Awa Wandering Willie,\\n299.\\nHere Brewer Gabriel s Fire s Extinct, 220.\\nHere Comes Burns, 366.\\nHere Cursing, Swearing Burton Lies, 219.\\nHere Holy Willie s Sair Worn Clay, 215.\\nHere is the Glen, and Here the Bower,\\n303-\\nHere Lies a Mock Marquis, Whose Titles\\nwere Shamm d, 219.\\nHere Lies a Rose, a Budding Rose, 366.\\nHere Lies Boghead Amang the Dead, 215.\\nHere Lies in Earth a Root of Hell, 219.\\nHere Lies John Bushby Honest Man,\\n219.\\nHere Lies Johnie Pigeon, 216.\\nHere Lies Mang Ither Useless Matters,\\n359-\\nHere Lie Willie Michie s Banes, 217.\\nHere Lyes with Dethe Auld Grizzel Grimme,\\n219.\\nHere s a Bottle, 337.\\nHere s a Health, 310.\\nHere s a Health to Them That s Awa, 343.\\nHere s his Health in Water, 288.\\nHere Souter Hood in Death Does Sleep,\\n63-\\nHere Stewarts Once in Glory Reigned, 206.\\nHere s to Thy Health, My Bonie Lass, 289.\\nHere, Where the Scottish Muse Immortal\\nLives, 160.\\nHer Flowing Locks, the Raven s Wing, 335.\\nHeron s Election, 1795, Ballads on, 183.\\nHe Who of Rankine Sang, Lies Stiff and\\nDeid, 220.\\nHey, Ca Thro 273.\\nHey the Dusty Miller, 227.\\nHighland Harry, 237.\\nLaddie, 285.\\nMary, 317.\\nHis Face with Smile Eternal Drest, 207.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0478.jp2"}, "477": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n431\\nHis Royal Visage Seamed with Many a\\nScar, 374.\\nHoly Willie s Prayer, 119.\\nHood, Here Souter, 63.\\nHornbook, Death and Dr., 65.\\nHow Can My Poor Heart be Glad, 322.\\nHow Cold is that Bosom that Folly Once\\nFired, 217.\\nHow Cruel are the Parents, 310.\\nHow Daur Ye Ca Me Howlet-face, 209.\\nHow Gracefully Maria Leads the Dance,\\n366.\\nHow Lang and Dreary is the Night, 231.\\nHow, Liberty Girl, Can it be by Thee\\nNam d, 211.\\nHow Pleasant the Banks of the Clear Wind-\\ning Devon, 229.\\nHow Wisdom and Folly Meet, Mix, and\\nUnite, 173.\\nHughie Graham, 370.\\nHumid Seal of Soft Affections, 354.\\nHusband, Husband, Cease Your Strife, 311.\\nI Am a Keeper of the Law, 136.\\nI Am My Mammie s Ae Bairn, 223.\\nI Bought My Wife a Stane o Lint, 261.\\nI Call no Goddess to Inspire My Strains,\\n158.\\nI Coft a Stane o Haslock Woo, 281.\\nI Do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair, 257.\\nI Dream d I Lay Where Flowers Were\\nSpringing, 227.\\nI Fee d a Man at Martinmas, 273.\\nIf Thou Should Ask My Love, 240.\\nIf Ye Gae Up to Yon Hill-top, 188.\\nIf You Rattle Along Like Your Mistress s\\nTongue, 211.\\nI Gaed a Waefu Gate Yestreen, 252.\\nI Gaed Up to Dunse, 294.\\nI Gat Your Letter, Winsome Willie, 56.\\nI Had Sax Owsen in a Pleugh, 293.\\nI Hae a Wife o My Ain, 262.\\nI Hae Been at Crookieden, 258.\\nI Hold it, Sir, My Bounden Duty, 142.\\nI Lang Hae Thought, My Youthfu Friend,\\n47-\\nIlk Care and Fear, when Thou art Near,\\n233-\\nI Look to the West, 360.\\nI 11 Ay Ca in by Yon Town, 283.\\nIll-fated Genius Heaven-taught Fergusson,\\n195-\\nI 11 Go and be a Sodger, 190.\\nI Love My Love in Secret, 236.\\nI Married with a Scolding Wife, 351.\\nI Met a Lass, a Bonie Lass, 366.\\nI m now Arrived Thanks to the Gods\\n348.\\nI m O er Young to Marry Yet, 223.\\nImpromptu on Mrs. Riddell s Birthday, 198.\\nto Captain Riddell, 156.\\nI Murder Hate by Field or Flood, 209.\\nIn a Lady s Pocket-book, 210.\\nIn Comin by the Biig o Dye, 228.\\nI Never Saw a Fairer, 329.\\nIn Honest Bacon s Ingle-neuk, 161.\\nInhuman Man, Curse on Thy Barbarous\\nArt, 102.\\nIn Lamington Kirk, 208.\\nIn Mauchline There Dwells Six Proper\\nYoung Belles, 190.\\nInnocence, 373.\\nInscribed on a Work of Hannah More s,\\n191.\\nInscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox, 173.\\nInscription to Chloris, 163.\\nInscription to Miss Graham of Fintry, 160.\\nIn Se enteen Hunder n Forty-nine, 212.\\nIn Simmer, When the Hay was Mawn, 265.\\nInstead of a Song, Boys, I ll Give You a\\nToast, 175.\\nIn Tarbolton, Ye Ken, There are Proper\\nYoung Men, 189.\\nIn this Strange Land, this Uncouth Clime,\\n153-\\nIn Truth and Honor s Name. Amen, 127.\\nIn Vain would Prudence with Decorous\\nSneer, 204.\\nInveraray, At, 205.\\nInverness, The Lovely Lass of, 275.\\nIn Wood and Wild, Ye Warbling Throng,\\n217.\\nI Rue the Day I Sought Her, O, 240.\\nI See a Form, I See a Face, 314.\\nI Sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of Worth,\\n109.\\nIs there a Whim-inspired Fool, 64.\\nIs there for Honest Poverty, 323.\\nIs this thy Plighted, Fond Regard, 308.\\nIthers Seek They Ken na What, 347,\\nIt is na, Jean, thy Bonie Face, 258.\\nIt may do maun do, Sir, 359.\\nIt was a for our Rightfu King, 289.\\nIt was in Sweet Senegal, 271.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0479.jp2"}, "478": {"fulltext": "432\\nGENERAL INDEX OF IirLES AND FIRST LINES,\\nIt was the Charming Month of May, 311.\\nIt was upon a Laninias Night, 60.\\nJamie comes Hame, There 11 never be\\nPeace till, 255.\\nJamie, Come Try Me, 240.\\nJamie, Thou Hast Left Me Ever, 317.\\nJeanie s Face, When First I Saw Fair, 342.\\nJean, Thy Bonie Face, It is na, 258.\\nJenny M Craw, 366.\\nJessie, Young, 305.\\nJockie s Ta en the Parting Kiss, 296.