The poetical works of Robert Burns, ed. by C. Kent

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. Nae mair we see his levée door

Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core,

Willie's awa'!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace

As Rome ne'er saw ; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa'!

Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,

He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, Scared frae its minnie and the cleckin' By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gi'en his heart an unco kickin', — Willie's awa'!

Now every sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie's awa'!

Up wimpling, stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,

While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure's fled, — Willie's awa'!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
He was a dictionar' and grammar

Amang them a';

I fear they'll now mak' mony a stammer, Willie's awa'!

Though far awa'!

May never wicked fortune touzle him! May never wicked men bamboozle him!

Until a pow as auld's Methusalem

He canty claw!

Then to the blessèd New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa'!

ON SCARING SOME WATERFOWL IN LOCH-TURIT,

A WILD SCENE AMID THE HILLS OF OUGH

TERTYRE.

[Burns when he wrote this was staying for a few days, in 1787, on a visit to Sir William and Lady Augusta Murray, at their beautiful residence in Perthshire.]

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your watery haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels.
But man, to whom alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane-

And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

[It was on the 20th of August, 1787, that Burns visited Kenmore, and there pencilled this inscription.]

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I

trace;

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,

The abodes of coveyed grouse and timid sheep,

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view,

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,

The woods, wild-scattered, clothe their ample sides;

The outstretching lake, embosomed

'mong the hills,

THE HERMIT.

The eye with wonder and amazement WRITTEN ON A MARBLE Sideboard in the

fills:

The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,

HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THE DUKE
OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OF ABERFELDY

[First included among the writings of Burns in the Glasgow edition, which was jointly and very

The palace, rising on its verdant side ;
The lawns, wood-fringed, in Nature's indifferently prepared for publication by James

native taste;

Hogg and William Motherwell.]

ing,

The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless WHOE'ER thou art these lines now readhaste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born Think not, though from the world reced

stream;

ing,

The village, glittering in the noontide I joy my lonely days to lead in

beam

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy
cell:

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods!
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling
floods !

Here Poesy might wake her Heaventaught lyre,

This desert drear;

That fell remorse, a conscience bleeding,
Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours;
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers

That lust and pride,
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.

And look through Nature with creative I saw mankind with vice incrusted;

fire;

I saw that Honour's sword was rusted;

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half recon- That few for aught but folly lusted;

Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling In this lone cave, in garments lowly,

Supplying drink, the earth bestowing
My simple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in
The desert wood.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot than e'er I felt before in
A palace and with thoughts still soar-
ing

To God on high,

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

[Written at the suggestion of Professor Walker, who was tutor in the Duke of Athole's family, when Burns, during the course of his third northern tour, visited the Falls of Bruar and, his Grace being from home at the time, was most hospitably and graciously entertained by the Duchess. The firs and ash-trees for which the

Each night and morn, with voice implor- Poet pleaded in the name of the Falls were, in

compliance with his artistic request, afterwards planted by the Duke in abundance.]

MY LORD, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowering trouts,
That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up to shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev'n as I was he shored me ;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,
As Nature gave them me,
I am, although I say 't mysel',
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please

To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees,

And bonnie spreading bushes; Delighted doubly then, my Lord,

You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return your tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire ;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure,

Low in her grassy form:

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,

To weave his crown of flowers; Or find a sheltering safe retreat,

From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,

Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty, idle care:

The flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,

Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey:

« Anterior Continuar »

Livros