Chapter V (2)

But then a rustic country quean To write--was e’er the like o’t seen? A milk maid poem-books to print; Mair fit she wad her dairy tent; Or labour at her spinning wheel, An’ do her wark baith swift an’ weel. Frae that she may some profit share, But winna frae her rhyming ware. Does she, poor silly thing, pretend The manners of our age to mend? Mad as we are, we’re wise enough Still to despise sic paultry stuff.

“May she wha writes, of wit get mair, An’ a’ that read an ample share Of candour ev’ry fault to screen, That in her dogg’ral scrawls are seen.”

All this and more, a critic said; I heard and slunk behind the shade: So much I dread their cruel spite, My hand still trembles when I write.

EPISTLE
_TO NELL_,
WROTE FROM
LOUDOUN CASTLE.

Dear Nell with your long silence griev’d, Your welcome missive I receiv’d, And have in haste tane up the pen, Some incoherent rhyme to sen’: As time for study is but scarce, Accept extemporary verse.

To Loudoun Castle well I got; It is a most delightfu’ spot. The house, tho’ built before the flood, Remains as yet both firm and good: The more to decorate the place, Our parents do the portals grace. There Adam stands, a comely man, Eve wi’ the apple in her han’: In Eden’s yard the fruit was sweet, But here she has not got it eat.

A garden large, and hedges high, O’er which an eagle scarce could fly; Odorif’rous flowers of vari’d hue, In ilka bord’ring walk we view. Trees in full bloom, fruits excel, When ripe, the rose’s fragrant smell; The plains a pleasing prospect yield, And plenty decks the fertile field. Each beauteous arbour forms a shade, As if for contemplation made. The trees in stately rows appear, And ev’ry thing seems charming here; Did not the hungry raven’s throat So far outvie the blackbird’s note; Did not the ill forboding owl, At midnight, from dark caverns howl.

But Nell, in human life you know, Our sweets are ever mix’d with wo. In vain for happiness we sue, While as the meteor keeps in view, With hearts elate, we grasp the prize; The charm is fled, the phantom dies! What stock soe’er the misers have, The heart will ever something crave; Which, when possest, not soothes the mind, But leaves an anxious blank behind. What tho’ no bags of gold we’ve got? We may be happy in our lot; And with our little still content, Our all perhaps will ne’er be spent: And while we something have in store, Why should we sigh or pine for more?

_NELL’S ANSWER._

While you, my friend, in beauteous, rural lay, The ancient pile, and circling scenes display, Enthusiastic rapture fires my soul, And admiration reigns without controul. Methinks, while I your charming theme pursue, That Loudoun castle rises to my view. I see, or is it fancy that portrays? The prospect stand before my ardent gaze: Surpris’d I see a new Elysium rise, In pomp august, before my wond’ring eyes.

With joy I view the sweetly, vari’d scene, The winding vale, and groves of vernal green. The garden will my fancy long detain, And those fair fields that wave with yellow grain. The blooming trees that form a sylvan shade, And those sweet bow’rs for contemplation made. Would some propitious pow’r but grant my boon, Send some kind genii with an air-balloon; Take me aloft, and safe convey with care, Straight to the bonny blooming banks of Air; To Loudoun castle soon I’d bend my way, And all its beauties joyfully survey. The gothic structure, and its fair domains, Most amply would compensate all my pains. With you, dear Jenny, I would pass some hours, Amongst its shady walks and fragrant bow’rs. Of poetry and poets talk by turns, And pleas’d make comments on the far-fam’d Burns.

ANOTHER
_EPISTLE TO NELL_.

While Phœbus did our summer arbours cheer, And joys Autumnal crown’d our circling year; Even then my thoughts to you excursions made, And ardently the bypast scenes survey’d; Where oft we met in Eccles’ peaceful bow’rs, While social pleasure mark’d the passing hours. From these sweet scenes I found myself remov’d, I fear’d no more remember’d or belov’d. Forgot by Nell, friendship seem’d sincere, Such cold neglect, who undisturb’d could bear?

Mild Autumn now resigns to rougher skies, And frightful storms, in wild commotion, rise. The tempest howls, while dark December reigns, And scatters desolation o’er the plains. Just as the sun bursts from the wintry cloud, Which oft does now his native glory shroud, Your welcome letter cheers my anxious soul; For humour, wit, and friendship grace the whole. Well pleas’d I find you on Parnassus’ hill; The more I read, the more I prize your skill. The Muses coy, you seem to catch with ease, And unfatigu’d attain the art to please.

Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath pursue, In time perhaps you may receive your due. We’ll beat the bushes for the rustic muse, Where ev’ry dunce her inspiration sues. ’Mongst the vast crowd, let you and I aspire To share a little of Apollo’s fire. If Fortune prove, like Cupid, ever blind, We may perhaps some petty favour find; But if no more we gain by these our lays, We’ll please ourselves with one another’s praise.

AN EPISTLE
_TO A LADY_.

_November, 1789._

While Morcham does your much lov’d presence share, And Lydia’s health claims your maternal care, O Madam, deign with candour to peruse A rustic lay, presented by the Muse. From Loudoun’s plains she now awakes the lyre, And gladly would to arduous feats aspire. On the smooth margin of the stream reclin’d, She fondly hopes to please a taste refin’d. What tho’ she boast of no peculiar charm, That would the critic of his force disarm? She humbly deprecates your doom severe, And fain would wish to find you partial here. The Muse alone does this indulgence claim, Else it were impious such a thought to frame.

Would you from Morcham cast your mental eye, And the recesses of our castle spy, You’d see Honoria, in her elbow chair, A mind at ease, thoughts unperplex’d with care; With aspect mild, explore the sacred page, Guide of her youth, and comfort of her age: In conduct prudent, and in counsel wise; Her friendship ev’ry virtuous mind must prize. Then view the pair, in bonds of Hymen blest, With little Cupid’s flutt’ring round their breast. The bliss that’s mutual, all their thoughts employ, Whose social hearts partake no selfish joy. To please each other proves their constant aim, While ev’ry act endears the tender claim.

