Part 86

“By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies, “Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend; Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,” And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er: Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the knight.

Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:— “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”

To Mary In Heaven

Thou ling’ring star, with lessening ray, That lov’st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher’st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow’d grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, ’Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray; Till too, too soon, the glowing west, Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser-care; Time but th’ impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Epistle To Dr. Blacklock

Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye! And then ye’ll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! And never drink be near his drouth! He tauld myself by word o’ mouth, He’d tak my letter; I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better.

But aiblins, honest Master Heron Had, at the time, some dainty fair one To ware this theologic care on, And holy study; And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on, E’en tried the body.

But what d’ye think, my trusty fere, I’m turned a gauger—Peace be here! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye’ll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— I need na vaunt But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! I’m weary sick o’t late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whiles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time), To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie, And eke the same to honest Lucky; I wat she is a daintie chuckie, As e’er tread clay; And gratefully, my gude auld cockie, I’m yours for aye. Robert Burns.