Part 54

When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases— Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup!

In a’ the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien’s rak’d i’ the mools,— Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’fools, Thou bear’st the gree!

Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell, An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell, Amang them a’!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o’ discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A townmond’s toothache!

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third,

A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprackl’d up the brae, I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.

I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests— Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken!— I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi’ a Lord!—stand out my shin, A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son! Up higher yet, my bonnet An’ sic a Lord!—lang Scoth ells twa, Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’, As I look o’er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, An’ how he star’d and stammer’d, When, goavin, as if led wi’ branks, An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer’d.

I sidying shelter’d in a nook, An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon.

I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman.

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

Masonic Song

Tune—“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I’ve little to say, but only to pray, As praying’s the ton of your fashion; A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse ’Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide, Who marked each element’s border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:— Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or withered Envy ne’er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!

Tam Samson’s Elegy

An honest man’s the noblest work of God—Pope.

When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.—R.B., 1787.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2 again grown weel, To preach an’ read? “Na’ waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel, “Tam Samson’s dead!”

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, In mourning weed; To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— Tam Samson’s dead!

The Brethren, o’ the mystic level May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson’s dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curlers flock, Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o’ a’ the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar, In time o’ need; But now he lags on Death’s hog-score— Tam Samson’s dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail Tam Samson’s dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa; Tam Samson’s dead!

That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d, Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d, While pointers round impatient burn’d, Frae couples free’d; But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! Tam Samson’s dead!