\\nJockie was the Blythest Lad, Young, 249.\\nJohn Anderson, My Jo, John, 244.\\nJohn Barleycorn, 85.\\nJohn, Come Kiss Me Now, O, 254.\\nJohnie, On Wee, 63.\\nJohn, Jumpin, 226.\\nJohnny Peep, 373.\\nJ n. To the Beautiful Miss Eliza, 211.\\nJohnson s Opinion of Hampden, On, 205.\\nJumpin John, 226.\\nKatharine Jaffray, 370.\\nKellyburn Braes, 269.\\nKemble in Yarico, On Seeing Mrs., 212.\\nKemble, Thou Cur st my Unbelief, 212.\\nKenmure s On and Awa, Willie, O, 263.\\nKennedy, To John, 141.\\nA Farewell, 143.\\nKen Ye Ought o Captain Grose, 133.\\nKilliecrankie, 251.\\nKilmarnock Wabsters Fidge an Claw, 73.\\nKind Sir, I ve Read Your Paper Through,\\n159-\\nKirk and State Excisemen, 211.\\nKist Yestreen, Kist Yestreen, 360.\\nKnow Thou, O Stranger to the Fame, 64.\\nKyle, There was a Lad was Born in, 334.\\nLaddie, Lie Near Me, 238.\\nLady Mary Ann, 268.\\nLady Onlie, Honest Lucky, 228.\\nLaggan, On the Laird of, 210.\\nLament for James, Earl of Glencairn, 97.\\nLament for the Absence of William Creech,\\n130.\\nLament Him, Mauchline Husbands a 216.\\nLament in Rhyme, Lament in Prose, 16.\\nLament of Mary Queen of Scots, 94.\\nLament when the Poet was about to Leave\\nScotland, 367.\\nLamington Kirk, In, 208.\\nLandlady, Count the Lawin, 230.\\nLang hae we Pairted Been, 238.\\nFirst, 52.\\nLapraik, Epistle to Second, 54.\\nThird, 138.\\nLascelles, On Captain, 218.\\nLassie wi the Lint-white Locks, 319.\\nLass, when Your Mither is Frae Hame, 366.\\nLast May a Braw Wooer Cam Down the\\nLang Glen, 312.\\nLate Crippl d of an Arm and now a Leg, 95.\\nLec/.ie Lindsay, 359.\\nLesley, O Saw Ye Bonie, 305.\\nLet Loove Sparkle in her E e, 347.\\nLet not Women e er Complain, 303.\\nLet Other Heroes Boast Their Scars, 128.\\nLet Other Poets Raise a Frdcas, 5.\\nLewars, To Miss Jessie, 163.\\nLewars, Versicles to Jessie, 213.\\nLiberty, 371.\\nLife Ne er Exulted in so Rich a Prize, 196.\\nLight Lay the Earth on Billie s Breast, 218.\\nLines on Fergusson, 195.\\non Meeting With Lord Daer, 129.\\non the Fall of Fyers, 108.\\nto Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., 98.\\nWritten on a Bank Note, 191.\\nLogan, To Major, 147.\\nTo Miss, 82.\\nWater, 320.\\nLone on the Bleaky Hills, the Straying\\nFlocks, 194.\\nLong Have the Learned Sought, Without\\nSuccess, 359.\\nLong Life, My Lord, an Health be Yours,\\n169.\\nLong, Long the Night, 319.\\nLord Gregory, 303.\\nLord, Thee We Thank, and Thee Alone,\\n214.\\nLord, to Account Who does Thee Call, 209.\\nLoud Blaw the Frosty Breezes, 227.\\nLouis, What Reck I by Thee, 277.\\nLovely Davies, 261.\\nLovely Polly Stewart, 286.\\nLugar Flows, Behind Yon Hills Where, 87.\\nM Adam of Craigcn-Gillan, To Mr., 142.\\nMackenzie, To Dr., 143.\\nM Leod, Esq., On the Death of |ohn, 105.\\nTo Miss Isabella, 150.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0480.jp2"}, "479": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n433\\nM lMath, To the Rev. John, 139.\\nM Murdo, On John, 198.\\nMacNab, My Eppie, 259.\\nM Pherson s Farewell, 224.\\nMaggie, The Aiild Farmer s New-year\\nMorning Salutation to His Auld Mare, 31.\\nMailie, The Death and Dying Words of\\nPoor, 15.\\nMailie s Elegy, Poor, 16.\\nMally s Meek, Mally s Sweet, 298.\\nMan was Made to Mourn, 43.\\nMaria, From Esopus to, 135.\\nMark Yonder Pomp of Costly Fashion, 324.\\nMary Ann, Lady, 268.\\nMary, Highland, 317.\\nMary Morison, 329.\\nMary Queen of Scots, Lament of, 94.\\nMary, Will ye Go to the Indies, My, 335.\\nMasonic Song, 336.\\nMauchline Belles, O Leave Novels, 333.\\nMauchline Lady, The, 334.\\nMauchline, The Belles of, 190.\\nMaule of Panmure, To the Hon. Wm. R.,\\n212.\\nMaxwell, Esq., of Terraughtie, To John, 160.\\nIf Merit Here You Crave, 211.\\nTo Dr., 211.\\nMeg o the Mill, 296, 344.\\nMenzies Bonie Mary, Theniel, 228.\\nMichie, For Mr. William, 217.\\nMild Zephyrs Waft Thee to Life s Farthest\\nShore, 203.\\nMitchell, To Collector, i6r.\\nMonody on a Lady Famed for Her Ca-\\nprice, 217.\\nMonlgomerie s Peggy, 350.\\nMore s, Inscribed on a Book of Hannah, 191.\\nMorison, Mary, 329.\\nMorris, Auld Rob, 300.\\nMotto prefixed to the Kilmarnock Edition,\\n375-\\nMuir in Tarbolton Mill, On Wm., 215.\\nOn Robert, 217.\\nMusing on the Roaring Ocean, 231.\\nMy Blessings on Ye, Honest Wife, 204.\\nMy Chloris, Mark how Green the Groves,\\n318.\\nMy Collier Laddie, 264.\\nMy Cui se upon Your Venom d Stang, 129.\\nMy Eppie MacNab, 259.\\nMy Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick\\nBorder, O, 332.\\n2F\\nMy Girl She s Airy, 358.\\nMy Godlike Friend Nay, do not Slare,\\n153-\\nMy Harry was a Gallant Gay, 237.\\nMy Heart is a-Breaking, Dear Tittle, 252.\\nMy Heart is Sair I Dare na Tell, 281.\\nMy Heart is Wae, and Unco Wae, 338.\\nMy Heart s in the Highlands, 244.\\nMy Heart was Ance as Blythe and Free,\\n222.\\nMy Highland Lassie, O, 224.\\nMy Hoggie, 226.\\nMy Honor d Colonel, Deep I Feel, 162.\\nMy Lord a-Hunting He is Gane, 295.\\nMy Lord, I Know, Your Noble Ear, 105.\\nMy Lov d, My Honor d, Much Respected\\nFriend, 33.\\nMy Love, She s but a Lassie Yet, 240.\\nMy Love was Born in Aberdeen, 246.\\nMy Nanie, O, 87.\\nMy Nanie s Awa, 313.\\nMy Peggy s Face, My Peggy s Form, 291.\\nMyra, the Captive Ribband s Mine, 243.\\nMy Sandy Gied to Me a Ring, 236.\\nMy Tocher s the Jewel, 254.\\nMy Wife s a Winsome Wee Thing, 328.\\nNae Gentle Dames, Tho Ne er Sae Fair,\\n224.\\nNae Heathen Name shall I Prefix, 151.\\nNanie O, My, 87.\\nNanie s Awa, My, 313.\\nNature s Law, 128.\\nNew Year s Day, 1791, 134.\\nNicol, For William, 217.\\nNicol s Mare, Elegy on, 195.\\nNinetieth Psalm Versified, 82.\\nNithsdale s Welcome Hame, 264.\\nNilh, The Banks o 252.\\nNo Churchman am I for to Rail and to\\nWrite, 89.\\nNo Cold Approach, no Altered Mien, 347.\\nNo More of Your Guests, be They Titled\\nor Not, 213.\\nNo More, Ye Warblers df the Wood, No\\nMore, 199.\\nNo Scnlptur d Marble Here, nor Pompous\\nLay, 216.\\nNo Song nor Dance I Bring from Yon Great\\nCity, 165.\\nNo Spartan Tube, No Attic Shell, 176.\\nNo Stewart Art Thou, Galloway, 210.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0481.jp2"}, "480": {"fulltext": "434\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nNow God in Heaven Bless Reekie s Town,\\n359-\\nNow Haply Down Yon Gay Green Shaw,\\n284.\\nNow Health Forsakes that Angel Face, 356.\\nNow Honest William s Gaen to Heaven,\\n217.\\nNow in Her Green Mantle Blythe Nature\\nArrays, 313.\\nNow Kennedy, if Foot or Horse, 141.\\nNow Nature Cleeds the Flowery Lea, 319.\\nNow Nature Hangs Her Mantle Green, 94.\\nNow Robin Lies in His Last Lair, 192.\\nNow Rosy May Comes in wi Flowers, 313.\\nNow Simmer Blinks on Flow ry Braes, 223.\\nNow Spring has Clad the Grove in Green,\\n314.\\nNow to the Streaming Fountain, 327.\\nNow Westlin Winds and Slaught ring\\nGuns, 61.\\nO, an Ye were Dead, Guidman, 276.\\nO a ye Pious Godly Flocks, 117.\\nO, Ay My Wife She Dang Me, 293.\\nO, Bonie was Yon Rosy Brier, 320.\\nO, Cam Ye Here the Fight to Shun, 248.\\nO, Can Ye Labour Lea, 273.\\nO, Can Ye Sew Cushions? 369.\\nO, Could I Give Thee India s Wealth, 158.\\nO Death, Had stThou but Spar d His Life,\\n63-\\nO Death! Thou Tyrant Fell and Bloody,\\n92.\\nOde for General Washington s Birthday,\\n175-\\nOde Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald,\\n91.\\nOde to the Departed Regency Bill, 171.\\nO er the Mist-shrouded Cliffs of the Lone\\nMountain Straying, 367.\\nO er the Water to Charlie, 232.\\nOf all the Numerous Ills that Hurt our\\nPeace, 201.\\nOf a the Airts the Wind Can Blaw, 242.\\nOf Lordly Acquaintance You Boast, 208.\\nO for Ane-and-Twenty, Tam, 262.\\nO Gie My Love Brose, Brose, 367.\\nO Goudie, Terror o the Whigs, 137.\\nO, Guid Ale Comes, 293.\\nO, Had each Scot of Ancient Times, 207.\\nO Had the Malt Thy Strength of Mind, 212.\\nO, How Can 1 be Blythe and Glad, 256.\\nO, How Shall I, Unskilfu Try, 261.\\nO, I am Come to the Low Countrie, 290.\\nO John, Come Kiss Me Now, 254.\\nO, Kenmure s On and Awa, Willie, 262.\\nO, Ken Ye What Meg o the Mill has Got-\\nten, 296, 344.\\nO, Lady Mary Ann Looks o er the Castle\\nWa 268.\\nO Lassie, Are Ye Sleepin Yet, 324.\\nO, Lay Thy Loof in Mine, Lass, 297.\\nOld Winter, with His Frosty lieard, 198.\\nO, Leave Novels, Ye Mauchline Belies, 333,\\nO, Leeze Me on My Spinnin-wheel, 262.\\nO, Let Me in this Ae Night, 324.\\nO Logan, Sweetly Did st Thou Glide, 320.\\nO Lord, since We have Feasted thus, 214.\\nO Lord, We do Thee humbly Thank, 214.\\nO Lord, When Hunger Pinclies Sore, 214.\\nO Lowse My Right-hand Free, He Says,\\n370.\\nO, Luve Will Venture in Where it Daur na\\nWeal be Seen, 266.\\nO Mary, at Thy Window Be, 329.\\nO May, Thy Morn was Ne er sae Sweet,\\n285.\\nO Meikle do I Rue, Fause Love, 363.\\nO Meikle Thinks my Luve o my Beauty,\\n254-\\nO, Merry Hae I Been Teethin a Heckle.\\n246.\\nO, Mirk, Mirk is This Midnight Hour, 303.\\nO, My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose, 275.\\nOn a Bank of Flowers in a Summer Day,\\n238.\\nOn a Beautiful Country Seat, 208.\\nOn a Celebrated Ruling Elder, 63.\\nOn a Galloway Laird, 219.\\nOn a Goblet, 212.\\nOn a Henpecked Squire, Epigram, 63.\\nEpitaph, 63.\\nOn a Lap-dog, 217.\\nOn Andrew Turner, 212.\\nOn an Innkeeper Nicknamed The Mar-\\nquis, 219.\\nOn a Noisy Polemic, 63.\\nOn a Noted Coxcomb, 218.\\nOn a Scotch Bard, 48.\\nOn a Suicide, 219.\\nOn a Swearing Coxcomb, 219.\\nOn a Wag in Mauchline, 216.\\nOn a Work of Hannah More s, Inscribed,\\n191.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0482.jp2"}, "481": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n435\\nOn Being Appointed to an Excise Divi-\\nsion, 207.\\nOn Burns s Horse Being Impounded, 369.\\nOn Captain Francis Grose, 207.\\nOn Captain Grose, 133.\\nOn Captain Lascelles, 218.\\nOnce Fondly Lov d and Still Remember d\\nDear, 144.\\nOn Cessnock Banks a Lassie Dwells, 330.\\nOn Chloris, 211.\\nOn Commissary Goldie s Brains, 209.\\nOn Dr. Babington s Looks, 212.\\nOn Elphinstone s Translation of Martial,\\n205.\\nOne Night as I Did Wander, 334.\\nOne Queen Artemisa, as Old Stories Tell,\\nOn General Dumourier s Desertion, 197.\\nOn Glenriddell s Fox Breakmg his Chain,\\n174.\\nOn Grizzel Grimme, 219.\\nOn Hearing a Thrush Sing in a Morning\\nWalk in January, 198.\\nOn Himself, 366.\\nOn Holy Willie, 215.