Robert Burns: Verses about Hope

Chorus—Here's a health to ane I loe dear,
Here's a health to ane I loe dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear—Jessy.


ALTHO' thou maun never be mine,
Altho' even hope is denied;
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than ought in the world beside—Jessy.
Here's a health, &c.


I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thine arms—Jessy.
Here's a health, &c.


I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e'e;
But why urge the tender confession,
'Gainst Fortune's fell, cruel decree?—Jessy.
Here's a health, &c.

O THOU pale orb that silent shines
While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.
And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream!


I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked, distant hill;
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill:
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace!


No idly-feign'd, poetic pains,
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim:
No shepherd's pipe—Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.
The plighted faith, the mutual flame,
The oft-attested pow'rs above,
The promis'd father's tender name;
These were the pledges of my love!


Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptur'd moments flown!
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,
For her dear sake, and her's alone!
And, must I think it! is she gone,
My secret heart's exulting boast?
And does she heedless hear my groan?
And is she ever, ever lost?


Oh! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,
The plighted husband of her youth?
Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!
Her way may lie thro' rough distress!
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe
Her sorrows share, and make them less?


Ye wingèd hours that o'er us pass'd,
Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my breast
My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd:
That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room!
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,
And not a wish to gild the gloom!


The morn, that warns th' approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and woe;
I see the hours in long array,
That I must suffer, lingering, slow:
Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen recollection's direful train,
Must wring my soul, were Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant western main.


And when my nightly couch I try,
Sore harass'd out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,
Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,
Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief
From such a horror-breathing night.


O thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway
Oft has thy silent-marking glance
Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray!
The time, unheeded, sped away,
While love's luxurious pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual-kindling eye.


Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,
Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow!

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn
An' snuff the caller air.
The risin' sun owre Galston muirs
Wi' glorious light was glintin,

The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin
Fu' sweet that day.
As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart linin;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu' gay that day.
The twa appear'd like sisters twin
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes.
The tird cam up, hap-step-an'
-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.
Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye.'
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
An' taks me by the han's,
'Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
Of a' the ten comman's
A screed some day.
'My name is Fun-your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae;
An' this is Superstitionhere,
An' that's Hypocrisy.
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye'll go there, you runkl'd pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day.'
Quoth I, 'With a' my heart, I'll do't:
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!'
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time

An' soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad frae side to side
Wi' monie a wearie body
In droves that day.
Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cotters,
There swankies young, in braw braidclaith
Are springin owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter,
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in mony a whang,
An' farls, bak'd wi' butter,
Fu' crump that day.
When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
On ev'ry side they're gath'rin,
Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools,
An' some are busy bleth'rin
Right loud that day.

…
Here some are thinkin on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man and blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him;
Which by degrees slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,
Unken'd that day.
Now a' the congregation
o'er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' salvation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The vera sight o' Moodie's face
To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.
Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath
He's stampin, an' he's jumpin!

His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeal and gestures,
Oh, how they fire the heart devout
Like cantharidian
plaisters,
On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice:
There's peace and rest nae langer;
For a' the real judges rise,
They canna sit for anger.
Smith opens out his cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an' barrels
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs and reason?
His English style an' gesture fine
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
That's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he's got the word o' God
An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
An's aff, an' up the Cowgate
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller niest the Guard relieves,
An' Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho' in his heart he weel believes
An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,
So cannilie he hums them;
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-wi
e o'ercomes him
At times that day.
Nw butt an' ben the change-house
fills
Wi' yill-caup commentators:
Here's cryin out for bakes an gills,
An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.
Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
Than either school or college
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
It pangs us fou o' knowledge.
Be't whisky-gill or penny-wheep,

Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinkin deep,
To kittle up our notion
By night or day.
The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table weel content,
An' steer about the toddy,
On this ane's dress an' that ane's leuk
They're makin observations;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,
An' forming assignations

To meet some day.
But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills rae rairin,
An' echoes back return the shouts-
Black Russell is na sparin.
His piercing words, like highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera 'sauls does harrow'
Wi' fright that day.
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Whase ragin flame, an' scorching heat
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi' fear
An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neibor snorin,
Asleep that day.
'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past,
An' how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:
How drink gaed round in cogs an' caups
Amang the furms an' benches:
An' cheese and bred frae women's laps
Was dealt about in lunches
An' dauds that day.
In comes a gausie, gash guidwife
An' sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
And gi'es them't like a tether
Fu' lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw clathing!
O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel
How bonie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel

Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell,wi' rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
They're a' in famous tune
For crack that day.
How monie hearts this day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love divine,
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandi
e
Some ither day.

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
(Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard")

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise.
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,
The short'ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts 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 hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
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.

With 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 tho' 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 aright!"

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;
Wi' 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 strappin youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks 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 maks the youth sae bashfu' 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 heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other's 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 truth,
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 of 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 prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;
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, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and 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 Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt 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 Heaven 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 pronounc'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,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

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 Heav'n 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 heavenly 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
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And, oh! 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!

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
        (Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard")

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise.
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,
The short'ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts 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 hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
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.

With 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 tho' 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 aright!"

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;
Wi' 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 strappin youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;
The father cracks 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 maks the youth sae bashfu' 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 heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other's 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 truth,
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 of 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 prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;
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, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and 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 Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt 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 Heaven 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 pronounc'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,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

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 Heav'n 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 heavenly 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
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And, oh! 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!

1 Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
2 When Nature's face is fair,
3 I walked forth to view the corn
4 An' snuff the caller air.
5 The risin' sun owre Galston muirs
6 Wi' glorious light was glintin,
7 The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
8 The lav'rocks they were chantin
9 Fu' sweet that day.

10 As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad
11 To see a scene sae gay,
12 Three hizzies, early at the road,
13 Cam skelpin up the way.
14 Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
15 But ane wi' lyart linin;
16 The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
17 Was in the fashion shining
18 Fu' gay that day.

19 The twa appear'd like sisters twin
20 In feature, form, an' claes;
21 Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
22 An' sour as ony slaes.
23 The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,
24 As light as ony lambie,
25 An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
26 As soon as e'er she saw me,
27 Fu' kind that day.

28 Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
29 I think ye seem to ken me;
30 I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
31 But yet I canna name ye."
32 Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
33 An' taks me by the han's,
34 "Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
35 Of a' the ten comman's
36 A screed some day.

37 "My name is Fun--your cronie dear,
38 The nearest friend ye hae;
39 An' this is Superstition here,
40 An' that's Hypocrisy.
41 I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
42 To spend an hour in daffin:
43 Gin ye'll go there, you runkl'd pair,
44 We will get famous laughin
45 At them this day."

46 Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't:
47 I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
48 An' meet you on the holy spot;
49 Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!"
50 Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time
51 An' soon I made me ready;
52 For roads were clad frae side to side
53 Wi' monie a wearie body
54 In droves that day.

55 Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,
56 Gaed hoddin by their cotters,
57 There swankies young, in braw braidclaith
58 Are springin owre the gutters.
59 The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
60 In silks an' scarlets glitter,
61 Wi' sweet-milk cheese in mony a whang,
62 An' farls, bak'd wi' butter,
63 Fu' crump that day.

64 When by the plate we set our nose,
65 Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
66 A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
67 An' we maun draw our tippence.
68 Then in we go to see the show:
69 On ev'ry side they're gath'rin,
70 Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools,
71 An' some are busy bleth'rin
72 Right loud that day.

...

82 Here some are thinkin on their sins,
83 An' some upo' their claes;
84 Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
85 Anither sighs an' prays:
86 On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
87 Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces;
88 On that a set o' chaps at watch,
89 Thrang winkin on the lasses
90 To chairs that day.

91 O happy is that man and blest!
92 Nae wonder that it pride him!
93 Whase ain dear lass that he likes best,
94 Comes clinkin down beside him!
95 Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back,
96 He sweetly does compose him;
97 Which by degrees slips round her neck,
98 An's loof upon her bosom,
99 Unken'd that day.

100 Now a' the congregation o'er
101 Is silent expectation;
102 For Moodie speels the holy door,
103 Wi' tidings o' salvation.
104 Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
105 'Mang sons o' God present him,
106 The vera sight o' Moodie's face
107 To's ain het hame had sent him
108 Wi' fright that day.

