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Farewell again; and yet,

Must it indeed be so-and on this shore Shall you and I no more

Together see the sun of the summer set?

For me, my days are gone :

No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare Chaplets to bind my hair,

As I was wont: oh 'twas for you alone.

But on my bier I'll lay

Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan, Martyr of love to man,

And, like a broken flower, gently decay.


ON A SEQUESTERED RIVULET. There is no river in the world more sweet, Or fitter for a sylvan poet's dream, Than this romantic solitary stream, Over whose banks so many branches meet, Entangling:-a more shady bower or neat

Was never fashioned in a summer dream,
Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot sunbeam
Might hide, or in the waters cool her feet.
-A lovelier rivulet was never seen
Wandering amidst Italian meadows, where
Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fair;

Nor in that land where gods, 'tis said, have been;
Yet there Cephisus ran thro' olives green,
And on its banks Aglaia bound her hair.

Perhaps the lady of my love is now Looking upon the skies. A single star Is rising in the east, and from afar Sheds a most tremulous lustre: silent night Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow: But see, it motions, with its lovely light, Onwards and onwards thro' those depths of blue, To its appointed course stedfast and true. So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee, Stedfast for ever,-like yon planet fair; And yet more like art thou a jewel rare. Oh! brighter than the brightest star, to me, Come hither, my young love; and I will wear Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.

ROBERT BURNS.-A. D. 1759-96.



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,

When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne-lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.

His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit,
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,

And there began a lang digression

About the Lords o' the Creation.


I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents: He rises when he likes himsel; His flunkies answer at the bell: He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev❜n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man

His honour has in a' the lan':

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,

I own it's past my comprehension.


Trowth, Cæsar, whyles thy're fasht enough;
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.


But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L-d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o'cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash: He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble; An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.


They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're ay in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives;
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.

An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappie
Can make the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the kirk and state affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin,
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' every station,
Unite in common recreation:
Love blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth,
Forgets there's care upon the earth.

That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty winds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young ones rantin through the house-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still its owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin-


Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith: I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no's they bid him:
At operas an' plays parading,

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or, maybe, in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes a waft,

To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,

To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: Then bouses drumly German water, To mak himsel look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras.

For Britain's guid! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.


Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better,

The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows!
Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will you tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.


L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themsels to vex them; An' ay the less they hae to start them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country-fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right enough; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless: An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, Their galloping through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches;

Ae night thy're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jades thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandel potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard.
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.

There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o'sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan:
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

THE COTTERS' SATURDAY NIGHT. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beats retreating frae the pleugh;

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, todlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,

An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view.

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warned to obey;
"An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play:
An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfa' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare"If heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev❜ning gale."

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild!

But now the supper crowns their simple board! The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud: The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell,
An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big Ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearin thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy of the name:
Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How he, who bore in heav'n the second name,

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How his first followers and servants sped;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronoun'd by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There, ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear; [sphere. While circling time moves round in an eternal 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.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 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:"
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!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, [tent! Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet conAnd, 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 much-lov'd isle.

O thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' 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!


The wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
His locks were bleached white wi' time,

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal quire!

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