\\nOn James Grieve, Laird of Boghead, Tar-\\nbolton, 215.\\nOn John Bushby of Tinwald Downs, 219.\\nOn lohn Dove, 216.\\nOn John M Murdo, 198.\\nOn John Rankine, 215.\\nOn Johnson s Opinion of Hampden, 205.\\nOnlie, Honest Lucky, Lady, 228.\\nOn Maria Dancing, 366.\\nOn Maria Riddell, 210.\\nOn Marriage, 214.\\nOn Miss Ainslie in Church, 205.\\nOn Miss Davies, 208.\\nOn Miss Fontenelle, 210.\\nOn Miss Jean Scott, 207.\\nOn Mr. James Gracie, 213.\\nOn Peace an Rest my Mind was Bent,\\n293-\\nOn Reading in a Newspaper the Death of\\nJohn M Leod, Esq., 105.\\nOn Robert Fergusson, 216.\\nOn Robert Muir, 217.\\nOn Rough Roads, 348.\\nOn Scaring Some Water-Fowl in Loch\\nTurit, 107.\\nOn Seeing a Wounded Hare, 102.\\nOn Seeing Mrs. Kemble in Yarico, 212.\\nOn Seeing the Royal Palace at Stirling in\\nRuins, 206.\\nOn some Commemorations of Thomson,\\n197.\\nOn Tarn the Chapman, 215.\\nOn Thanksgiving for a National Victory,\\n211.\\nOn the Author, 220.\\nOn the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 108.\\nOn the Commemoration of Rodney s Vic-\\ntory, 175.\\nOn the Death of a Favourite Child, 356.\\nOn the Death of John M Leod, Esq., 105.\\nOn the Death of Lord President Dundas,\\n194.\\nOn the Death of Robert Riddell of Glen-\\nriddell. Sonnet, 199.\\nOn the Destruction of Drumlanrig Woods,\\n351-\\nOn the Duchess of Gordon s Reel Dancing,\\n133-\\nOn the Earl of Galloway, on the Author\\nbeing Threatened with Vengeance, 210.\\nOn the Illness of a Favourite Child, 356.\\nOn the Laird of Laggan, 210.\\nOn the late Captain Grose s Peregrinations\\nthro Scotland, 103.\\nOn the Same [i.e. the Earl of Galloway]\\n210.\\nOn Thomas Kirkpatrick, 359.\\nOn Wee Johnie, 63.\\nOn William Creech, 202.\\nOn Wm. Graham of Mossknowe, 219.\\nOn Wm. Muir in Tarbolton Mill, 215.\\nOn William Smellie, 202.\\nO, Once I Lov d a Bonie Lass, 295.\\nO, Open the Door some Pity to Shew, 300.\\nO Philly, Happy be that Day, 325.\\nO Poortith Cauld and Restless Love, 304.\\nOppress d with Grief, Oppress d with Care,\\n42.\\nO, Raging Fortune s ithering Blast, 332.\\nO, Rattlin, Roarin Willie, 234.\\nO Rough, Rude, Ready-witted Rankine, 59.\\nOrthodox! Orthodo?;, 120.\\nO, Sad and Heavy should I part, 283.\\nO, Saw Ye Bonie Lesley, 305.\\nO, Saw Ye my Dearie, my Eppie MacNab,\\n259-\\nO, Saw Ye my Dear, my Philly, 345.\\nO Shanter, Tam, 99.\\nO, Sing a New Song to the Lord, 172.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0483.jp2"}, "482": {"fulltext": "436\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND IIKST LINES.\\nO, Some will Court and Compliment, 254.\\nO, Stay, Sweet Warbling Wood-lark, 304.\\nO, Steer Her up, an Haud Her Gaun, 291.\\nOswald, Ode Sacred to the Memory of Mrs.,\\n91.\\nO, Sweet be thy Sleep in the Land of the\\nGrave, 356.\\nO, That I Had ne er been Married, 298.\\nO, This is no My Ain Lassie, 314.\\nO Thou Dread Power, Who Reign st Above,\\n80.\\nO Thou Great Being! What Thou Art, 81.\\nO Thou, in Whom We Live and Move, 214.\\nO Thou Pale Orb that Silent Shines, 41.\\nO Thou that in the Heavens does Dwell,\\n119.\\nO Thou the First, the Greatest Friend, 82.\\nO Thou Unknown, Almighty Cause, 45.\\nO Thou! Whatever Title Suit Thee, 13.\\nO Thou, Who Kindly dost Provide, 214.\\nO Thou Whom Poesy Abhors, 205.\\nO Tibbie, I hae Seen the Day, 234.\\nOur Thrissles Flourished Fresh and Fair,\\n245-\\nOut over the Forth, I Look to the North,\\n279.\\nO, Wat Ye Wha s in Yon Town, 284.\\nO, Wat Ye Wha that Lo cs Me, 315.\\nO, Wat ye what my Minnie Did, 367.\\nO, Were I on Parnassus Hill, 243.\\nO, Were my Love yon Lilac Fair, 326.\\nO, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast, 346.\\nO, Wha is She that Lo es Me, 368.\\nO, Wha my Babie-clouts will Buy, 247.\\nO, Whare Live Ye, my Bonie Lass, 264.\\nO, Whar Gat Ye that Hauver-meal Ban-\\nnock, 221.\\nO, Wha Will to St. Stephen s House, 177.\\nO, When She cam Ben, She Bobbed fu\\nLow, 262.\\nO, Whistle and I 11 Come to Ye, My Lad,\\n222.\\nO, Why the Deuce should I Repine, 190.\\nO Willie Brewed a Peck o Maut, 251.\\nO, Wilt Thou Go wi Me, Sweet Tibbie\\nDunbar, 236.\\nO Ye, Wha are sae Guid Yoursel, 75.\\nO Ye Whose Cheek the Tear of Pity Stains,\\n64.\\nParaphrase of the First Psalm, 81.\\nParker, To Hugh, 153.\\nParnassus Hill, O, Were I on, 243.\\nPassion s Cry, 203.\\nPastoral Verses to Clarinda, 362.\\nPegasus at Wanlockhead, 196.\\nPeggy, Montgomerie s, 330.\\nPeggy s Face, My Peggy s P orm, My, 291.\\nPeg Nicholson was a Good Bay Mare, 195.\\nPeg, Pretty, 344.\\nPhillis the Fair, 345.\\nWherefore Sighing art Thou, 285.\\nPhilly, Happy be that Day, O, 325.\\nO Saw Ye my Dear, my, 345.\\nPinned to Mrs. Walter Riddell s Carriage,\\n211.\\nPoem on Pastoral Poetry, 350.\\nPoor Mailie s Elegy, 16.\\nPowers Celestial Whose Protection, 369.\\nPraise Woman Still, His Lordship Roars,\\n210.\\nPrayer O Thou Dread Power, 80.\\nPrayer under the Pressure of Violent An-\\nguish, 81.\\nPretty Peg, 344.\\nPrimrose, The, 346.\\nPrologue Spoken at the Theatre of Dum-\\nfries, 165.\\nSpoken by Mr. Woods, 164.\\nRaging Fortune, 332.\\nRankine, Epistle to John, 59, 136.\\nOn John, 215.