Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, IX. A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. ["There was a certain period of my life," says Burns, "that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willowtrees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."] O THOU Great Being! what Thou art Surpasses me to know: Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below. Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then, man my soul with firm resolves To bear and not repine! X. A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. [I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestowed such o'ermastering gifts.] O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause In whose dread presence, ere an hour If I have wander'd in those paths As something, loudly, in my breast, Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, Where human weakness has come short, Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err'd, But, Thou art good; and goodness still XI. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. [These verses the poet, in his common-place book, calls "Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death." He elsewhere says they were composed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptoms. of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, first put nature on the alarm.] WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene? storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. I thought me on the ourie cattle, Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!" Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below! To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; XII. A WINTER NIGHT. "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are SHAKSPEARE. ["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."] WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my car this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole: "Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost; Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows; See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Whose toil upholds the glittering show, Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, of which we ourselves have had no hand: but when our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command."] Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, Beyond comparison the worst are those Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart While through the ragged roof and chinky Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hailed the morning with a cheer- But deep this truth impressed my mind- The heart benevolent and kind XIII. REMORSE. A FRAGMENT. ["1 entirely agree," says Burns, "with the author of the Theory of Moral Sentiments, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement Can reason down its agonizing throbs; XIV. THE JOLLY BEGGARS. A CANTATA. [This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigengillan; the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with his name, in the Musical Museum of February, 17790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the Reliques, for which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the Quarterly Review. The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nansie had her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been given.] RECITATIVO. WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird, He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c. Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, Sing, Lal de dal, &c. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart is rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de dal, &c. And now I have liv'd-I know not how long, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. RECITATIVO. Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk, Between themselves they were sae busy : AIR. Tune-"Auld Sir Symon." Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, I fear I my talent misteuk, For drink I would venture my neck, I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, I ance was abused in the kirk, Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob; For faith I'm confoundedly dry; Gude L-d! he's far dafter than I. RECITATIVO. Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, AIR. Tune-"O an ye were dead, guidman." A Highland lad my love was born, CHORUS. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, They banished him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. |