Epistle To James Smith
Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society! I owe thee much—Blair. Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief, That e’er attempted stealth or rief! Ye surely hae some warlock-brief Owre human hearts; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon, Just gaun to see you; An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair taen I’m wi’ you. That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you off, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature She’s wrote the Man. Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme, My barmie noddle’s working prime. My fancy yerkit up sublime, Wi’ hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time To hear what’s comin? Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random-shot O’countra wit. This while my notion’s taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I’m that way bent, Something cries “Hooklie!” I red you, honest man, tak tent? Ye’ll shaw your folly; “There’s ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, A’ future ages; Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.” Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistlin’ thrang, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes My rustic sang. I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead Forgot and gone! But why o’ death being a tale? Just now we’re living sound and hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave Care o’er-side! And large, before Enjoyment’s gale, Let’s tak the tide. This life, sae far’s I understand, Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, Where Pleasure is the magic-wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu’ light. The magic-wand then let us wield; For ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi’ wrinkl’d face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, We’ creepin pace. When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin, An’ social noise: An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman, The Joy of joys! O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning, Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th’ expected warning, To joy an’ play. We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho’ the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot, For which they never toil’d nor swat; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain; And haply eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race, An’ seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan’, Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, To right or left eternal swervin, They zig-zag on; Till, curst with age, obscure an’ starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— But truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’n let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, ye Pow’rs! and warm implore, “Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes. “Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour; An’ yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. “A title, Dempster1 merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, In cent. per cent.; But give me real, sterling wit, And I’m content. [Footnote 1: George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P.] “While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale, I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, Wi’ cheerfu’ face, As lang’s the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.” An anxious e’e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose; I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows As weel’s I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away. O ye douce folk that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an’cool, Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces In your unletter’d, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray; But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see ye upward cast your eyes— Ye ken the road! Whilst I—but I shall haud me there, Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi’ you to mak a pair. Whare’er I gang.
The Vision
Duan First1 The sun had clos’d the winter day, The curless quat their roarin play, And hunger’d maukin taen her way, To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The thresher’s weary flingin-tree, The lee-lang day had tired me; And when the day had clos’d his e’e, Far i’ the west, Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey’d the spewing reek, That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin; An’ heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus’d on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, An’ done nae thing, But stringing blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash-account; While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. Is a’ th’ amount. [Footnote 1: Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. 2 of M’Pherson’s translation.—R. B.] I started, mutt’ring, “blockhead! coof!” And heav’d on high my waukit loof, To swear by a’ yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof Till my last breath— When click! the string the snick did draw; An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht, An’ stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; And come to stop those reckless vows, Would soon been broken. A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace” Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space, Beam’d keen with honour. Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; An’ such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight an’ clean— Nane else came near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew: Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand; And seem’d, to my astonish’d view, A well-known land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were toss’t: Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast, The lordly dome. Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient borough rear’d her head; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, And polish’d grace.2 By stately tow’r, or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern; Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare, With feature stern. My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race heroic3 wheel, [Footnote 2: The seven stanzas following this were first printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787. Other stanzas, never published by Burns himself, are given on p. 180.] [Footnote 3: The Wallaces.—R. B.] And brandish round the deep-dyed steel, In sturdy blows; While, back-recoiling, seem’d to reel Their Suthron foes. His Country’s Saviour,4 mark him well! Bold Richardton’s heroic swell;5 The chief, on Sark who glorious fell,6 In high command; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,7 I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d In colours strong: Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d, They strode along. Thro’ many a wild, romantic grove,8 Near many a hermit-fancied cove (Fit haunts for friendship or for love, In musing mood), An aged Judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good. With deep-struck, reverential awe, The learned Sire and Son I saw:9 To Nature’s God, and Nature’s law, They gave their lore; This, all its source and end to draw, That, to adore. [Footnote 4: William Wallace.—R.B.] [Footnote 5: Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.—R.B.] [Footnote 6: Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.—R.B.] [Footnote 7: Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial—place is still shown.—R.B.] [Footnote 8: Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice— Clerk.—R.B.] [Footnote 9: Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor Stewart.—R.B.] Brydon’s brave ward10 I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye: Who call’d on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a patriot-name on high, And hero shone.
Duan Second With musing-deep, astonish’d stare, I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; A whispering throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister’s air She did me greet. “All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native Muse regard; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low; I come to give thee such reward, As we bestow! “Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, Their labours ply. “They Scotia’s race among them share: Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption’s heart: Some teach the bard—a darling care— The tuneful art. “’Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; [Footnote 10: Colonel Fullarton.—R.B. This gentleman had travelled under the care of Patrick Brydone, author of a well-known “Tour Through Sicily and Malta.”] Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand. “And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetric rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. “Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence, Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue; Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung His ’Minstrel lays’; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic’s bays. “To lower orders are assign’d The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind, The artisan; All choose, as various they’re inclin’d, The various man. “When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat’ning storm some strongly rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain With tillage-skill; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o’er the hill. “Some hint the lover’s harmless wile; Some grace the maiden’s artless smile; Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. “Some, bounded to a district-space Explore at large man’s infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard; And careful note each opening grace, A guide and guard. “Of these am I—Coila my name: And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling power: I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. “With future hope I oft would gaze Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely, caroll’d, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes; Fir’d at the simple, artless lays Of other times. “I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the North his fleecy store Drove thro’ the sky, I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye. “Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev’ry grove; I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. “When ripen’d fields and azure skies Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise, In pensive walk. “When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue, Th’ adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. “I saw thy pulse’s maddening play, Wild send thee Pleasure’s devious way, Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. “I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o’er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, Become thy friends. “Thou canst not learn, nor I can show, To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone’s art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. “Yet, all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose, T e lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. “Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi’s mine, Nor king’s regard, Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, A rustic bard. “To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan: Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect; And trust the Universal Plan Will all protect. “And wear thou this”—she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head: The polish’d leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. [To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]
Suppressed Stanza’s Of “The Vision”
After 18th stanza of the text (at “His native land”):— With secret throes I marked that earth, That cottage, witness of my birth; And near I saw, bold issuing forth In youthful pride, A Lindsay race of noble worth, Famed far and wide. Where, hid behind a spreading wood, An ancient Pict-built mansion stood, I spied, among an angel brood, A female pair; Sweet shone their high maternal blood, And father’s air.1 An ancient tower2 to memory brought How Dettingen’s bold hero fought; Still, far from sinking into nought, It owns a lord Who far in western climates fought, With trusty sword. [Footnote 1: Sundrum.—R.B.] [Footnote 2: Stair.—R.B.] Among the rest I well could spy One gallant, graceful, martial boy, The soldier sparkled in his eye, A diamond water. I blest that noble badge with joy, That owned me frater.3