ODE

ON GENERAL WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

[The concluding portion of the following Ode was enclosed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop in a letter, dated the 25th June, 1794. These verses, numbering in all merely eighteen lines, were included among the Poet's works by Dr. Currie, as a mere fragment, entitled "Liberty." Not until the November of 1872, indeed, did the fact come to the public knowledge that the original manuscript of the finished Ode was still happily

in existence. It was then advertised in a London catalogue, as for sale, and the precious holograph was at once secured by Robert Clarke of Cincinnati, Ohio, in the United States. Nine months prior to the completion of this Ode, the Poet had produced, upon a congenial theme, his immortal poein, "Bruce's Address to his Army

at Bannockburn."]

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;

'Tis Liberty's bold note I swell,

Thy harp, Columbia, let me takeSee gathering thousands while I sing, A broken chain exulting bring,

And dash it in a tyrant's face, And dare him to his very beard, And tell him he no more is fearedNo more the despot of Columbia's race!

A tyrant's proudest insults braved, They shout, a people freed! they hail an Empire saved!

Where is man's godlike form?

Canst laud the arm that struck the
insulting blow!

Art thou of man's imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?

Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
Columbia's offspring, brave as free,
In danger's hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty
of Man!

Alfred, on thy starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choirThe bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,

And roused the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,

No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design

To make detested tyrants bleed ?— Thy England execrates the glorious deed!

Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls-"The tyrant's cause is mine!" That hour accurst, how did the fiends rejoice,

And hell, through all her confines, raise the exulting voice

That hour which saw the generous English name

Linked with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

bold?

That eye that can unmoved behold The wildest rage, the loudest storm That e'er created fury dared to raise ? Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base, That tremblest at a despot's nod, Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

Famed for the martial deed, the Heaven

taught song,

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled?— Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath that hallowed turf where
Wallace lies?

MY HANDSOME NELL.

[Burns himself notes this song (which is usually printed with a Fal-lal-de-rai Chorus) as in point of time, not merit, the first of his performances. It was penned while he was yet a mere boy of fifteen, the heroine of the lines being one Nelly Blair, a servant in the family of a large landed proprietor in Ayrshire.]

Tune-"I am a man unmarried."

OH, once I loved a bonnie lass,

Aye, and I love her still;

And whilst that virtue warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen,

And mony full as braw;

But for a modest, gracefu' mien, The like I never saw.

A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e,

But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet;
And, what is best of a',

Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Baith decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air

May slightly touch the heart; But it's Innocence and Modesty

That polishes the dart.

T is this in Nelly pleases me,

'Tis this enchants my soul! For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

[This was composed at seventeen years of age, under profound depression.]

OH, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
Oh, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O;
But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

[These verses, like the foregoing, were written in 1776, when the Poet was no more than seventeen.]

[This was another production of Burns when he was no more than seventeen. Tibbie was one Isabel Steven, the daughter of a small farmer near Lochlea.]

Tune-"Invercauld's Reel."

springing

Gaily in the sunny beam, Listening to the wild birds singing

By a falling crystal stream :

Straight the sky grew black and daring; Through the woods the whirlwinds

rave:

Trees with aged arms were warring,

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,

Such the pleasures I enjoyed;

But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,

A' my flowery bliss destroyed.

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
(She promised fair and performed but
ill,)

Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me,
I beat a heart shall support me still.

Ye spak' na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye slighted me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

But sorrow tak' him that 's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows such a saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

Although a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt,

And answer him fu' dry.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gi'e her in her sark
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark!
Ye need na look sae high.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye slighted me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

[Although Burns refers to this scornfully as a wild rhapsody, he at the same time speaks of the particular pleasure he has in conning it over, expressing as it does the genuine feelings of his heart.]

Tune-"The Weaver, and his shuttle, O." My father was a farmer,

Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me

In decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part,

Though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest, manly heart, No man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world

My course I did determine, O;
Though to be rich was not my wish,

Yet to be great was charming, O.
My talents they were not the worst,
Nor yet my education, O;
Resolved was I at least to try
To mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay,

I courted Fortune's favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between,

To frustrate each endeavour, O: Sometimes by foes I was o'erpowered; Sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top,

I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harassed, and tired at last,
With Fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,
And came to this conclusion, O:
The past was bad, and the future hid;
Its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my power,
And so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I,
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil,
And labour to sustain me, O.
To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred,
Was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus, all obscure, unknown and poor,

Through life I'm doomed to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, O; Alive to-day as well's I may, Regardless of to-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well
As a monarch in a palace, O,
Though Fortune's frown still hunts me
down

With all her wonted malice, O;
I make indeed my daily bread,

But ne'er can make it farther, O;
But as daily bread is all I need,
I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune

Comes generally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,
Or my good-natured folly, O;
But come what will, I've sworn it still,
I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.