Robert Burns - Part 7

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


This last selection of poems, (in context,) reflects Burns's political sympathies. He supported both the American and French Revolutions. So while much of the previous poetry is drawn from the raw experiences of every day rural life, these poems represent a shift, to the innermost Burns, to his personal political ideals. Ideals that could have cost him his livelihood as an excise man, (or worse,) given that some of his fellow Scots were transported to Australia, because they were viewed with suspicion, at a time when the French were threatening an invasion of England. It was an un-edifying period for Burns, who in letters to people of influence, loudly proclaimed his loyalty. That didn’t stop him writing what is popularly known as “Scots Wha he . . .” (Bruce’s Address To His Army At Bannockburn.”) This was his act of rebellion, but he didn’t dare put his name to it, when it was first published.

     The Tree Of Liberty

Heard ye' o' the tree of France,                     of
   I wantna what's the name o't;                    don't know
Around it a' the patriots dance-
  Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastille stood,
   A prison built by kings, man,
When Supersticions hellish brood
   Kept France in leading stringsm man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,                upon, such
   It's virtues a' can tell, man:
It raises man above the brute,
   It mak's him ken himsel', man.                   makes, know
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,                    if, once
   He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
   Of a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
   To comfort us 'twas sent, man,
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
   And mak' us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,           eyes
   Mak's high and low guid friends, man.      Makes
And he who acts the traitor's part,
   Its to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel              young man
   Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man.
And staw a branch, spite o the deil,            stole, devil
   Frae 'yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue wat'red it wi' care,
   And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossms there,
   Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see                   always
   The works o' Virtue thrive, man.
The courtly vermin's bann'd the tree,
   And grat to see it thrive, man.                  wept
King Loui' thought to cut it down,
   When it was unco sma' , man;                very small
For this the watchman crack'd his crown,
   Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wiked crew syne, on a time,                   from
   Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime-
   I wat they pledg'd their faith, man.
Awa' they gaed wi' mock parade,
   Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade
   And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.

Fair Freedom, standing by the tree,
   Her sons did loudly ca', man.                  call
She sang a sang o' liberty,
   Which pleas'd them ane and a', man.       one all
By her inspir'd, the new-born race
   Soon drew the avenging steel, man.
The hirelings ran--her foes gied chase,
   And bang'd the despot weel, man.

Let Britain bost her hardy oak,
   Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
   And o'er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
   And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree cannot be found
   'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree alake this life                     alas
   Is but a vale o' woe, man,
A scene o' sorrow misx'd wi' strife,
   Nae real joys we know, man.                    No
We labour soon, we labour late,
   To feed the titled knave, man.
And a' the comfort we're to get,
   Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,                       with, such
   Thw warld would live in peace, man.          world
The sword would help to mak a plough,
   The din o' war would cease man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
   We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
   Wad gladden every isle man.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat               Sorrow, rascal
   Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man;
I'd gie the shoon frae aff my feet
   To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray. Auld England may
   Sure plant this far-fam'd tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day,
   That gave us liberty, man.
_____

        I Murder Hate

I murder hate by flood or field,
   Tho' glory's name may screen us;
In wars at home I'll spend my blood-
   Life-giving wars of Venus.
The deities that I adore
   Are social Peace and Plenty;
I'm better pleas'd to make one more
   Than be the death of twenty.

I would not die like Socrates,
   For all the fuss of Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
   Nor yet would I with Cato:
The zealots of the Church and State
   Shall ne'er my mortal foes be;
But let me have bold Zimri's fate,
   Within the arms of Cosbi. *

* Vide Numbers, Chap 25, verses 8-15 , - RB.
_____

Bruce's Address To His Army At Bannockburn

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed-
       Or to Victory.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour,
See approach proud Edward's power-
      Chains and Slaverie.

Who will be a traitor knave?
Who can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
      Let him turn and flie!

Wha for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa',
      Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins!
      But they shall be free.

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
      Let us do--or die!
_____


The Highland Widow's Lament

O I am come to the low contrie,
   Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Without a penny in my purse,
   To buy a meal to me.

I was na sae in the Highland hills
   Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Nae woman in the country wide,
   Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye!                     cows
   Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Feeding on you hil sae high,
   And giving milk to me.

And there I had three score o' yowes,
   Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knows,
   And casting woo to me.

I was the happiest of a' the clan,
   Sair, sair may I repine;
For Donald was the bravest man,
   And Donald he was mine.

'Till Charlie Stewart came at last,
   Sae far to set us free;
My Donald's arm was wanted then
   For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' tale what need I tell,
   Wright to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his country fell,
   Upon Culloden field.

Ochon! O Donald, O!
   Ochon, ochon, ochrie!
Nae woman in the world wide,
   Sae wretched now as me.
_____

Ode For General Washington's Birthday

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell
   No lyre Aeolian I awake;
'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,
   Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
   And dash it in a tyrant's face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared-
   No more the despot of Columgia's race!
A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,
The shout--A People freed! They had an Empire saved!

Where is man's god-like form?
   Where is that brow erect and bold-
   That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created Fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitliff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despot's nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow!
And thou of man's imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
   Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
Columbia's offspring, brave as free,
In dange'rs hour, still flaming in the van,
Yet know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man.

Alfred! on the starry throne,
   Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
   The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre
   And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design
   To make detested tyrants bleed?
   Thy England execrates the glorious deed?
   Beneath her hostile banners waving,
   Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!"


   That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice,
   And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
   That hour which saw the generous English name
Linked with such dammed deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
   To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
   Beneath that hallow'd turf where wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death!
   Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
   Disturb not ye the heroe's sleep
   Nor give the coward secret breath!
   Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
   Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
   Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
      Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundrring fate,
      Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!
Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance, lightens afar,
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.
_____

A Man's A Man For A' That
        (Tune - For a' that)

Is there for honest poverty
   That hangs his head, and a' that;
The coward slave, we pass him by,
   We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that and a' that,
   Our toil's obscure, and a' that.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
   The Man's the gowd for a' that.                     gold

What though on hamely fare we dine,
   Wear hoddin grey and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
   A Man's a man for a' that!
For a' that and a' that,
   Their tinsel show and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er so poor,
   Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
   Wha struts, and stares, and a' that,
Though hundreds worship at his word,
   He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
   His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind
   He looks and laughs at a' that.

A king can make a belted knight,
   A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might                above
   Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!                        mustn't, fail/fall
For a' that, and a' that,
   Their dignities and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
   Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may-
   As come it will for a' that-
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
   May bear the gree, and a' that,
For a' that, and a' that
   It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man, the world o'er,
   Shall brothers be for a' that.
_____

_________________
© Cormac McCloskey
    (Poems excluded)
Note: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 7", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 8th March 2006