\\nRash Mortal, and Slanderous Poet, thy\\nName, 206.\\nRattlin, Roarin Willie, 234.\\nRaving Winds around Her Blowing, 230.\\nRemorse, 201.\\nRemorseful Apology, i6i.\\nRenton of Lamerton, 150.\\nReply to an Invitation, 143.\\nto a Note from Captain Riddell, 156.\\nReply to a Trimming Epistle from a Tailor,\\n146.\\nto the Threat of a Censorious Critic,\\n206.\\nRevert;d Defender of Beauteous Stuart, 149.\\nRichardson, For Gabriel, 220.\\nRiddell, For Mr. Walter, 218.\\nImpromptu on Captain, 156.\\nof Glenriddell, Sonnet on the Death of,\\n199.\\nOn Maria, 210.\\nReply to a Note from, 156.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0484.jp2"}, "483": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n437\\nRiddell s Birthday, Impromptu on Mrs.,\\n198.\\nCarriage, Pinned to Mrs. Walter, 211.\\nRight, Sir! Your Text I ll Prove It True,\\n75-\\nRobin Shure in Hairst, 294.\\nRoddick of Corbiston, On Captain Wm.,\\n218.\\nRodney s Victory, On the Commemoration\\nof, 175-\\nRonalds of the Bennals, The, 189.\\nRoslin Inn, At, 204.\\nRuisseaux, Elegy on the Death of Robert,\\n192.\\nRusticity s Ungainly Form, 202.\\nSad Bird of Night, what Sorrow Calls thee\\nforth, 354.\\nSad thy Tale, thou Idle Page, 105.\\nSae Fair Her Hair, sae Brent Her Brow,\\n371-\\nSae Far Awa, 283.\\nSae Flaxen were her Ringlets, 281.\\nSamson s Elegy, Tain, 76.\\nSandy Gied to Me a Ring, My, 236.\\nSaw Ye Bonie Lesley, 305.\\nSay, Sages, What s the Charm on Earth,\\n213.\\nScotch Drink, 4.\\nScots Prologue for Mrs. Sutherland, 166.\\nScots Wha hae wi Wallace Bled, 315.\\nScott, On Miss Jean, 207.\\nScroggam, 293.\\nSearching Auld Wives Barrels, 207.\\nSensibility how Charming, 257.\\nShe Kiltit up her Kirtle Weel, 133.\\nShelah O Neil, 374.\\nShe Mourns, Sweet Tuneful Youth, thy\\nHapless Fate, 216.\\nSherramuir, The B.ittle of, 248.\\nShe s Fair and Fause that Causes my\\nSmart, 274.\\nShould Auld Acquaintance be Forgot, 277.\\nSick of the World, 359.\\nSimmer s a Pleasant Time, 238.\\nSimpson of Ochiltree, To William, 56.\\nSing on. Sweet Thrush, upon the Leafless\\nBough, 198.\\nSir, as your Mandate did Request, 124.\\nSir, o er a Gill I Gat your Card, 142.\\nSir, Yours this Moment I Unseal, 143,\\nSketch for an Elegy, 202.\\nSleep st Thou, or Wauk st Thou, Fairest\\nCreature, 326.\\nSlow Spreads the Gloom My Soul Desires,\\n368.\\nSmellie, On William, 202.\\nSmith, Epistle to James, 17.\\nSo Heavy, Passive to the Tempest s Shocks,\\n207.\\nSome Books are Lies frae End to End, 65.\\nSome hae Meat and canna eat, 370.\\nSonnet on the Death of Robert Riddell of\\nGlenriddell, 199.\\nto Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, 158.\\nSound Be His Sleep, 358.\\nSo Vile was Poor Wat, such a Miscreant\\nSlave, 218.\\nSpare ine thy Vengeance, Galloway, 210.\\nStanzas in Prospect of Death, 80.\\nStay, my Charmer, can you Leave me, 225.\\nStella, Elegy on, 348.\\nStewart, Lovely Polly, 286.\\nTo William, 161.\\nYou re Welcome, Willie, 342.\\nStill Anxious to Secure your Partial Favour,\\n168.\\nStirling, Additional Lines at, 206.\\nin Ruins, On Seeing the Royal Palace\\nat, 206.\\nSt. James Lodge, Tarbolton, Farewell to\\nthe Brethren of, 62.\\nStop, Passenger my Story s brief, 94.\\nStop Thief Dame Nature Call d to\\nDeath, 219.\\nStrait is the Spot, and Green the Sod, 348.\\nStrathallan s Lament, 225.\\nStreams that Glide in Orient Plains, 132.\\nStuart, To Peter, 160.\\nStumpie, The Reel o 283.\\nSuch a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation, 269.\\nSutherland, Scots Prologue for Mrs., 166.\\nSweet Afton, 271.\\nSweet are the Banks, 340.\\nSweet Closes the Ev ning on Craigieburn\\nWood, 253.\\nSweetest May, Let Love Inspire Thee, 296.\\nSweet Fa s the Eve on Craigieburn, 305.\\nSweet Flow ret, Pledge o Meikle Love,\\n108.\\nSweet Naivete of Feature, 210.\\nSweet Tibbie Dunbar, 236.\\nSylvander to Clarinda, 152.\\nSyine, Apology to John, 213.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0485.jp2"}, "484": {"fulltext": "438\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nSyme of Ryedale, To John, 212.\\nSymon Gray, You re Dull To-day, 151.\\nTalk not to Me of Savages, 213.\\nTarn Glen, 252.\\nTarn o Slianter, 99.\\nTarn Samson s Elegy, 76.\\nTarn the Chapman, On, 215.\\nTarbolton Lasses, 188.\\nTennant of Glenconner, To James, 156.\\nThanksgiving for a National Victory, 360.\\nThat Hackney d Judge of Human Life, 214.\\nThat there is a Falsehood in his Looks,\\n212.\\nThe Auld Farmer s New-Year Morning\\nSalutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie, 31.\\nThe Author s Earnest Cry and Prayer, 7.\\nThe Bairns Gat out \\\\\\\\i an Unco Shout, 274.\\nThe Banks o Doon, 267.\\nThe Banks of Nith, 252.\\nThe Banks of Nith (2d), 363.\\nThe Banks of the Devon, 229.\\nThe Battle of Sherramuir, 248,\\nThe Belles of Mauchline, 190.\\nThe Birks of Aberfeldie, 223.\\nThe Blude-Red Rose at Yule may Blaw,\\n232.\\nThe Blue-Eyed Lassie, 252.\\nThe Bonie Lad that s far Awa, 256.\\nThe Bonie Lass of Albanie, 338.\\nThe Bonie Moor-Hen, 337.\\nThe Bonniest Lad that e er I Saw, 285.\\nThe Book- Worms, 205.\\nThe Braes o Ballochmyle, 247.\\nThe Brigs of Ayr, 68.