AULD BRIG.

coevals

Provosts, many

Oh ye, my dear remember'd ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town;
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers;

A'

ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,
To see each melancholy alteration;

And agonizing, curse the time and place

sober scavengers

above, water

When ye begat the base degenerate race!

Nae langer reverend men, their country's glory,

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story!
Nae langer thrifty citizens and douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house;
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country;

Men three parts made by tailors and by barbers,
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on THAE
new Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

no longer broad

[giddy

half-witted,

plunderers

well-saved money

Now haud you there, for faith you've said enough,
An muckle mair than ye can make to through;
As for your Priesthood I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:
But, under favour o' your langer beard,
Abuse o' magistrates might weel be spared:
To liken them to your auld warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle
To mouth "a citizen," a term o' scandal;
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;

hold

make good

crows, ticklish longer well

old-world

no more, have

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops and rasins, bargaining
Or gathered liberal views in bonds and seisins,
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,

Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,

offered

And would to Common-sense for once betrayed them,
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.

What further clish-ma-claver might been said,
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,
No man can tell; but all before their sight,
A fairy train appeared in order bright;

palaver

Adown the glittering stream they featly danced;
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced:
They footed o'er the watery glass so neat,
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung,
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
Oh had M'Lachlan, thairm-inspiring sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When through his dear strathspeys they bore with
Highland rage;

spruce y

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired,
And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspired!
No guess could tell what instrument appeared,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung in every part,

While simple melody poured moving on the heart.
The Genius of the stream in front appears,

A venerable chief advanced in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crowned,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the lovelist pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand-in-hand with Spring;
Then, crowned with flowery hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with nodding corn;
Then winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show,
By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

Next followed Courage, with his martial stride,
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ;*
Benevolence, with mild, benigant air,

A female form, came from the towers of Stair:
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode,†
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode:

Last, white-robed Peace, crowned with a hazel wreath,
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath

The broken iron instruments of death;

cat-gut

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

LINES ON MEETING WITH BASIL, LORD DAER.

THIS wot ye all whom it concerns,

I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,

ear

so, clambered

drunken drunk

+Dugald Stewart.

Nay, been BLIN' fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' reverence be it spoken;

* Coilsfield.

I've even joined the honour'd jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son !

Up higher yet my bonnet!

And sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh for Hogarth's magic power!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glower,
And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
And at his Lordship steal't a look,

Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
And (what surprised me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
BUT NOUGHT O' pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

drinking-vessel

thirst, slake

such

bewildered look

moving stupidly, bridle

Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

legs

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie !
Though Fortune's road be rough and hilly

fiddle-string

To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,

But take it like the unbacked filly,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter,
Yirr, Fancy barks, awa we canter

Up hill, down brae, till some mishanter,

Arrests us,

Some black bog-hole, then the scaith and banter We're forced to thole.

fellow

[sometimes

moving stupidly,

snarl accident

harm

bear

Hale be your heart!-hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle
To cheer you through the weary widdle,
O' this wild warl',

Until you on a crummock driddle

A gray-haired carle.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon

A fifth or mair,

The melancholious, lazy croon,

O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day
Nae "lente largo" in the play,

But "allegretto forte" gay

Harmonious flow

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-
Encore! bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang

Wha dearly like a jig or sang,

And never think o' right and wrang

By square and rule,

But as the clegs o' feeling stang,

Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled BAN keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace-

Their tuneless hearts!

May fireside discords jar a bass

To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither,

I' th' ither warl', if there's anither

And that there is I've little swither

About the matter

We cheek for chow shall jog thegither;
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonnie squad, priest wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still-I like them dearly-
BLESS! bless them a'!

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching, DEAR, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,

And gart me weet iny waukrife winkers

Wi' girnin' spite.

elbow move nimbly

wriggle world

staff, saunter

poverty

above

more

murmur

peevish

bold

gad-flies, sting

chosen

miserly

poverty

brother

other

doubt

cheek by jole expect

blame, entirely

sprightly girls

eyes

mad

made, wet, sleepless

grinning

But by yon moon !—and that's high swearin'-
And every star within my hearin'!

And by her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll ne'er forget;

I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
In fair-play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantrip hour,

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, vive l'amour!

Faites mes baise mains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,

And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple fate allows ye

To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure,

Aud trowth, my rhymin' warc's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,

Be't light, be't dark,

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

MOSSGIEL, October 30, 1786.

eyes who

lasses

purse, where, lost when, arrived witching

not, praise

such

no more indeed

ROBERT BURNS.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!
From marking wildly-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I sheltered in thy honoured shade,
Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labour plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim;