Part 47 (1/2)

Mr. Erskine

Collected, Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man;

[Footnote 1: William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club.]

His Lords.h.i.+p sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driven hail it did a.s.sail'

Or torrents owre a lin, man: The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, ”No storied urn nor animated bust;”

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.

Additional Stanzas

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives A brother Bard--he can no more bestow: But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, A n.o.bler monument than Art can shew.

Inscribed Under Fergusson's Portrait

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!

Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

[Footnote 1: The stone was erected at Burns' expenses in February--March, 1789.]

Epistle To Mrs. Scott

Gudewife of Wauchope--House, Roxburghs.h.i.+re.

Gudewife,

I Mind it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh; An, tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and la.s.s, Still shearing, and clearing The t.i.ther stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.

E'en then, a wish, (I mind its pow'r), A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise; A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang, In formless jumble, right an' wrang, Wild floated in my brain; 'Till on that har'st I said before, May partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain; I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up my jingle, Her witching smile, her pawky een That gart my heart-strings tingle; I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bas.h.i.+ng, and das.h.i.+ng, I feared aye to speak.

Health to the s.e.x! ilk guid chiel says: Wi' merry dance in winter days, An' we to share in common; The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither; She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her: Ye're wae men, ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; 'Twad please me to the nine.