Matilda too, your notice must demand; To paint would here require a Raphael’s hand: To trace the radient beauties of her mind, Shall be a task for nobler pens assign’d. I’d rather far her little foibles scan, Though strict inspection finds no more than one. Such anxious care on others she bestows, She quite forgets what to herself she owes. Vouchsafe the charming Celia next a look, Her mind serene, and in her hand a book: Eyes, which at will, can pleasure give or pain, On stupid Humphry Clinker shine in vain.

As through the hall and kitchen now you pass, Pray deign to peep among the lower class: The cook’s at work; but, madam, who can know Whether her hands or tongue more swiftly go? They’re nimble both; but diff’rent is th’ effect; One merits praise, the other disrespect. Poor Mary sighs beneath a load of woes, Hard and uneasy ev’ry turn she does: How light soe’er the task, she’ll pond’ring say, “Ah! Is there not a lion in the way?” Will seems in haste his master’s boots to clean, Old James is driving Turkeys o’er the green, Our crazy-pated dairy-maid just now Is scribbling o’er these senseless lines to you. Hark! there’s a call, O pardon what I’ve penn’d; I’m sure you’re glad my letter’s at an end.

FROM
_SNIPE_,
A FAVOURITE DOG,
TO HIS
MASTER.

_May, 1791._

O best of good masters, your mild disposition Perhaps may induce you to read my petition: Believe me in earnest, though acting the poet, My breast feels the smart, and mine actions do shew it.

At morn when I rise, I go down to the kitchen, Where oft I’ve been treated with kicking and switching. There’s nothing but quiet, no toil nor vexation, The cookmaid herself seems possess’d of discretion. The scene gave surprise, and I could not but love it, Then found ’twas because she had nothing to covet. From thence to the dining-room I took a range sir, My heart swells with grief when I think of the change there; No dishes well dress’d, with their flavour to charm me, Nor even so much as a fire to warm me. For bread I ransack ev’ry corner with caution, Then trip down the stair in a terrible passion. I go with old James, when the soss is a dealing, But brutes are voracious and void of all feeling; They quickly devour’t; not a morsel they leave me, And then by their growling ill nature they grieve me.

My friend Jenny Little pretends to respect me, And yet sir at meal-time she often neglects me: Of late she her breakfast with me would have parted, But now eats it all, so I’m quite broken hearted. O haste back to Loudoun, my gentle good master, Relieve your poor Snipy from ev’ry disaster. A sight of yourself would afford me much pleasure, A share of your dinner an excellent treasure,

Present my best wishes unto the good lady, Whose plate and potatoes to me are ay ready: When puss and I feasted so kindly together; But now quite forlorn we condole with each other. No more I’ll insist, lest your patience be ended; I beg by my scrawl, sir, you’ll not be offended; But mind, when you see me ascending Parnassus, The need that’s of dogs there to drive down the Asses.

ON THE
_DEATH OF J----. H----. Esq._
JUNE, 1790.

Ere Phœbus’ beams exhal’d the pearly dew, While hoary moisture all the fields o’erspread, Where ozier cypress, and the drooping yew, Had form’d a musing melancholy shade.

Belinda sat, bedew’d with briny tears, The echoing grove her deep-fetch’d sighs retain; Her plaintive note distress’d my list’ning ears, While in low accents thus she did complain.

“And is the pleasing scene, alas! no more! Corrosive grief now on my vitals prey! Distress’d, in sighs I spend the heavy hour, Nor feel of comfort one auspicious ray!

Now gloomy visions hover round my bed, More sadd’ning thoughts my waking hours employ! Hope’s balmy whispers are for ever fled, And far remov’d is ev’ry gleam of joy!

My former days can never more return; Each future prospect darkens on my view; Life’s rugged paths seem dreary and forlorn; No kindly hand does there sweet flow’rets strew.

Alas! on life’s tempestuous ocean tost, Become a prey to each high swelling wave, My ev’ry hope of happiness is lost---- Laid in the silent, solitary grave!

No more, O death! thy pointed shafts I dread! Thy keenest darts I hourly wish to share; Since my lov’d Henry’s number’d with the dead, Nought in this world can now engage my care!

Ah! what to me avails the radiant sky, The verdant meadow, or the vocal grove? No kind companion shares the melting joy, And tunes his lute to melody and love.

He was----but oh! no language can express---- What my lov’d Henry ever was to me: My joy in health, my support in distress, My lover, friend, and tender husband he.

For me a parent’s love he did forego, With all the pleasures of his native shore: On me alone did ev’ry care bestow; He saw me happy, and he wish’d no more.

Keen recollection animates my pain, And all my pleasures past augment my woes; Yet fond remembrance shall those joys retain, While vital life within this bosom flows.”

Thus spoke Belinda, on the turf reclin’d; No ray of hope her sadd’ning fancy cheer’d: When from a thicket, as by heav’n design’d, A nymph celestial in her sight appear’d.

Her flowing robes wav’d in the ambient air; A flow’ry wreath her modest temples grac’d; Her presence kindly smooth’d the brow of care, And all the horrors of the scene effac’d.

Array’d in heav’nly smiles she onward came; Vain phantoms her superior pow’r confest: She view’d the sad, dejected, mournful dame, And thus in soothing accents her address’d.

“Do not Belinda at thy fate repine, Nor by thy tears augment the pond’rous load; The lovely youth must be no longer thine: He’s gone, such is the sov’reign will of God.

He’s gone to flourish in a fairer soil, A plant too noble for this noxious clime: Where virtue must triumphant ever smile, He’ll share of joys extatic and sublime.

Vain are thy sorrows, vain the sighs of those, Who did his favour or his friendship share: He’s gone beyond the reach of human woes, Above the weight of ev’ry worldly care.

Pure were the virtues center’d in his breast, With unassuming rectitude they sway’d: His tongue the dictates of his heart express’d, While his mild manners more than words convey’d!

But human bliss is of a transient date, Nor permanent thy woes, tho’ now severe: Soon shall you meet in a celestial state, And then no more the pangs of parting fear.

ON THE
_BIRTH OF J----. H----. Esq.’s SON_.
NOVEMBER 15, 1790.

Dear lovely babe, with hearts elate,
We hail thy natal hour:
Here does the Muse impatient wait,
Libations kind to pour.

Upon a theme so new, so sweet,
She now attempts to sing:
No foreign aid she needs invite,
To touch the vocal string.

