OF

I.

WINTER.

A DIRGE.

[This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded compositions: it was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, a juvenile production.' To walk by a river while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. "In such a senson," he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, 1 composed Winter, a Dirge."]

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw;

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firin, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want (0, do thou grant

This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign!

1 Dr. Young.

II.

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

[This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immediately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell, are still pointed out.]

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc2 he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide but naething spak-
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
"O thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my master dear.

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O bid him never tie them mair

Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!

2 A neibor herd-callan.

Put ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, and grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo'!

"Tell him he was a master kin' An' ay was gude to me an' mine; An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.

"O, bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn.

"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the sheers; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care; An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! An' warn him what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowes at hame An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

"An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither.

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale;

An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather."

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead.

III.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel: but says that it resembles too closely "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original: the shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."]

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead;
The last sad cape-stane of his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead.

It's no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed;

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed:
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel wi' mense:
I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence

Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wonders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,1 Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips;

1 VARIATION.

'She was nae get o' runted rams,
Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams;
She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs,
A famous breed!

Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams
O' Mailie dead.'

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker
To see their cursed pride.

I I.

It's hardly in a body's power
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd;

How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't;

But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na, nor fear na,

Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste

O' truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick the ba',

Has ay some cause to smile :
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa'.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,
But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin muckle mair;
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest;

1 Ramsay.

If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay
That makes us right or wrang.

V I.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,

Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood
God's creatures they oppress !
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell!

Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill.
Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt'ry I detest,)

This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

O, all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O, Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r!
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,
A tic more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean!

X I.

O, how that name inspires my style The words come skelpin, rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
'Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:

But least then, the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now

His sweaty, wizen'd hide.