Whether the summer kindly warms, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, An' no think lang ; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, And I, w' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing brither!' In love fraternal: May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid, fat braxies; Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns. 100 90 POSTSCRIPT. Y memory's no worth a preen; M Ye bade me write you what they mean By this New-Light,* 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans They took nae pains their speech to balance, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans, In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewin, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, An' muckle din there was about it, See note, p. 56. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Wi' hearty crunt ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt. This game was play'd in monie lands, The lairds forbad, by strict commands, But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe, Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe Ye'll find ane plac'd; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. 40 50 30 Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! An' stay a month amang the moons, Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we Bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. 60 70 EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,* ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine. Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, John Rankine lived at Adam Hill, in Ayrshire, and was a man of much humour and ready wit. Allan Cunningham considers Burns' account of the partridge, and of his being fined for poaching, a figurative allusion to the connexion which produced the "illegitimate child" of his celebrated "Address;" but it is by no means certain that the conjecture is well founded. A certain humorous dream of his was then making noise in the country-side. R. B. This dream is thus related by Allan Cunningham. "Lord K. was in the habit of calling his familiar acquaintances 'brutes,' or 'damned brutes.' One day, meeting Rankine, his lordship said, 'Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer sly story to tell us?' 'I have nae story,' said Rankine, 'but last night I had an odd dream.' 'Out with it by all means,' said the other. 'A weel, ye see,' said Rankine, 'I dreamed that I was dead, and that for keeping other than good company on earth, I was damned. When I knocked at Hell-door wha should open it but the Deil; he was in a rough humour, and said, 'Wha may you be and what's your name?' 'My name,' quoth I, 'is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place was Adam-Hill.' 'Gae wa' wi,' quoth Satan, 'ye canna be here; ye're ane of Lord K-'s damned brutes-Hell's fou o' them already!' This sharp rebuke, it is said, polished, for the future, his lordship's speech." |