But while with anxious thoughts on thee,
And ardent look, I gaze,
Can I the valiant hero see,
To animate my lays?

The plodding philosophic eye,
Shall I attempt to scan?
Or in thy infant smiles descry
The politicians plan?

Too hard the task, my humble muse
Can boast of no such art;
Though hope, on flutt’ring pinions does
All this and more impart.

While fondl’d by a mother kind,
Thou checks the falling tears,
When thy lov’d father to her mind
In ev’ry charm appears.

His features sweet, attractive, mild,
Each soft, each winning grace,
She does in thee, her darling child,
With fond remembrance trace.

And that the virtues he possess’d
May in thy bosom glow,
She does indulgent heav’n request,
Who mitigates her wo.

May he, on whom her hope relies,
Protect thy lovely form,
While sudden blasts impetuous rise
In life’s tempestuous storm.

For thee, be calm the rolling flood,
Be still the blust’ring wave:
May’st thou be bless’d with every good
A mother’s heart can crave.

ON A
GENTLEMAN’S
PROPOSING TO TRAVEL 300 MILES
_TO SEE J----. H----. Esq.’s CHILD_.

Is it true! does Alonzo from London propose
A visit to Scotia’s bleak plain,
Ere the beams of bright Sol have dispersed our snows,
Or the warblers enliven’d their strain?

Does the city prove irksome, insipid the ball,
Nor the theatre claim a delay?
Is it friendship or int’rest that ushers the call,
Which he seems in such haste to obey?

I ask’d, and in whispers, by Fame I was told,
That his heart was by int’rest unmov’d,
That the ties of pure friendship were stronger than gold,
And it’s exquisite charms he had prov’d.

But ah! he is gone, whose reception so kind,
Would have fully compensate his toil!
Can the sight of a babe give solace to his mind,
Or reward the fatigue by a smile?

Let the trifling vain clamours of stoics be mute,
While friendship directeth the scales:
Let them wonder, but never attempt to dispute,
While self o’er their feelings prevails.

In vain let them guess what Alonzo must know,
Since friendship each action inspires;
His presence will tend to alleviate wo,
That done, it is all he desires.

_VERSES_

WRITTEN ON A FOREIGNER’S VISITING THE GRAVE
OF A SWISS GENTLEMAN, BURIED AMONG THE
DESCENDENTS OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE,
GUARDIAN OF SCOTLAND IN
THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

Our regal seat to Edward fallen a prey, Our Chief’s insulted corse his victim lay; Our ruin’d land no monument could raise; Yet grateful bards still sung his heart-felt praise. Long ages hence her hero still she’ll mourn; Still her brave sons with emulation burn. His spirit guarding still our native place, Proclaims this mandate to his latest race: “Let sacred truth bid living fame be thine; “Ne’er trust for honour to a sculptur’d shrine. “Those modest merits marbles ne’er impart, “Love writes them deepest on the human heart.”

Thus mid thy race did their lov’d Henry dwell, Whose dust shall mix thy memory with Tell[3]: Truth, honour, spirit, animate that form, Which beauty, grace, and symmetry adorn. Here that rich blossom dropp’d, scarce fairly blown; The friend, the husband, father we bemoan! Wail by the grave a mother’s cheerless throes, And share a widow’s agonizing woes!

Dear youth, thy name to latest time descends, Where gentle virtues made mankind thy friends. From no vain marble need you borrow fame; Truth, love and friendship, here embalm thy name. A parent’s silver hairs bestrew thy shrine; Her griefs were mortal, but her joys sublime: In tears we mourn the body laid to rest; She hails thy spotless soul ’mid angels blest.

[3] A famous Swiss chief

FROM
_PHILANDER TO EUMENES_.

With pleasure I your welcome letter read, While Cupid for a little from me fled. With freedom write, dispel your trivial fears; There’s nought presumptuous in your song appears; Tho’ strange th’ ideas which you now convey, While you our lovely females thus portray.

No doubt, there are, in the promiscuous crowd, The worthless fair, the virtuous and the good; The haughty nymph, the maid of humble mind; Th’ imperious, yea, the gentle and the kind; Such as an adamantine heart could charm, And furious tygers of their rage disarm. In all vicissitudes of human life, Man’s greatest blessing is a virtuous wife: Her smiles can’t fail to sooth his anxious breast, Diffusing joy, while various cares molest: Her prudent counsel swift relief can bring, As Abigail appeased Isr’el’s king.

Nor need I thus the sacred annals trace, In Britain’s Isle they claim the highest place; When dire oppression, with uplifted hand, His yoke extended o’er our native land, Our sires to abject slavery were doom’d, Our mothers all their ancient claims resum’d: You’ll say my speeches do me partial prove, And so ascribe the cruel cause to love. Are you alone exempt from such a guest? Are you of every antidote possess’d T’ effect a cure, or mitigate the pain? Then may the archer cast his shafts in vain.

Of late dear friend I did such valour boast; But by one fatal glance the field was lost. While you are free of dangers, still beware; Be warn’d by me, and shun th’ alluring snare. It is by some deem’d cowardice to fly, But sure it more ignoble is to die: To die, I’m frantic, sir; what did I say? Reason once more resume thy wonted sway; Kind heaven defend us from such dire alarms; Who would a victim fall to female charms? I find I’m better while your lines I read, I’m almost from my Gallic fetters free’d. As you alone were partner of my grief, Pray now congratulate my quick relief. I would not by prolixity offend; Both bound and free, Philander is your friend.

_SYLVIA AND ARMEDA._

ARMEDA.

Why dost thou Sylvia pensive sit?
Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow?
Oft hast thou cheer’d us by thy wit,
Why thus reserv’d and sullen now?

Hast thou thy little lap-dog lost?
Can Celia’s dress excite envy?
Is Flavia now the fav’rite toast,
Or dost thou for a lover sigh?

SYLVIA.

Be Flavia still the toast of beaux;
Such trifles ne’er could give me pain:
But know the cause of all my woes,
The dear Alonzo’s left the plain.

His music oft has charm’d the grove;
So soft his pipe, so sweet his air:
None heard, but felt the power of love,
’Mong all the nymphs assembl’d there.

Not Philomel’s delightful strain
Could such extatic joys impart,
As did thy notes, O darling swain!
Which well can cheer the anxious heart.