\\nThe Calf, 75.\\nThe Captain s Lady, 241.\\nThe Captive Ribband, 243.\\nTheCardin o t, 281.\\nThe Cares o Love are Sweeter far, 204.\\nThe Catrine Woods were Yellow Seen, 247.\\nThe Chevalier s Lament, 338.\\nThe Cooper o Cuddy Came Here Awa, 280.\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night, 33.\\nThe Court of Equity, 126.\\nThe Crimson Blossom Charms the Bee,\\n150.\\nThe Day Returns, My Bosom Burns, 239.\\nThe Dean of the Faculty, 187.\\nThe Death and Dying Words of Poor\\nMaiiie, 15.\\nThe Deil cam Fiddlin thro the Town, 274.\\nThe Deil s Awa wi th Exciseman, 274.\\nThe Deuk s Dang o er my Daddie, 274.\\nThe Devil got Notice that Grose was\\na-Dying, 207.\\nThe Dusty Miller, 227.\\nThee, Caledonia, thy Wild Heaths Among,\\n371-\\nThe Farewell, 192.\\nThe Farewell, 62.\\nThe Fete Champctre, 177.\\nThe Five Carlins, 178.\\nThe Flower it Blavvs, it Fades, it Fa s, 286.\\nThe Friend whom. Wild from Wisdom s\\nWay, 161.\\nThe Gallant Weaver, 272.\\nThe Gard ner wi his Paidle, 239.\\nThe Gloomy Night is Gath ring Fast, 89.\\nThe Greybeard, Old Wisdom, may Boast\\nof his Treasures, 209.\\nThe Heather was Blooming, the Meadows\\nwere Mawn, 337.\\nThe Hermit of Aberfeldy, 361.\\nThe Highland Balou, 2S7.\\nThe Highland Widow s Lament, 290.\\nThe Holy Fair, 10.\\nThe Holy Tulyie, 117.\\nThe Humble Petition of Bruar Water, 105.\\nThe Inventory, 124.\\nTheir Groves o Sweet Myrtle let Foreign\\nLands Reckon, 316.\\nThe Jolly Beggars, a Cantata, in.\\nThe Joyful Widower, 351.\\nThe Keekin Glass, 209.\\nThe King s Poor Blackguard Slave am I,\\n360.\\nThe Kirk s Alarm, 120.\\nThe Laddies by the Banks o Nith, 179.\\nThe Lament, 40.\\nThe Lamp of Day with Ill-Presaging\\nGlare, 193.\\nThe Lass o Ballochmyle, 335.\\nThe Lass o Ecclefechan, 280.\\nThe Lass of Cessnock Banks, 330.\\nThe Lass that Made the Bed, 282.\\nThe Last Braw Bridal that I was at, 372.\\nThe Lazy Mist Hangs from the Brow of the\\nHill, 241.\\nThe Lea-Rig, 328.\\nThe Lovely Lass of Inverness, 275.\\nThe Man, in Life Wherever Plac d, 81.\\nThe Mauchline Lady, 334.\\nThcniel Menzies Bonie Mary, 228.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0486.jp2"}, "485": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n439\\nThe Night was Still, 336.\\nThe Ninetieth Psalm Versified, 82.\\nThe Noble Maxwells and their Powers, 265.\\nThe Old Coek d Hat, the Brown Surtout\\nthe Same, 202.\\nTlie Ordination, 73.\\nTiie Philosopher s Stone, 359.\\nThe Ploughman, He s a Bonie Lad, 230.\\nThe Ploughman s Life, 358.\\nThe Poor Man Weeps Here Gavin\\nSleeps, 64.\\nThe Posie, 266.\\nThe Primrose, 346.\\nThe Rantin Dog, the Daddie o t, 247.\\nThe Reel o Stumpie, 283.\\nThere Came a Piper out o Fife, 372.\\nThere Grows a Bonie Brier-Bush in our\\nKail-Yard, 288.\\nThere Lived a Carl in Kellyburn Braes, 269.\\nThere liv d a Lass in Yonder Dale, 370.\\nThere 11 never be Peace till Jamie comes\\nHame, 255.\\nThere s Auld Rob Morris that Wons in yon\\nGlen, 300.\\nThere s a Youth in this City, it were a Great\\nPity, 243.\\nThere s Death in the Cup, so Beware, 212.\\nThere s Naethin like the Honest Nappy,\\n372.\\nThere s Nane shall Ken, there s Nane can\\nGuess, 284.\\nThere s News, Lasses, News, 298.\\nThere s Nought but Care on ev ry Han 88.\\nThere s Three True Guid Fellows, 281.\\nThere was a Bonie Lass, and a Bonie,\\nBonie Lass, 297.\\nThere-was a Lad was Born in Kyle, 334.\\nThere was a Lass, and She was Fair, 327.\\nThere was a Lass, They Ca d her Meg, 228.\\nThere was a Wife Wonn d in Cockpen, 293.\\nThere was Five Carlins in the South, 178.\\nThere was on a Time, but Old Time was\\nthen Young, 341.\\nThere was Three Kings into the East, 85.\\nThe Rights of Woman, 167.\\nThe Robin to the Wren s Nest, 358.\\nThe Ronalds of the Bennals, 189.\\nThe Ruined Maid s Lament, 362.\\nThe Selkirk Grace, 370.\\nThe Silver Tassie, 241.\\nThe Simple Bard, Rough at the Rustic\\nPlough, 68.\\nThe Slave s Lament, 271.\\nThe Small Birds Rejoice in the Green\\nLeaves Returning, 339.\\nThe Smiling Spring comes in Rejoicing, 272.\\nThe Solemn League and Covenant, 212.\\nThe Song of Death, 271.\\nThe Sun had Clos d the Winter Day, 22.\\nThe Sun he is Sunk in the West, 329.\\nThe Tailor Fell thro the Bed, Thimble an\\na 237.\\nThe Tailor he Cam here to Sew, 288.\\nThe Tarbolton Lasses, 188.\\nThe Thames Flows Proudly to the Sea, 252.\\nThe Tither Morn, when I Forlorn, 260.\\nThe Toadeater, 208.\\nThe Tree of Liberty, 352.\\nThe Twa Dogs, i.\\nThe Twa Herds, 117.\\nThe Tyrant Wife, 208.\\nThe Vision, 22.\\nThe Vowels, 355.\\nThe Weary Pund o Tow, 261.\\nThe Whistle, 109.\\nThe White Cockade, 246.\\nThe Wind Blew Hollow frae the Hills, 97.\\nThe Winter it is Past, and the Simmer\\ncomes at Last, 236.\\nThe Winter of Life, 288.\\nThe Wintry West Extends his Blast, 44.\\nThe Wren s Nest, 358.\\nThe Young Highland Rover, 227.\\nThey Snool me Sair, and Haud me Down,\\n263.\\nThickest Night, Surround my Dwelling, 225.\\nThine am I, my Faithful Fair, 316.\\nThine be the Volumes, Jessie Fair, 163.\\nThis Day Time Winds th Exhausted Chain,\\n134-\\nThis Wot ye All whom it Concerns, 129.\\nTho Cruel Fate should Bid Us Part, 225.