Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! XXXIX. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. "My son, these maxims make a rule, The cleanest corn that e'er was dight SOLOMON.-Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. ["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.] I. O YE wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, III. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, What maks the mighty differ? And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; V. See social life and glee sit down, O would they stay to calculate Or your more dreaded hell to state, VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, But, let me whisper, i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord-its various tone, We never can adjust it; XL. TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.1 "An honest man's the noblest work of God." POPE. [Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy: when Tam heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. "This poem has always," says Hogg, "been a great country favourIte: it abounds with happy expressions. 'In vain the burns cam' down like waters, What a picture of a flooded burn! any other poet would have given us a long description: Burns dashes it down at once in a style so graphic no one can mistake it. 'Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Match that sentence who can."] 1 When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields." 2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; But, Och! he gaed and ne'er return'd! Tam Samson's dead! EPITAPH. In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters; TAM SAMSON's weel-worn clay here lies, In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Tam Samson's dead! Owre many a weary hag he limpit, When at his heart he felt the dagger, Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; There low he lies, in lasting rest; Tam Samson's dead! When August winds the heather wave, Tam Samson's dead! Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be! Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead! PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin'. XLI. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. "Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe." HOME. [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. "This was a most melancholy affair," says the poet in his letter to Moore, "which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was "written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweetheart slighting him and marrying another :-she acted a wise part." With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.] I. О THOU pale orb, that silent shines, How life and love are all a dream. II. 1 joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly marked distant hill: Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace! III. No idly-feign'd poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft-attested Pow'rs above; The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love! IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it!-is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost? V. Oh! can she bear so base a heart, The plighted husband of her youth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd, That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom! VII. The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe: I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. VIII. And when my nightly couch I try, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: IX. O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! While love's luxurious pulse beat high, X. Oh! scenes in strong remembrarce set! Again I feel, again I burn! XLII. DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. ["I think," said Burns, "it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease." He elsewhere says, "My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseli, on seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, "Swear, my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it will ease you!" This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike deceived him.] 1. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, |