His count’nance as Aurora bright,
His smiles gave joy to all around;
In virtue, wit, and all that’s right,
Alonzo’s equal ne’er was found.

To Anna’s banks, alas! he’s gone;
To Eccles fam’d for maidens fair;
And, to augment my grievous moan,
I dread some pow’rful rival there.

ARMEDA.

O Sylvia, all your fears are vain;
I’ve seen the nymphs display their art,
To captivate your charming swain;
But none can there engage his heart.

Insensible he seems to grow;
Defies the little armed boy:
From his lov’d horse, a fatal throw
Does more his anxious thoughts employ.

Than Cupid’s arrows more severe,
The wounds he got his cares now prove:
Can Sylvia think it strange to hear
Alonzo quite forgets to love?

SYLVIA.

Forgets to love! that must not be;
Sure Sylvia would be wretched then.
Alonzo, when depriv’d of thee,
Rough winter still deforms the plain.

O hasten and dispel my fears!
The birds with thee more sweetly sing.
O crown with joy revolving years!
Thy presence gives perpetual spring.

THE
_CAPTIVATED SOLDIER_.

Ye swains unacquainted with love,
Attend to my pitiful lay:
My pipe shall resound through the grove,
And my woes in sad accents display.

Long time I with freedom did range;
With indiff’rence I gaz’d on the fair:
Now my heart, how affecting the change!
Matilda has caught in the snare.

Ah me! how unlucky the day,
When thoughtless I hasten’d to view?
A wedding was coming this way,
Nor dream’d I of what did ensue.

Matilda appear’d in her charms;
Her cheeks with soft blushes did glow:
My bosom was fill’d with alarms,
Nor knew I who wounded me so.

Her shape it is handsome; her air
Excels all the nymphs of the town:
Her eyes may with diamonds compare;
Her locks of the loveliest brown.

She swift from my presence did fly.
I call’d, but she answer’d me not:
She fear’d that some danger might be
Sly lurking beneath the red coat.

If red will affrighten my dear,
I’ll dress in the good russet grey,
Abandon my sword and my spear,
And cast my bright armour away.

No more I’ll attend to the drum;
But take up my shuttle and weave:
From that sure no danger can come,
Such clowns have no art to deceive.

No razor shall come on my face,
Nor powder be seen on my hair:
I’ll walk at no regular pace;
In brogues to my love I’ll repair.

O then, will she hear my soft tale?
O then, will Matilda prove kind?
If rustics with her can prevail,
The rustic in me she shall find.

ON READING
LADY MARY MONTAGUE and Mrs. ROWE’S
_LETTERS_.

As Venus by night, so Montague bright
Long in the gay circle did shine:
She tun’d well the lyre, mankind did admire;
They prais’d, and they call’d her divine.

This pride of the times, in far distant climes,
Stood high in the temple of Fame:
Britannia’s shore, then ceas’d to adore,
A greater the tribute did claim.

To sue for the prize, fam’d Rowe did arise,
More bright than Apollo was she:
Superior rays obtain’d now the bays,
And Montague bended the knee.

O excellent Rowe, much Britain does owe
To what you’ve ingen’ously penn’d:
Of virtue and wit, the model you’ve hit;
Who reads must you ever commend.

Would ladies pursue, the paths trod by you,
And jointly to learning aspire,
The men soon would yield unto them the field,
And critics in silence admire.

UPON
_A YOUNG LADY’S_
BREAKING A LOOKING-GLASS.

As round the room, with tentless speed,
Young Delia tripp’d it finely,
A looking-glass, so Fate decreed,
She broke, but not design’dly.

A looking-glass of ancient date,
Its fall the belles lamented;
But all their sorrow prov’d too late,
Its ruin none prevented.

When Anne the British sceptre sway’d,
’Twas plac’d in firm position;
Nor did a forward chamber-maid
E’er alter its condition.

No mirror better could descry
Th’ embrio of a pimple;
The rheum on a neglected eye;
The hoary hair or wrinkle.

Long time it did the chimney grace,
So awkward now and empty;
Its with a vengeance chang’d its place,
And broke in pieces twenty.

O Delia! mourn thy direful fate,
A thousand ills portending!
Black omens now thy stars await,
’Gainst which there’s no defending.

Poor Delia now, bedew’d with tears
And piti’d by acquaintance,
Resolv’d to spend full fifteen years,
In doleful, deep repentance.

Do tears these lovely cheeks distain,
By thousand charms surrounded!
These eyes from weeping do refrain;
Their glance have many wounded.

T’ adorn thy more accomplish’d mind,
Each radient grace conspires:
Hence dread thou not their dark design,
Though rage each demon fires.

Let hope diffuse a gentle ray,
These magic spells defying:
Let prudence Delia’s footsteps sway,
On virtue still relying.

But know the rake’s alluring smile,
The heedless fair bewitches:
Let no fond youth your heart beguile,
By soft enticing speeches.

And if good counsel aught avail,
Attend Diana’s classes:
For mind our sex is ever frail,
And brittle as our glasses.

AN
ACROSTIC
UPON A
YOUNG WOMAN,
_WRITTEN BY HER LOVER_.

Hail sweetest charmer of the rural plain, Accept the tribute of a humble swain; Nor frown, tho’ he presumpt’ous would essay; No muse your matchless beauties can display. All that is feign’d of the fair Cyprian queen, Here in this lovely damsel may be seen. In her fair form is ev’ry grace combin’d; Virtue and modesty adorn her mind. If Milton’s eloquence did grace my lays, Sure it would fail, and speak but half her praise. O Cupid fix an arrow in her breast! No more I’d wish, were I of her possess’d.

AN
_EXTEMPORARY_
ACROSTIC.

My Muse, once more, thy aid I humbly claim; Refuse not now to grace my rustic lays. Johnston or Pope might well befit the theme Or Grecian bards, who ever merit praise. How dares my humble hand assume so high? No common character inspires my song, His growing fame long since has reach’d the sky: All I can say but does his virtues wrong; Let then my blund’ring pen in silence rest; Lo, silent admiration paints them best.

AN
EPISTLE
TO
_Mr. ROBERT BURNS_.

