Ne’er fash your thumb what gods decree | |
To be the weird o’ you or me, | |
Nor deal in cantrup’s kittle cunning | |
To speir how fast your days are running, | |
5 | But patient lippen for the best |
Nor be in dowy thought opprest, | |
Whether we see mare winters come | |
Than this that spits wi’ canker’d foam. | |
Now moisten weel your geyzen’d wa’as | |
10 | Wi’ couthy friends and hearty blaws; |
Ne’er lat your hope o’ergang your days, | |
For eild and thraldom never stays; | |
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn, | |
Nor care yae strae about the morn. |
Long-expected one and twenty | |
Ling’ring year, at last is flown, | |
Pomp and Pleasure, Pride and Plenty | |
Great Sir John, are all your own. |
Loosen’d from the Minor’s tether, | |
Free to mortgage or to sell, | |
Wild as wind, and light as feather | |
Bid the slaves of thrift farewel. |
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jennys | |
Ev’ry name that laughs at Care, | |
Lavish of your Grandsire’s guineas, | |
Show the Spirit of an heir. |
All that prey on vice and folly | |
Joy to see their quarry fly, | |
Here the Gamester light and jolly, | |
There the Lender grave and sly. |
Wealth, Sir John, was made to wander, | |
Let it wander as it will; | |
See the Jocky, see the Pander, | |
Bid them come, and take their fill. |
When the bonny Blade carouses, | |
Pockets full, and Spirits high, | |
What are acres? What are houses? | |
Only dirt, or wet or dry. |
If the Guardian or the Mother | |
Tell the woes of wilful waste, | |
Scorn their counsel and their pother, | |
You can hang or drown at last. |
Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine, | |
As on we toil from day to day, | |
By sudden blasts, or slow decline, | |
Our social comforts drop away. |
Well tried through many a varying year, | |
See LEVET to the grave descend; | |
Officious, innocent, sincere, | |
Of ev’ry friendless name the friend. |
Yet still he fills affection’s eye, | |
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; | |
Nor, letter’d arrogance, deny | |
Thy praise to merit unrefin’d. |
When fainting nature call’d for aid, | |
And hov’ring death prepar’d the blow, | |
His vig’rous remedy display’d | |
The power of art without the show. |
In misery’s darkest caverns known, | |
His useful care was ever nigh, | |
Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan, | |
And lonely want retir’d to die. |
No summons mock’d by chill delay, | |
No petty gain disdain’d by pride, | |
The modest wants of ev’ry day | |
The toil of ev’ry day supplied. |
His virtues walk’d their narrow round, | |
Nor made a pause, nor left a void; | |
And sure th’ Eternal Master found | |
The single talent well employ’d. |
The busy day, the peaceful night, | |
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; | |
His frame was firm, his powers were bright, | |
Tho’ now his eightieth year was nigh. |
Then with no throbbing fiery pain, | |
No cold gradations of decay, | |
Death broke at once the vital chain, | |
And free’d his soul the nearest way. |
Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening, | |
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light | |
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown | |
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed! | |
Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the | |
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew | |
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes | |
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on | |
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, | |
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, | |
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, | |
And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest: | |
The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with | |
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence. |
[The Winter Evening] | |
Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze | |
With lights by clear reflection multiplied | |
From many a mirrour, in which he of Gath | |
Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk | |
Whole without stooping, tow’ring crest and all, | |
My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps | |
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile | |
With faint illumination that uplifts | |
The shadow to the cieling, there by fits | |
Dancing uncouthly to the quiv’ring flame. | |
Not undelightful is an hour to me | |
So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom | |
Suits well the thoughtfull or unthinking mind, | |
The mind contemplative, with some new theme | |
Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. | |
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow’rs | |
That never feel a stupor, I know no pause | |
Nor need one. I am conscious, and confess | |
Fearless, a soul that does not always think. | |
Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild | |
Sooth’d with a waking dream of houses, tow’rs, | |
Trees, churches, and strange visages express’d | |
In the red cinders, while with poring eye | |
I gazed, myself creating what I saw. | |
Nor less amused have I quiescent watch’d | |
The sooty films that play upon the bars | |
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view | |
Of superstition prophesying still | |
Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach. | |
’Tis thus the understanding takes repose | |
In indolent vacuity of thought, | |
And sleeps and is refresh’d. Meanwhile the face | |
Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask | |
Of deep deliberation, as the man | |
Were task’d to his full strength, absorb’d and lost. | |
Thus oft reclin’d at ease, I lose an hour | |
At evening, till at length the freezing blast | |
That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home | |
The recollected powers, and snapping short | |
The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves | |
Her brittle toys, restores me to myself. | |
How calm is my recess, and how the frost | |
Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear | |
The silence and the warmth enjoy’d within. |
(…) | |
[The Winter Walk at Noon] |
Where now the vital energy that moved | |
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph | |
Through th’ imperceptible mæandring veins | |
Of leaf and flow’r? It sleeps; and the icy touch | |
Of unprolific winter has impress’d | |
A cold stagnation on th’ intestine tide. | |
But let the months go round, a few short months, | |
And all shall be restored. These naked shoots | |
Barren as lances, among which the wind | |
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, | |
Shall put their graceful foliage on again, | |
And more aspiring and with ampler spread | |
Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. | |
Then, each in its peculiar honors clad, | |
