XVII.

XXI.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide,

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul;

And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart:

Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

XLIV.

THE FIRST PSAL M.

But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of GOD;"1

And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!

XX.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And, O! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their muchloy'd Isle.

1 Pope.

but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with something at which the devout could not cavil.]

THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awer

Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that GOD the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.

XLV.

THE FIRST SIX VERSES

OF THE

NINETIETH PSALM.

[The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reasoning as the poem of "Man was made to Mourn." These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they might have been spared; for in the hands of a poet ignorant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary?]

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself
Arose at Thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds

This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before Thy sight

Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night, cut down, it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

XLVI.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN

APRIL, 1786.

[This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the handwriting of Burns entitled "The Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burness and his poem "The Gowan," in the first edition of his works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage-who think that in time and place reside the chief charms of verse; and who feel not the beauty of "The Daisy," till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what genius loves to forget.]

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth ;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink, 'Till wrenched of every stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom,

'Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

XLVII.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
MAY, 1786.

[Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The poet has been charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his " Andrew dear;" but surely to conceal one's own thoughts and discover those of others, can scarcely be called hypocritical: it is, in fact, a version of the celebrated precept of prudence, "Thoughts close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was much respected-his name embalmed, like that of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is not likely soon to perish.]

I.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon.

II.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attain'd;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked;

But, och mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Ay free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But, och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that ay be your border:
Its slighest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev❜n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

X.

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;

But when on life we're tempest-driv'n,
A conscience but a canker
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n
Is sure a noble anchor!

XI.

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,'
Still daily to grow wiser:
And may you better reck the rede

Than ever did th' adviser!

XLVIII.

TO A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH.

[A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline lady is related in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Kilmarnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and 'persuasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out of the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasonable rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it coarse and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.]

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,
How dare you set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

'Till ye've got on it,

The vera topmost, tow'ring height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' gray as onie grozet;

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dross your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie!

How daur ye do't?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An' foolish notion;

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n devotion!

XLIX.

EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE,

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

[The person to whom these verses are addressed lived at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The humorous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree "Brutes!-damned brutes." "I dreamed that I was dead," said the rustic satirist to his superior," and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's friends gang, I chappit, and 'Wha are ye, and where d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 'Awawi' you,' cried Satan; 'ye canna come here: hell's fou o' his lordship's damned brutes already.'"']

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin',
Your dreams' an' tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'
Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, dru'ken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a

noise in the country-side.

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black!
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang,2 ye'll sen't wi cannie care,
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen,

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't;
But, deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!

The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this niest year.

2 A song he had promised the author.