Fairfa’ the honest rustic swain, The pride o’ a’ our Scottish plain; Thou gi’es us joy to hear thy strain, And notes sae sweet; Old Ramsay’s shade, reviv’d again, In thee we greet.

Lov’d Thallia, that delightful muse, Seem’d long shut up as a recluse: To all she did her aid refuse, Since Allan’s day, Till Burns arose, then did she choose To grace his lay.

To hear thy song, all ranks desire; Sae well thou strik’st the dormant lyre. Apollo, wi’ poetic fire, Thy breast did warm, An’ critics silently admire Thy art to charm.

Cæsar an’ Luath weel can speak; ’Tis pity e’er their gabs should steek: They into human nature keek, An’ knots unravel; To hear their lectures ance a week, Ten miles I’d travel.

Thy dedication to G---- H----, In unco bonny, hamespun speech, Wi’ winsome glee the heart can teach A better lesson, Than servile bards wha fawn an’ fleech, Like beggar’s messin.

When slighted love becomes thy theme, An’ woman’s faithless vows you blame, With so much pathos you exclaim, In your Lament, But glanc’d by the most frigid dame, She wad relent.

The daisy too, you sing wi’ skill; An’ weel ye praise the whisky gill. In vain I blunt my feckless quill, Your fame to raise, While echo sounds, frae ilka hill, To Burns’s praise.

Did Addison or Pope but hear, Or Sam, that critic most severe, A plough-boy sing, wi’ throat sae clear, They, in a rage, Their works wad a’ in pieces tear An’ curse your page.

If I should strain my rupy throat, To raise thy praise wi’ swelling note, My rude, unpolish’d strokes wad blot Thy brilliant shine, An’ ev’ry passage I would quote Seem less sublime.

The task I’ll drop; wi’ heart sincere To heav’n present a humble prayer, That a’ the blessings mortals share May be, by turns, Dispens’d with an indulgent care To Robert Burns.

TO
_MY AUNTY_.

My ever dear an’ worthy aunty, Wha ne’er o’ wit nor lear was vaunty; Yet often could, like honest grandam, Unravel dreams; an’ whiles, at random, Did truth in mystic terms declare, Which made us aft wi’ wonder stare.

Last night, when Morpheus softly hurl’d His silken sceptre o’er the world, Some anxious cares within my breast Were silently consign’d to rest; Yet did in sleep their pow’r retain, As shews the visions of my brain.

My works I thought appear’d in print, And were to diff’rent corners sent, Whare patrons kind, but scant o’ skill, Had sign’d my superscription bill. Voratious critics by the way, Like eagles watching for their prey, Soon caught the verse wi’ aspect sour, An’ did ilk feeble thought devour; Nor did its humble, helpless state, One fraction of their rage abate.

Tom Touchy, one of high pretence To taste an’ learning, wit an’ sense, Was at the board the foremost man, Its imperfections a’ to scan. Soon as the line he seem’d to doubt, The meaner critics scratch’d it out; Still to be nam’d on Touchy’s side, Was baith their int’rest and their pride.

Will Hasty, in an unco rage, Revis’d the volume page by page; But aft was deem’d a stupid ass, For cens’ring what alone might pass.

Jack Tim’rous gladly would have spoke, But quiv’ring lips his sentence broke; So much he fear’d a brother’s scorn, The whole escap’d his claws untorn.

James Easy calm’d my throbbing heart, An’ whisp’ring told each man apart, That he the volume much esteem’d; Its little faults he nothing deem’d: An’ if his vote they would receive, It might through countless ages live.

While I poor James’s speech admir’d, Tom Touchy at the sound was fir’d: And ah! it griev’d me much to find, He prov’d him senseless, deaf, and blind: Then quick as thought, ere I could tell him, Ilk critics club was up to fell him; An’ as he, helpless, met the stroke, I, starting, trembl’d, syne awoke.

Now aunty, see this sad narration, Which fills my breast wi’ fair vexation; An’ if you can some comfort gie me, Make nae delay, but send it to me: For I’m commanded by Apollo, Your sage advice in this to follow.

ON
_HALLOWEEN_.

Some folk in courts for pleasure sue,
An’ some ransack the theatre:
The airy nymph is won by few;
She’s of so coy a nature.
She shuns the great bedaub’d with lace,
Intent on rural jokin
An’ spite o’ breeding, deigns to grace
A merry Airshire rockin,
Sometimes at night.

At Halloween, when fairy sprites
Perform their mystic gambols,
When ilka witch her neebour greets,
On their nocturnal rambles;
When elves at midnight-hour are seen,
Near hollow caverns sportin,
Then lads an’ lasses aft convene,
In hopes to ken their fortune,
By freets that night.

At Jennet Reid’s not long ago,
Was held an annual meeting,
Of lasses fair an’ fine also,
With charms the most inviting:
Though it was wat, an’ wondrous mirk,
It stopp’d nae kind intention;
Some sprightly youths, frae Loudoun-kirk,
Did haste to the convention,
Wi’ glee that night.

The nuts upon a clean hearthstane
Were plac’d by ane anither,
An’ some gat lads, an’ some gat nane,
Just as they bleez’d the gither.
Some sullen cooffs refuse to burn;
Bad luck can ne’er be mended;
But or they a’ had got a turn,
The pokefu’ nits was ended
Owre soon that night.

A candle on a stick was hung,
An’ ti’d up to the kipple:
Ilk lad an’ lass, baith auld an’ young,
Did try to catch the apple;
Which aft, in spite o’ a’ their care,
Their furious jaws escaped;
They touch’d it ay, but did nae mair,
Though greedily they gaped,
Fu’ wide that night.

The dishes then, by joint advice,
Were plac’d upon the floor;
Some stammer’d on the toom ane thrice,
In that unlucky hour.
Poor Mall maun to the garret go,
Nae rays o’ comfort meeting;
Because sae aft she’s answer’d no,
She’ll spend her days in greeting,
An’ ilka night.

Poor James sat trembling for his fate;
He lang had dree’d the worst o’t;
Though they had tugg’d and rugg’d till yet,
To touch the dish he durst not.
The empty bowl, before his eyes,
Replete with ills appeared;
No man nor maid could make him rise,
The consequence he feared
Sae much that night.