Shall publish even to the distant eye | |
Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich | |
In streaming gold; syringa iv’ry-pure; | |
The scented and the scentless rose; this red | |
And of an humbler growth, the 1other tall, | |
And throwing up into the darkest gloom | |
Of neighb’ring cypress or more sable yew | |
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf | |
That the wind severs from the broken wave. | |
The lilac various in array, now white, | |
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set | |
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if | |
Studious of ornament, yet unresolved | |
Which hue she most approved, she chose them all. | |
Copious of flow’rs the woodbine, pale and wan, | |
But well compensating their sickly looks | |
With never-cloying odours, early and late. | |
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm | |
Of flow’rs like flies cloathing her slender rods | |
That scarce a leaf appears. Mezerion too | |
Though leafless well attired, and thick beset | |
With blushing wreaths investing ev’ry spray. | |
Althæa with the purple eye, the broom, | |
Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy’d | |
Her blossoms, and luxuriant above all | |
The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, | |
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish’d leaf | |
Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more | |
The bright profusion of her scatter’d stars. – | |
These have been, and these shall be in their day. | |
And all this uniform uncoloured scene | |
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, | |
And flush into variety again. |
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, | |
O, what a panic ’s in thy breastie! | |
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, | |
Wi’ bickering brattle! | |
5 | I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, |
Wi’ murd’ring pattle! | |
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion | |
Has broken Nature’s social union, | |
An’ justifies that ill opinion, | |
10 | Which makes thee startle, |
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, | |
An’ fellow-mortal! | |
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; | |
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! | |
15 | A daimen-icker in a thrave |
‘S a sma’ request: | |
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, | |
An’ never miss’t! | |
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! | |
20 | It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! |
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, | |
O’ foggage green! | |
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, | |
Baith snell an’ keen! | |
25 | Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast, |
An’ weary Winter comin fast, | |
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, | |
Thou thought to dwell, | |
Till crash! the cruel coulter past | |
30 | Out thro’ thy cell. |
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, | |
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! | |
Now thou ’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, | |
But house or hald, | |
35 | To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble, |
An’ cranreuch cauld! | |
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, | |
In proving foresight may be vain: | |
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, | |
40 | Gang aft agley, |
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, | |
For promis’d joy! | |
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! | |
The present only toucheth thee: | |
45 | But Och! I backward cast my e’e, |
On prospects drear! | |
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, | |
I guess an’ fear! |
My Son, these maxims make a rule, | |
And lump them ay thegither; | |
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, | |
The Rigid Wise anither: | |
5 | The cleanest corn that e’er was dight |
May hae some pyles o’ caff in; | |
So ne’er a fellow-creature slight | |
For random fits o’ daffin. | |
SOLOMON. – Eccles. ch. vii. vers. 16. |
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, | |
Sae pious and sae holy, | |
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell | |
Your Neebours’ fauts and folly! | |
5 | Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, |
Supply’d wi’ store o’ water, | |
The heaped happer ’s ebbing still, | |
And still the clap plays clatter. | |
Hear me, ye venerable Core, | |
10 | As counsel for poor mortals, |
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door | |
For glaikit Folly’s portals; | |
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes | |
Would here propone defences, | |
15 | Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, |
Their failings and mischances. | |
Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d, | |
And shudder at the niffer, | |
But cast a moment’s fair regard | |
20 | What maks the mighty differ; |
Discount what scant occasion gave, | |
That purity ye pride in, | |
And (what ’s aft mair than a’ the lave) | |
Your better art o’ hiding. | |
25 | Think, when your castigated pulse |
Gies now and then a wallop, | |
What ragings must his veins convulse, | |
That still eternal gallop: | |
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, | |
30 | Right on ye scud your sea-way; |
But, in the teeth o’ baith to sail, | |
It maks an unco leeway. | |
See Social-life and Glee sit down, | |
All joyous and unthinking, | |
35 | Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grown |
Debauchery and Drinking: | |
O would they stay to calculate | |
Th’ eternal consequences; | |
Or your more dreaded h-11 to state, | |
40 | D-mnation of expences! |
Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, | |
Ty’d up in godly laces, | |
Before ye gie poor Frailty names, | |
Suppose a change o’ cases; | |
45 | A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug, |
A treacherous inclination – | |
But, let me whisper i’ your lug, | |
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. | |
Then gently scan your brother Man, | |
50 | Still gentler sister Woman; |
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, | |
To step aside is human: | |
One point must still be greatly dark, | |
The moving Why they do it; | |
55 | And just as lamely can ye mark, |
How far perhaps they rue it. | |
Who made the heart, ’tis He alone | |
Decidedly can try us, | |
He knows each chord its various tone, | |
60 | Each spring its various bias: |
Then at the balance let’s be mute, | |
We never can adjust it; | |
What ’s done we partly may compute, | |
But know not what ’s resisted. |
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean | |
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green | |
Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow | |
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow |
O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town | |
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own | |
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs | |
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands |
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song | |
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among | |
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor | |
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door |
Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, | |
While the loud equinox its power combines, | |
The sea no more its swelling surge confines, | |
But o’er the shrinking land sublimely rides. | |
The wild blast, rising from the Western cave, | |
Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed, | |
Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, | |
And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave! | |
With shells and seaweed mingled, on the shore | |
Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave; | |
But vain to them the winds and waters rave; | |
They hear the warring element no more: | |
While I am doomed – by life’s long storm oppressed, | |
To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest. |
O what a strange parcel of creatures are we, | |
Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree; | |
We all are alone, though at home altogether, | |
Except to the fire constrained by the weather; | |
Then one says, ‘’Tis cold,’ which we all of us know, | |
And with unanimity answer, “Tis so’: | |
With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire, | |
And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher; | |
Then quickly, preceded by silence profound, | |
A yawn epidemical catches around: | |
Like social companions we never fall out, | |
Nor ever care what one another’s about; | |
To comfort each other is never our plan, | |
For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can. |
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. | |
GAWIN DOUGLAS. | |
When chapman billies leave the street, | |
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, | |
As market-days are wearing late, | |
An’ folk begin to tak the gate; | |
5 | While we sit bousing at the nappy, |
And getting fou and unco happy, | |
We think na on the lang Scots miles, | |
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, | |
That lie between us and our hame, | |
10 | Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, |
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, | |
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. | |
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, | |
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, | |
15 | (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, |
For honest men and bonny lasses.) | |
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, | |
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! | |
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, | |
20 | A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; |
That frae November till October, | |
Ae market-day thou was nae sober; | |
That ilka melder, wi’ the miller, | |
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; | |
25 | That every naig was ca’d a shoe on, |
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; | |
That at the L – d’s house, even on Sunday, | |
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday. | |
She prophesied that late or soon, | |
30 | Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon; |
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, | |
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. | |
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, | |
To think how mony counsels sweet, | |
35 | How mony lengthen’d sage advices, |
The husband frae the wife despises! | |
But to our tale: Ae market-night, | |
Tam had got planted unco right; | |
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, | |
40 | Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely; |
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, | |
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; | |
Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither; | |
They had been fou for weeks thegither. | |
45 | The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter; |
And ay the ale was growing better: | |
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, | |
Wi’ favours, secret, sweet, and precious: | |
The Souter tauld his queerest stories; | |
50 | The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: |
The storm without might rair and rustle, | |
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. | |
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, | |
E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy: | |
55 | As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, |
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure: | |
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, | |
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious! | |
But pleasures are like poppies spread, | |
60 | You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; |
Or like the snow falls in the river, | |
A moment white – then melts for ever; | |
Or like the borealis race, | |
That flit ere you can point their place; | |
65 | Or like the rainbow’s lovely form |
Evanishing amid the storm. – | |
Nae man can tether time or tide; | |
The hour approaches Tam maun ride; | |
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane, | |
70 | That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; |
And sic a night he taks the road in, | |
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. | |
The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last; | |
The rattling showers rose on the blast; | |
75 | The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; |
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d: | |
That night, a child might understand, | |
The Deil had business on his hand. | |
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, | |
80 | A better never lifted leg, |
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, | |
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; | |
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; | |
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet; | |
85 | Whiles glowring round wi’ prudent cares, |
Lest bogles catch him unawares: | |
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, | |
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. – | |
By this time he was cross the ford, | |
90 | Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor’d; |
And past the birks and meikle stane, | |
Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; | |
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, | |
Whare hunters fand the murder’d bairn; | |