\\nTho Fickle Fortune has Deceived Me, 332.\\nThomson, On some Commemorations of,\\n197.\\nThou Bed, in which I First Began, 374.\\nThou Flatt ring Mark of Friendship Kind,\\n191.\\nThou Fool, in thy Phaeton Towering, 212.\\nThou Gloomy December, 291.\\nThou hast Left Me ever, Jamie, 317.\\nThou, Liberty, thou Art my Theme, 174.\\nThou Ling ring Star, with Less ning Ray,\\n247.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0487.jp2"}, "486": {"fulltext": "440\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\nThou of an Inclppcmlont Mind, 213.\\nThou s Welcome, Wean Mishanter Fa\\nMe, 123.\\n1 hou whom Chance may Hither Lead, 91,\\n131-\\nThou, who thy Honour as thy God Rever st,\\n98.\\nTho Women s Minds, lil e Winter Winds,\\n250.\\nThrough and Through th Inspired Leaves,\\n205.\\nTibbie, I hae Seen the Day, O, 234.\\nT is Friendship s Pledge, my Young, Fair\\nB riend, 163.\\nTo a Gentleman who had Sent a Newspaper,\\n159-\\nTo a Haggis, Address, 83.\\nTo a Kiss, 354.\\nTo Alex. Cunningham, 153.\\nTo a Louse, 51.\\nTo a Mountain Daisy, 45.\\nTo a Mouse, 37.\\nTo an Artist, 205.\\nTo an Old Sweetheart, 144.\\nTo a Young Friend, Epistle, 47.\\nTo Clarinda with a Pair of Wine-Glasses,\\n152.\\nTo CoUeetor Mitchell, 161.\\nTo Colonel De Peyster, 162.\\nTo Daunton Me, 232.\\nTo Davie, a Brother Poet, Epistle, 38.\\nSecond Epistle, 140.\\nTo Dr. Blacklock, 158.\\nTo Dr. Mackenzie, 143.\\nTo Dr. Maxwell, 211.\\nTo Edinburgh, Address, 83.\\nTo Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 142.\\nA Dedication, 49.\\nExtempore, 145.\\nTo Hugh Parker, 153.\\nTo James Smith, Epistle, 17.\\nTo James Tennant of Glcnconner, 156.\\nTo J. Lapraik, Epistle, 138.\\nSecond Epistle, 54.\\nThird Epistle, 138.\\nTo John Goldie, 137.\\nTo John Kennedy, 141.\\nA Farewell, 143.\\nTo Jolm Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughtie, 160.\\nTo John M Murdo, 157.\\nTo John Rankine, 136.\\nEpistle, 59.\\nTo John Syme of Ryedale, 212.\\nApology, 213.\\nI o Major Logan, 147.\\nTo Miss Cruickshank, 104.\\nTo Miss Ferrier, 151.\\nTo Miss Graham of Fintry, 161.\\nTo Miss Isabella Macleod, 150.\\nTo Miss Jessie Lewars, 163.\\nTo Miss Logan, 82.\\nTo Mr. M Adam of Craigen-Gillan, 142.\\nTo Mr. Renton of Lamertbn, 150.\\nTo Peter Stuart, 160.\\nTo Riddell, Much-Lamented Man, 213.\\nTo Robert Graham of Fintry, Esq., 95, 154.\\nSonnet, 158.\\nTo Ruin, 46.\\nTo Symon Gray, 151.\\nTo the Beautiful Miss Eliza J n, 211.\\nTo the Deii, Address, 13.\\nTo Thee, Lov d Nith, Thy Gladsome Plains,\\n363-\\nTo the Guidwife of Wauchope House, 148.\\nTo the Hon. Wm. R. Maule of Panmure,\\n212.\\nTo tiie Owl, 354.\\nTo the Right Hon. C. J. Fox, Inscribed, 173.\\nTo the Rev. John M Math, 139.\\nTo the Shade of Thomson, Address, 103.\\nTo the Toothache, Address, 129.\\nTo the Unco Guid, Address, 75.\\nTo the Weaver s gin ye Go, 222.\\nTo William Simpson of Ochiltree, 56.\\nTo William Stewart, 161.\\nTo Willie Chalmers Sweetheart, 144.\\nTo Wm. Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, 149.\\nTo You, Sir, this Summons I ve Sent, 145.\\nTragic Fragment, 201.\\nTrogger, The, 186.\\nTrue-hearted was He, the Sad Swain o the\\nYarrow, 305.\\nTurn again. Thou Fair Eliza, 265.\\nTurn-coat Whigs Awa, Man, 180.\\nTurner, On Andrew, 212.\\nTwas Even the Dewy Fields were Green,\\n335-\\nTwas in that Place o Scotland s Isle, i.\\nTwas in the Seventeen Hunder Year, 185.\\nT was na her Bonie Blue E e, 346.\\nT was on a Monday Morning, 279.\\nTytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, To Wm., 149.\\nT was Where the Birch and Sounding\\nTliong are Ply d, 354.", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0488.jp2"}, "487": {"fulltext": "GENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES.\\n441\\nUiuler the l^oitrait of Miss Burns, 205.\\nUp in the Morning Early, 226.\\nUpon a Sinuner Sunday Morn, 10.\\nUpon that N iglit, when Fairies Light, 28.\\nUp wi the Carls of Dysart, 273.\\nVerses in Friars Carse Hermitage, 131.\\nVerses Intended to be Written below a\\nNoble Earl s Picture, 192.\\nVerses on Lincluden Abbey, 373.\\nVerses to My Bed, 374.\\nVerses Written Under Violent Grief, 364.\\nVerses Written with a Pencil at Taymouth,\\n107.\\nVersicles on Sign-posts, 207.\\nVersicles to Jessie Lewars, 213.\\nWae is my Heart and the Tear s in my E e,\\n287.\\nWae Worth thy Power, thou Cursed Leaf,\\n191.\\nWandering Willie, 299.\\nWantonness for Evcrmair, 279.\\nWap and Rowe, Wap and Rowe, 283.\\nWas e er Puir Poet sae Befitted, 369.\\nWashington s Birthday, Ode for General,\\n175-\\nWastle, Willie, 267.\\nWauchope House, To the Guidwife of, 148.\\nWeary Fa You, Duncan Gray, 229.\\nWe Cam na Here to View your Warks,\\n206.\\nWee, Modest, Crimson-tipped Flow r, 45.\\nWee, Sleekit, Cowrin, Tim rous Beastie,\\n38.\\nWee Willie Gray an his Leather Wallet,\\n292.\\nWe Grant they re Thine, those Beauties all,\\n208.\\nWe re a Noddin, 292.\\nWesterha Election Ballad for, 179.\\nWha in a Brulyie, 287.\\nWha is That at my Bower Door, 259.\\nWham will we Send to London Town, 183.\\nWhan I Sleep I Dream, 370.\\nWhare are you Gaun, my Bonie Lass, 250.