Wi’ heartsome glee the minutes past,
Each act to mirth conspired:
The cushion dance perform’d at last,
Was most of all admired.
From Janet’s bed a bolster came,
Nor lad nor lass was missing;
But ilka ane wha caught the same,
Was pleas’d wi’ routh o’ kissing,
Fu’ sweet that night.

Soon as they heard the forward clock
Proclaim ’twas nine, they started,
An’ ilka lass took up her rock;
Reluctantly they parted,
In hopes to meet some other time,
Exempt from false aspersion;
Nor will they count it any crime,
To hae sic like diversion
Some future night.

ON SEEING
_Mr. ---- BAKING CAKES_.

As Rab, who ever frugal was,
Some oat-meal cakes was baking,
In came a crazy scribbling lass,
Which set his heart a-quaking.

“I fear,” says he, “she’ll verses write,
An’ to her neebors show it:
But troth I need na care a doit,
Though a’ the country knew it.

My cakes are good, none can object;
The maids will ca’ me thrifty;
To save a sixpence on the peck
Is just an honest shifty.

They’re fair an’ thin, an’ crump, ’tis true;
You’ll own sae when you see them;
But, what is better than the view,
Put out your han’ an’ pree them.”

He spoke, an’ han’d the cakes about,
Whilk ev’ry eater prized;
Until the basket was run out,
They did as he advised.

An’ ilka ane that got a share,
Said that they were fu’ dainty;
While Rab cri’d eat, an’ dinna spare;
For I hae cakes in plenty.

And i’ the corner stan’s a cheese,
A glass an’ bottle by me;
Baith ale and porter, when I please,
To treat the lasses slily.

Some ca’ me wild an’ roving youth;
But sure they are mistaken:
The maid wha gets me, of a truth,
Her bread will ay be baken.

A
POEM
ON
_CONTENTMENT_.

INSCRIBED TO JANET NICOL, A POOR OLD WANDERING
WOMAN, WHO LIVES BY THE WALL
AT LOUDOUN AND USED SOMETIMES TO
BE VISITED BY THE COUNTESS.

O Janet, by your kind permission, My muse, in tatter’d low condition, Would fain attempt, if you’ll allow, To dedicate a song to you. Possess’d of few attractive pow’rs, Her case does much resemble yours; So lest none else should deign to hear, She humbly supplicates your ear.

Imprimis, she should compliment ye; A Venus or Diana paint ye; Count o’er your virtues by the hunder, And own they’re more than she can number. This she might do; but then ’twould grieve her, To find no mortal did believe her. She calls you patroness and friend, And begs that blessings may attend Upon you in your humble cot, And keep your ’scutcheon free frae blot. May sweet contentment, hard to find, With radient lustre light your mind; While numbers of your sister train Must for the treasure pant in vain.

Bright Celia, with her conquering eyes, Attempts to win the doubtful prize: She darts a glance, ah! cruel maid, Philander drops! a strapping blade. The youth as frantic now behaves; Of love and flames, and darts he raves. Not Esculapius’ sons can cure, Nor ease the pangs he must endure. At last the charmer gives consent; Then Hymen does them both torment, With nameless ills unknown before, And ev’ry month augments the score.

May stars propitious guard your life
From all the mis’ries of a wife:

Poor Delia’s sighs and tears next prove The pains of ill requited love. She danc’d, had wit, was wondrous fair, And seem’d Alonzo’s heart to snare. True love and constancy he vow’d; But this by all must be allow’d, That young men’s tongues do not impart The real language of their heart. He wed another, sad to tell! And bad the mournful maid farewel.

O Janet, may you never know
The pangs that lovers undergo.

Cordelia too, with look demure, Contentment wishes to ensure. She flattering Cupid wont believe: She knows that Hymen can deceive; But fondly hopes in verse to shine, Assisted by the tuneful Nine; To call their treasures all her own, E’en in despite of fortune’s frown. But weak, alas! is her pretence; Her song proves destitute of sense. Each cavilling critic does her vex, And ev’ry censure sore perplex.

O may you never feel the pain,
We heedless scribbling fools sustain.

A thousand more from various views, The gliding meteor swift pursues. The Patriot toils, in pensive mood, For honour and Britannia’s good. The Courtier deems his Sov’reign’s smile Would all his anxious cares beguile. O Janet, shun the coxing tribe, Who barter virtue for a bribe. The Coxcomb’s care we well can guess; He thinks the charm consists in dress, Pomatum, powder, linens white, Wash-balls, perfumes, and mirrors bright. The Miser hopes his joys to hold, Fast lock’d within his bags of gold: Thieves, moth and rust, corrupt his rest; May all his sorrows be your jest. The plodding sage long years has spent In searching for the gem content, Which often does, I know not why, In heaps of rustic rubbish lie.

And may my honest friend just now, Without much quest be found by you; May your old shoes, your staff and plaidy, Be always for the journey ready: And blithly may ilk neighbour greet you; May cakes, and scones, and kibbocks meet you; And may they weel ilk pocket cram, And in your bottle slip a dram. May your wee glass, your pipe and specks, Be ay preserv’d frae doleful wrecks. May your wee house, baith snug and warm, Be safe frae ev’ry rude alarm Of wandering lovers, who’d essay To make soft innocence their prey: Or ruffians, cast in rougher mould, Whose sordid bosoms beat for gold.

Content grows joy, in meeting there } The little, lovely, blooming fair, } Who makes thy cot and thee her care; } Whose gentle, gen’rous, noble mind, Tho’ great and rich, can here prove kind; Whose footsteps mark her path with peace, Whose smile bids ev’ry sorrow cease; For age and want, and wo provides And over misery presides.

Her father’s worth, and mother’s charms Esteem and fond affection warms, While kind D--f--s, with rapture spies, The sighing breast and swimming eyes; Whose rays have found in James and thee, The melting charm of misery. That charm much more the cherub moves, Than did his gift of cooing doves; Whose hearts, less tender than her own, Breathe forth their ever pleasing moan. Sweet innocence, in her we find; Bright truth illuminates her mind: Each action says, for her to give It is more joy than to receive. Let James and you for Loudoun pray, Whose charms have lur’d me from my lay.

Janet farewel, you’ve lint and tow, O keep your rock ay frae the low; Tho’ turmoils torture land and sea, Content may smoke a pipe with thee.