95 | And near the thorn, aboon the well, |
Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel. – | |
Before him Doon pours all his floods; | |
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods; | |
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; | |
100 | Near and more near the thunders roll: |
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, | |
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze; | |
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing; | |
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. – | |
105 | Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! |
What dangers thou canst make us scorn! | |
Wi’ tippeny, we fear nae evil; | |
Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil! – | |
The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, | |
110 | Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle. |
But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d, | |
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, | |
She ventured forward on the light; | |
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! | |
115 | Warlocks and witches in a dance; |
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, | |
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, | |
Put life and mettle in their heels. | |
A winnock-bunker in the east, | |
120 | There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; |
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, | |
To gie them music was his charge: | |
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl, | |
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. – | |
125 | Coffins stood round, like open presses, |
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; | |
And by some devilish cantraip slight | |
Each in its cauld hand held a light. – | |
By which heroic Tam was able | |
130 | To note upon the haly table, |
A murderer’s banes in gibbet aims; | |
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns; | |
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, | |
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape; | |
135 | Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted; |
Five scymitars, wi’ murder crusted; | |
A garter, which a babe had strangled; | |
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, | |
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, | |
140 | The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; |
Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awefu’, | |
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. | |
As Tammie glow’rd, amaz’d, and curious, | |
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: | |
145 | The piper loud and louder blew; |
The dancers quick and quicker flew; | |
They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, | |
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, | |
And coost her duddies to the wark, | |
150 | And linket at it in her sark! |
Now, Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, | |
A’ plump and strapping in their teens, | |
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, | |
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! | |
155 | Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, |
That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair, | |
I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies, | |
For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies! | |
But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, | |
160 | Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, |
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, | |
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. | |
But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie, | |
There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, | |
165 | That night enlisted in the core, |
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore; | |
For mony a beast to dead she shot, | |
And perish’d mony a bony boat, | |
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, | |
170 | And kept the country-side in fear:) |
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, | |
That while a lassie she had worn, | |
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, | |
It was her best, and she was vauntie. – | |
175 | Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, |
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, | |
Wi’ twa pund Scots, (’twas a’ her riches), | |
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches! | |
But here my Muse her wing maun cour; | |
180 | Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r; |
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, | |
(A souple jade she was, and strang), | |
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d, | |
And thought his very een enrich’d; | |
185 | Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain, |
And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main: | |
Till first ae caper, syne anither, | |
Tam tint his reason a’ thegither, | |
And roars out, ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’ | |
190 | And in an instant all was dark: |
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, | |
When out the hellish legion sallied. | |
As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, | |
When plundering herds assail their byke; | |
195 | As open pussie’s mortal foes, |
When, pop! she starts before their nose; | |
As eager runs the market-crowd, | |
When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud; | |
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, | |
200 | Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. |
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin! | |
In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin! | |
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! | |
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! | |
205 | Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, |
And win the key-stane of the brig; | |
There at them thou thy tail may toss, | |
A running stream they dare na cross. | |
But ere the key-stane she could make, | |
210 | The fient a tail she had to shake! |
For Nannie, far before the rest, | |
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, | |
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; | |
But little wist she Maggie’s mettle – | |
215 | Ae spring brought off her master hale, |
But left behind her ain gray tail: | |
The carlin claught her by the rump, | |
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. | |
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, | |
220 | Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: |
Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, | |
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, | |
Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear, | |
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare. |