Robert Burns - Part 5

These poems parallel the life of Robert Burns, so, for best effect, they should be read in the order in which they appear, i.e., Part 1, Part 2, etc.


These poems are different from what has gone before; although there is that ever present strand of humour. They were written at a time when Burns was preparing to leave Scotland for Jamaica. There he hope to make his fortune as a book-keeper on a plantation. So he sees himself, not just as a poet in exile, separated from the things that he knows and love, but as a dead poet; as in, “A Bard’s Epitaph”. And “Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr”. In these poems there is a finality about the endings, a sense of separateness, sadness, and leave taking.

   Will Ye Go To The Indies My Mary ?
(Tune—Will ye’ go to the ewe-bughts, Marion?)

Will ye’ go to the Indies, my Mary,
   And leave auld Scotia’s shore?
Will ye’ go to the Indies, my Mary,
   Across th’ Atlantic roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
   And the apple on the pine;
But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
   Can never equal thine.

I have sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
   I have sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
   When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
   And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
   Before I leave Scotia’s strand.

We have plighted our troth, my Mary,
   In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
   The hour and the moment o’ time.
_____


On A Scotch Bard Gone To The West Indies

A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,                        sups
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,                          rhymes
A’ ye wha live and never think,
                     Come, mourn wi’ me.
Our billie’s gi’en us a’ jink,                                 comrade the slip
                     An’ owre the sea!

Lament him, a’ ye rantin’ core,                           revelling
Wha dearly like a random splore;                       spree
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar,                       no more
                     In social key;
For now he’s taen anither shore.                        Taken
                     An’ owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,               well, wish
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives an’ a’ may bless him,
                     Wi’ tearfu’ e’e,
For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him                   know, surely
                     That’s owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,          taken, useless fellow
Who can do nought but fyke an’ fumble,             fret
                      ‘Twad been nae plea;                  it would no
But he was gleg as onie wumble,                       smart, wimble
                      That’s owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear                 prudent
An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;               salt
‘Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,                 make
                       In flinders flee:                          pieces
He was her Laureat monie a year,
                       That’s owre the sea.

He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west                  cold
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
                       Ill may she be!
So, took a berth afore the mast,
                       An’ owre the sea!

To tremble under fortune’s cummock,               crummock
On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,                raw meal and cold water
Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,
                       Could ill agree;
So row’t his hurdies in a hammock,                 his buttocks
                       An’ owre the sea.

He ne’er was gi’en to great misguidin,              given
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding;
                       He dealt it free:
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
                       That’s owre the sea!

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An’ hap him in cozie biel:                               shelter
Y’ell find him aye a dainty chiel,                     young fellow
                        An’ fou’ o’ glee:                     full
He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,                     wronged, very devil
                        That’s owre the sea!

Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!              brother
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
                        Now bonilie!
I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie,                  gill of whisky
                        Tho’ owre the sea!
_____

    A Bards Epitaph

Is there a whim-inspiréd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre fast for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool       bashful, cringe
                         Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,           with sorrow
                         And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
                         O pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
                         Here have a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
                         Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and thro’ the starting tear,
                         Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below,
Was quick to learn the wise to know
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
                         And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
                         And stain’d his name.

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
                          In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
                          Is wisdom’s root.
_____

       Lines To An Old Sweetheart
Written On The Blank Leaf of a Copy of the
 Kilmarnock Edition of the Author’s Poems.

Once fondly lov’d, and still remember’d dear,
   Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere—
   Friendship! ‘tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
   One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more—
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
   Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.
_____

      Lines Written On A Banknote

Wae worthy thy pow’r, thou curséd leaf!
Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief!
For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,
For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass:
I see the children of affliction,
Unaided thro’ thy curs’d restriction;
I’ve seen the oppressors cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim’s spoil,
And for thy potence vainly wished,
To crush the villain in the dust!
For lack o’ thee, I leave this much lov’d shore,
Never perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.
_____

          Stanzas On Naething
Extempore Epistle To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

To your Sir, this summons I’ve sent,
   Prey, whip ‘till the ponnie is freathing;           pony, frothing
But if you demand what I want,
   I honestly answer you—naething.

Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,
   For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
   Are busy employed about—naething.

Poor Centum per-centum may fast,
   And grumble his hurdies their claithing,          buttocks, clothing
He’ll find, when the balance is cast,
   He’s gane to the devil for—naething.              gone

The courtier cringes and bows,
   Ambition has likewise its plaything;
A coronet beams on his brows;
   And what is a coronet?—naething.

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
   Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;                 vestments
But every good fellow will own
   Their quarrel is a’ about—naething.

The lover may sparkle and glow,
   Approaching his bonnie bit gay thing:
But marriage will soon let him know
   He’s gotten—a buskit-up naething.                basket

The Poet may jingle and rhyme,                       story
   In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
   He’s kindly rewarded wi’—naething.

The thundering bully may rage,
   And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast I’ll engage,
   You’ll find that his courage is—naething.

Last night wi’ a feminine whig—
   A Poet she couldna put faith in;                     could not
But soon we grew lovingly big,
   I taught her, her terrors were—naething.

Her whigship was wonderful pleased,
   But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing,
Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,
   And kissed her, and promised her—naething.

The priest anathémas may threat—
   Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in;               both
But when honours reveillé is beat,
   The holy artillery’s—naething.

And now I must mount on the wave—
   My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what is a watery grave?
   The drowning a Poet is—naething.

And now, as grim death’s in my thought,
   To you Sir, I make this bequeathing;
My service as long as ye’ve ought,
   And my friendship, by God, when ye've naething.
_____

     Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr
“I composed this song while I conveyed my chest so far on my road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land. “ RB.

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o’er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatt’red coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, pressed with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn
By early Winter’s ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

“Tis not the surging billow’s roar,
‘Tis not the fatal, deadly shore;
Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those—
The bursting tears my heart declare—
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.
_____

The “Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr”, shows how close Burns was to leaving Scotland for Jamaica. But there were those such as, George Lawrie, a “New Light” minister, who were working behind the scenes to keep him in Scotland. He would use his influence with friends in Edinburgh, to see if Burn’s work could be endorsed by the noted literary figures: the leading poetical light, Dr. Thomas Blacklock, and the even more notable Dr. Blair. With their endorsement, and a newly published edition of his work, Lawrie was confident that Burns could make a living in Scotland. Sometime later, Burns was invited to dine with Professor Stuart, a teacher of moral philosophy at Edinburgh. Among his other guest was Lord Daer, son of the Earl of Selkirk. In his poem, “On Dining With Lord Daer”, (which Burns composed as he made his way home from the dinner), he recalled with satisfaction his meeting with Lord Daer. The same age, but of different social background, they liked and respected each other. This meeting was, in effect, Burns’s introduction to the notables of Edinburgh society.

Continued in Part 6

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© Cormac McCloskey
    (Poems excluded)
Note: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 5", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on, 18th February 2006