_ALCANZAR._

When first Alcanzar to the town did come, The people all believ’d that he was dumb: In troops, with hasty steps, to him they went; To get their fate presag’d was their intent. The man well vers’d was in the mystic art, And quick as thought could wondrous things impart. Whoever were with anxious cares oppress’d, Or on account of absent friends distress’d, Unto Alcanzar swiftly did repair, Each of his purse did amply make him share. It matters not how great the distance be, A ship is rear’d, he wafts him o’er the sea: Tho’ in distress, them frees from ev’ry pain; Dead or alive they now must cross the main: Bedaub’d with lace, of gold they’ve got great store, And swift he lands them on Britannia’s shore.

The nymphs and swains do next his aid demand; He ties them all in Hymen’s silken band: He does young Strephon with lov’d Delia bless, Tho’ wont ere while to shun his fond address. Sly Sanders too, who loves and woos for gold, Sees Susan’s charms down on the table told: Cows, calves and horses, plac’d before his sight, A widow rich will well his love requite. Poor Celia next, who, for some fickle swain, Spends days in sorrow, and whole nights in pain: It was his absence caus’d the maid to mourn, But fam’d Alcanzar made him soon return. His antic gestures did the fair one cheer, And home she went, releas’d from every fear. Old Elspa now comes trembling for her fate; She would be wed, but fears it is too late: Her locks, alas! are silver’d o’er with grey; Yet to Alcanzar swift she takes her way. She gave a sixpence; Ladies mark the rest, She’s with a husband and five children blest. Here maids of fifty, widows of fourscore, May all get marri’d for a penny more.

But is the man like as his merit priz’d? Ah no! he is by empty fools despis’d. A crafty youth, Will Watson was his name, Did strive to ruin great Alcanzar’s fame. He dress’d himself all in a maid’s array, Gown, stays and petticoat, extremely gay; A muslin head-dress, with a large toopee; Few of our Ladies look’d so fine as he. Up street he walk’d with a majestic air, And to Alcanzar’s lodgings did repair.

First gave a penny, then he shew’d his hand, And did with down cast eyes dejected stand: But who can tell the sequel without tears? Alcanzar’s chalk too soon a cradle rears. Who wont bewail this maid’s sad destiny? She pregnant proves, her lover gone to sea. Now all around upon the youth did gaze, Such dismal signs had fill’d them with amaze. Will gave a penny more; the sage did bring The lover home, and wed them with a ring. Eight children too, he plac’d before their sight Will seem’d well pleas’d, and bade them all good night.

This might have pass’d, had he the fact conceal’d; But O ’twas cruel! Willy all reveal’d. He thought indeed, but all his thoughts were vain, The fam’d Alcanzar’s character to stain. For one spoil’d dish who would a meal despise! Or for one small mistake condemn the wise?

FROM
_ALONZO TO DELIA_.

To you my fair, the empress of my heart, I’m urg’d to vent my pure, untainted flame; Tho’ language faintly can my thoughts impart, My swelling sighs, your kind attention claim.

See Venus self outrival’d by your charms: Vain my attempt thy virtues to portray O come my darling hasten to my arms Within my bosom still you bear the sway.

Life without thee no pleasure can bestow; O might my suit thy tender pity move! No muse can paint the ills I undergo; And nought can cure them but my Delia’s love.

No bold ambitions views inspire my breast: And what is honour but an empty name? While Delia scorns, I never can be blest, Though sounding heralds did my praise proclaim.

Know, lovely charmer, that our ancient sire Did languish, tho’ in Eden’s fragrant bow’rs; Till the first nymph bade love his breast inspire, And by her presence cheer’d the ling’ring hours.

But Adam’s love could never equal mine, Nor did bright Eve such radient beauty share. O come, my darling, heart and hand resign, And ev’ry muse shall hail the happy pair.

FROM
_DELIA TO ALONZO_.

When Adam was in spacious Eden plac’d, Where rural sweets luxuriant did abound, All that could charm the eye or please the taste, In this blest scene of happiness was found.

O’er wide creation, he an empire sway’d: The creatures all with whom the world was stor’d, His sov’reign mandates with delight obey’d, And own’d him as their universal lord.

What would he more, to render bless complete? You say he lack’d the sweets of social life, Until fair Eve, with charms divinely sweet, Became his friend, his partner, and his wife

But think, fond youth, how transient was the bliss. Scarce had he felt the joys of mutual love, Scarce had he once receiv’d th’ ambrosial kiss, When ah! his darling did his ruin prove!

Did she, who was adorn’d with ev’ry grace, Prove fatal to the father of mankind? Who of her daughters, a degen’rate race, Can boast more art the tranquil hours to bind?

To sue for better, sir, would be in vain: None ever yet did mother Eve excel. Be warn’d by Adam; shun the glitt’ring train, Lest some fond nymph your pleasures all expel.

A single life we find replete with joys. The matrimonial chain I ever dread. A state of celibacy is my choice; Therefore Alonzo never can succeed.

FROM
_DELIA TO ALONZO_.

WHO HAD SENT HER A SLIGHTING EPISTLE.

Sir, I your letter did peruse; So elegant the style you use, Abash’d, confounded I did muse Struck with amaze; Great wit and learning you diffuse In all your lays.

You’ve been upon Parnassus’ top, More high than Alexander Pope; And wild Arabia’s plains you grope For Phenix rare, That useful knowledge you may drop, While dunces stare.

Your Pegasus, still on the wing, More sweet than Philomel you sing; And swift from distant climes you bring Notes hard to read: Does Phenix, sir, from ashes spring? ’Tis strange indeed.

But more difficult ’tis to scan, That dire, deceitful creature man; Of all the work in Nature’s plan, Sure none can be So intricate to understan’, As mystic he.

His breast is fill’d with mazy wiles; His count’nance stor’d with fickle smiles: His flatt’ring speech too oft beguiles Pure innocence; And when he writes, his lofty style’s Replete with sense.

Such eloquence does merit praise; Deep erudition swells your lays: You seem the laureate of our days; And all the nine, Your mighty character to raise, Do now combine.

’Tis pity, sir, that such as you Should agriculture’s paths pursue, Or destin’d be to hold the plough On the cold plain; More fit that laurels deck’d the brow Of such a swain.