\\nWhare ha e ye Been sae Braw, Lad, 251.\\nWhat Ails ye now, ye Lousie Bitch, 146.\\nWhat can a Young Lassie, 256.\\nWhat dost Thou in that Mansion Fair, 210.\\nWhat Man could Esteem, or what Woman\\ncould Love, 217.\\nWhat Needs this Din about the Town o*\\nLon on, 166.\\nWhat will 1 Do gin my Hoggie Die, 226.\\nWha will Buy my Troggin, 186.\\nWhen Biting Boreas, Fell and Doure, 78.\\nWhenbyaGenerous Public s Kind Acclaim.\\n164.\\nWhen Chapman Billies Leave the Street, 99.\\nWhen Chill November s Surly Blast, 43.\\nWhen Dear Ciarinda, Matchless Fair, 152.\\nWhen Death s Dark Stream I Ferry o er,\\n206.\\nWhen Eighty-Five was Seven Months Auld,\\n125.\\nWhen First I Began for to Sigh and to Woo\\nHer, 374.\\nWhen First I Came to Stewart Kyle, 334.\\nWhen First I Saw Fair Jeanie s Face, 342.\\nWhen First my Brave Johnie Lad Came to\\nthe Town, 254.\\nWhen Guilford Good our Pilot Stood. 86.\\nWhen I Think on the Happy Days, 372.\\nWhen Januar Wind was Blawin Cauld,\\n282.\\nWhen Lascelies Thought fit from this World\\nto Depart, 218.\\nWhen Lyart Leaves Bestrow the Yird, iii.\\nWhen Morine, Deceas d, to the Devil went\\ndown, 210.\\nW^hen Nature her Great Masterpiece De-\\nsign d, 154.\\nWhen o er the Hill the Eastern Star, 328.\\nWhen Pleasure Fascinates, 358.\\nWhen Princes and Prelates, 357.\\nWhen Rosy May comes in wi Flowers, 239.\\nWhen she Cam Ben, she Bobbed, 262.\\nWhen the Drums do Beat, 241.\\nWhen Wild War s Deadly Blast was Blawn,\\n301.\\nWhere are the Joys I hae Met in the Morn-\\ning, 320.\\nWhere, Braving Angry Winter s Storms,\\n234-\\nWhere Cart Rins Rowin to the Sea, 272.\\nWherefore Sighing art Thou, Phillis, 285.\\nWhigham s Inn, Sanquhar, At, 207.\\nWhile at the Stook the Shearers Cow r, 139.\\nWhile Briers an Woodbines Budding\\nGreen, 52.\\nWhile Europe s Eye is Fix d on Mighty\\nThings, 167.\\nWhile Larks with Little Wing, 345.", "height": "3115", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0489.jp2"}, "488": {"fulltext": "VL^\\n442\\nGENERAL INDEX OF TITLES AND ITRST LINES.\\nWhile New-ca d Kye Rowfe at the Stake,\\n54-\\nWhile Virgin Spring by Eden s Flood, 103.\\nWhile Winds frae aff Ben Lomond lilaw,\\n38.\\nWiiistle an I 11 Come to Ye, my Lad, 222.\\nWhistle o er the Lave o t, 242.\\nWhitefoord, Bait., Lines to Sir John, 98.\\nWhoe er He be that Sojourns Here, 206.\\nWlioe er Thou art, O Reader, Know, 63.\\nWhoe er Thou art, these Lines now read-\\ning, 361.\\nWhose is that Noble, Dauntless Brow, 193.\\nWhy am I Loth to Leave this Earthly\\nScene, 80.\\nWhy should We idly Waste our Prime, 352.\\nWhy, why Tell thy Lover, 346.\\nWhy, ye Tenants ot the Lake, 107.\\nWi Braw New Branks, in Mickle Pride,\\n144.\\nWillie Brew d a Peck o Maut, 251.\\nWillie, On Holy, 215.\\nWillie, Rattlin, Roarin, 234.\\nWillie, Wandering, 299.\\nWillie Wastle Dwalt on Tweed, 268.\\nWill ye Go to the Hielands, Leezie Lind-\\nsay, 359.\\nWill ye Go to the Indies, my Mary, 335.\\nWilt Thou be my Dearie, 286.\\nWinter, 44.\\nWishfully I Look and Languish, 260.\\nWith ^sop s Lion, Burns Says Sore I\\nFeel, 206.\\nWith Pegasus upon a Day, 196.\\nWoods, Prologue Spoken by Mr., 164.\\nWow, but your Letter Made me Vauntie,\\n158.\\nWritten in Friars Carse Hermitage, 91.\\nYarico, On Seeing Mrs. Kemble in, 212.\\nYear 1788, Elegy on the Departed, 132.\\nYe Banks and Braes and Streams around,\\n317-\\nYe Banks and Braes o Bonie Doon, 267.\\nYe Flowery Banks o Bonie Doon, 340.\\nYe Gallants Bright, I Rede you Right, 238.\\nYe Hae Lien a Wrang, Lassie, 372.\\nYe Holy Walls, that, still Sublime, 373.\\nYe Hypocrites, are these your Pranks, 360.\\nYe Irish Lords, ye Knights an Squires, 7.\\nYe Jacobites by Name, 266.\\nYe Maggots, feed on Nicol s Brain, 217.\\nYe Men of Wit and Wealth, 211.\\nYe Sons of Old Killie, assembled by Willie,\\n336.\\nYestreen I had a Pint o Wine, 339.\\nYestreen I Met You on the Moor, 235.\\nYe True Loyal Natives attend to My Song,\\n209.\\nYon Rosy Brier, 320.\\nYon Wandering Rill that Marks the Hill,370.\\nYon Wild Mossy Mountains, 257.\\nYoung Friend, Epistle to a, 47.\\nYoung Jamie, Pride of a the Plain, 278.\\nYoung Jessie, 305.\\nYoung jockie was the Blythest Lad, 249.\\nYoung Peggy, 221.\\nYour Billet, Sir, I grant Receipt, 150.\\nYou re Welcome to Despots, Dumourier,\\n197.\\nYou re Welcome, Willie Stewart, 342.\\nYour Friendship much can make Me Blest,\\n347-\\nYour News and Review, Sir, 156.\\nYouth in this City, There s a, 243.\\nYowes to the Knowes, Ca the (ist), 245.\\nYowes to the Knowes, Ca the (2d) 322.\\ni}^", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0490.jp2"}, "489": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3073", "width": "1736", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0491.jp2"}, "490": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3107", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0492.jp2"}, "491": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3010", "width": "1979", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0493.jp2"}, "492": {"fulltext": "L BRARY OF rn^,^\\nIII.,\\nP211^87 976 8", "height": "3180", "width": "2105", "jp2-path": "completepoetical07burn_0494.jp2"}}