109 Hear how he clears the points o' faith
110 Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin!
111 Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath
112 He's stampin, an' he's jumpin!
113 His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,
114 His eldritch squeal and gestures,
115 Oh, how they fire the heart devout
116 Like cantharidian plaisters,
117 On sic a day!

118 But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice:
119 There's peace and rest nae langer;
120 For a' the real judges rise,
121 They canna sit for anger.
122 Smith opens out his cauld harangues,
123 On practice and on morals;
124 An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
125 To gie the jars an' barrels
126 A lift that day.

127 What signifies his barren shine
128 Of moral pow'rs and reason?
129 His English style an' gesture fine
130 Are a' clean out o' season.
131 Like Socrates or Antonine
132 Or some auld pagan heathen,
133 The moral man he does define,
134 But ne'er a word o' faith in
135 That's right that day.

136 In guid time comes an antidote
137 Against sic poison'd nostrum;
138 For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
139 Ascends the holy rostrum:
140 See, up he's got the word o' God
141 An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
142 While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
143 An's aff, an' up the Cowgate
144 Fast, fast that day.

145 Wee Miller niest the Guard relieves,
146 An' Orthodoxy raibles,
147 Tho' in his heart he weel believes
148 An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
149 But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,
150 So cannilie he hums them;
151 Altho' his carnal wit an' sense
152 Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him
153 At times that day.

154 Now butt an' ben the change-house fills
155 Wi' yill-caup commentators:
156 Here's cryin out for bakes an gills,
157 An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
158 While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
159 Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture,
160 They raise a din, that in the end
161 Is like to breed a rupture
162 O' wrath that day.

163 Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
164 Than either school or college
165 It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
166 It pangs us fou o' knowledge.
167 Be't whisky-gill or penny-wheep,
168 Or ony stronger potion,
169 It never fails, on drinkin deep,
170 To kittle up our notion
171 By night or day.

172 The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
173 To mind baith saul an' body,
174 Sit round the table weel content,
175 An' steer about the toddy,
176 On this ane's dress an' that ane's leuk
177 They're makin observations;
178 While some are cozie i' the neuk,
179 An' forming assignations
180 To meet some day.

181 But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
182 Till a' the hills rae rairin,
183 An' echoes back return the shouts--
184 Black Russell is na sparin.
185 His piercing words, like highlan' swords,
186 Divide the joints an' marrow;
187 His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell,
188 Our vera "sauls does harrow"
189 Wi' fright that day.

190 A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
191 Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
192 Whase ragin flame, an' scorching heat
193 Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
194 The half-asleep start up wi' fear
195 An' think they hear it roarin,
196 When presently it does appear
197 'Twas but some neibor snorin,
198 Asleep that day.

199 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
200 How mony stories past,
201 An' how they crouded to the yill,
202 When they were a' dismist:
203 How drink gaed round in cogs an' caups
204 Amang the furms an' benches:
205 An' cheese and bred frae women's laps
206 Was dealt about in lunches
207 An' dauds that day.

208 In comes a gausie, gash guidwife
209 An' sits down by the fire,
210 Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
211 The lasses they are shyer:
212 The auld guidmen, about the grace
213 Frae side to side they bother,
214 Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
215 And gi'es them't like a tether
216 Fu' lang that day.

217 Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
218 Or lasses that hae naething!
219 Sma' need has he to say a grace,
220 Or melvie his braw clathing!
221 O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel
222 How bonie lads ye wanted,
223 An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel
224 Let lasses be affronted
225 On sic a day!

226 Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,
227 Begins to jow an' croon;
228 Some swagger hame the best they dow,
229 Some wait the afternoon.
230 At slaps the billies halt a blink,
231 Till lasses strip their shoon:
232 Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
233 They're a' in famous tune
234 For crack that day.

235 How monie hearts this day converts
236 O' sinners and o' lasses
237 Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane
238 As saft as ony flesh is.
239 There's some are fou o' love divine,
240 There's some are fou o' brandy;
241 An' monie jobs that day begin,
242 May end in houghmagandie
243 Some ither day.