No More Learning

OF GLENRIDDEL,

APRIL, 1794.

[The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of
Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland,
been his neighbor, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this
time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than
of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature,
and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry
against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what
the rustics of the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is
now scattered or neglected: I have heard a competent judge say, that
they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland. ]


No more, ye warblers of the wood--no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

* * * * *




CXXXVII.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. R----'S BIRTHDAY.
[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart
which his verses "On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted on the
accomplished Mrs. Riddel. ]


Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,--
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;
'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

* * * * *




CXXXVIII.

LIBERTY.

A FRAGMENT.

[Fragment of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose
papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode
commemorating the achievement of liberty for America under the
directing genius of Washington and Franklin. ]


Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!