Yet Homer’s parts few did commend, Till death his doleful days did end; Then seven cities did contend A right to claim; Each vow’d from thence he did descend, So great his fame.

Perhaps, sir, in some future age, Struck with the beauties of your page, Old Scotia’s chieftains may engage Your name to raise; More have they to excite their rage, Than Homer’s lays.

But I must drop the pond’rous theme, Lest you my weak attempts should blame; So sure your title is to fame, Who runs may read; Of such your merit to proclaim You have no need.

Know then, that love within my breast, Has never yet been known to rest; Nor would I harbour such a guest, To give me pain: I wish you, sir, so much distress’d, Soon well again.

FROM
_FLAVIA TO CARLOS_.

Dear sir, accept this missive sent From one whose mind’s sincerely bent, On ever acting so with you, As shall evince her friendship true. But how shall Carlos really know, That friendship in her breast doth glow? A friend is more than empty name: Few justly can the title claim. Were Flavia born in station high, Her friendship soon you would descry: Her op’lence quickly would reveal, What pen’ry bids her now conceal. Then Carlos would her favour boast, Nor be so much by fortune cross’d.

Thus Flavia talks of her esteem, As heroes conquer in a dream; Or as a culprit, doom’d to die, In dungeon where he’s forc’d to lie, Might boast of what he could effect, Were kings attentive to his beck.

You laugh, dear Sir, and pray what then, Must Flavia call you best of men? Must high encomiums grace her lays, And all her notes be swell’d with praise? Know Sir, when friendship does commence, All flatt’ry must be spurn’d from thence: No real friendship can exist, In the disembling flatt’rer’s breast. What can poor Flavia then bestow, But wish you still may better grow? Your wit still more and more refine, } And all the beauties of your min’, } With radient lustre ever shine; } In virtue’s paths, still on to tread, Which to the fair Elysium lead; May every action justly claim The Poet’s wish, that thing call’d Fame.

As through life’s winding vale you rove, May still your stars propitious prove, And richest blessings on you shower; May sweet contentment grace your bower; By love and fortune ever crown’d, May honour all your wishes bound. Nor access find within your breast, One thought your friend would wish supprest; And may they soon at Tyburn swing, Who would not sign what here I sing.

_TO NELL_
WHEN AT
MOFFAT WELL.

On the delightful banks of Mein,
The muse laments in pensive strain;
The nymphs assembl’d on the green,
Of Nelly’s absence all complain.

Our rural swains no joys can find,
But still in pensive silence mourn;
With heads upon the turf reclin’d
They sigh, and wish your swift return.

Oft have they curs’d fair Moffat town,
With all the virtues of the Well;
The sprightly Beau, and rustic clown,
Of Nelly’s charms delight to tell.

Dear maid, it is for you alone,
They spend whole days and nights in sighs;
And will you disregard their moan,
And all their plaintive notes despise?

’Tis Autumn now, the fertile field,
Rich Ceres decks with yellow grain;
With joy we would our sickles wield,
If Nelly deign’d to grace the plain.

Come now and of our labours share;
None better can that weapon ply;
O mitigate Philander’s care,
Whose toil seems less when you are nigh.

Once more, dear Nell, I’d wish to see
You cheerful join the rural throng;
Your presence would enhance our glee,
And sweetly animate my song.

A
_YOUNG LADY’S LAMENTATION_
FOR THE
LOSS OF HER SISTER BY MARRIAGE.

What tongue can half my woes express?
What force of eloquence can tell?
The causes of my deep distress
Are such as ever seem to swell.

My parents not ignoble were;
My father once a merchant fam’d;
But now in a superior sphere,
’Mongst _landed gentlemen_ he’s nam’d.

My mother, of no mean extract:
The famous Freyburgh gave her birth;
With wit and prudence still she’ll act;
None more accomplished on earth.

My brethren all for valour fam’d,
Their merit great, what pen can show;
Their praise has been by fame proclaim’d,
While justly in esteem they grow.

I had one only sister dear;
Our parents’ joy and pride were we;
Our charms attractive did appear
To men of high and low degree:

Who often times, in soft address,
Did strive our favour to obtain,
While we of fortitude possess’d,
Refus’d their offers with disdain.

They vow’d we would their ruin prove,
Persisting in our cruelty;
But we were wont to laugh at love,
And little Cupid’s darts defy.

We ever arm’d were cap-a-pee;
Indiff’rence was our favourite shield;
But by some fatal destiny,
My sister languish’d in the field.

Depriv’d of all defensive arms,
(I sigh, my tears begin to flow)
And slain by a sea captain’s charms,
She married was a month ago.

In an unlucky moment he,
From Plutus sure had learn’d the art,
Made his empoison’d arrows flee,
Till one of them did pierce her heart.

She did not wish to find relief,
But an ignoble victim fell,
Which fill’d our parents’ hearts with grief;
Their sorrows great what tongue can tell?

The balsam of advice was brought,
With drops of strict authority;
Prescriptions still to shun she sought,
Nor would the medicines apply.

With water of forgetfulness,
She oft was bid to bathe the wound:
The search was vain, she did protest
This water never could be found.

It griev’d us much thus to behold
Our counsels slighted with disdain:
His feather’d darts were tipp’d with gold,
Which render’d every effort vain.

But conscious that our parents dear
Could not behold the fatal blow,
To make the stroke seem less severe,
She at a distance met the foe.

Her peerless charms she there resign’d,
Compell’d by love’s supreme command;
A clown by travels much refin’d
Did eager clasp her beauteous hand.

I will lament a sister lost.
Ah! ladies hear my piteous moan,
Depriv’d of what I once could boast,
I now must keep the field alone.

What though I no assistance have,
I hope to act courag’ously,
The subtle foe still to outbrave,
And man’s seducing arts defy.

The rich, the poor, the proud, the slave,
The fop, the clown, the low, the tall,
The gay, the giddy, or the grave,
I scornfully defy them all.

THE
_RIVAL SWAINS_.

While o’er the plains stern winter bore the sway, And Sol from Capricorn diffus’d his ray, Nigh Bolton Gate, beneath a hawthorn shade, Two rural swains sad lamentations made: Each for an absent damsel seem’d to mourn, While throbbing breasts did sigh for sigh return.