SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
Robert Forst
thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
Mid a' thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang,
To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters;
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace;
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share
A rival place?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan--
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever!
Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love;
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.
* * * * *
CXXXV.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm
howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on
the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins
of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for
song of the thrush as a fortunate omen. ]
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away.
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.
* * * * *
CXXXVI.
SONNET,
ON THE
DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.
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!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
Mid a' thy favours!
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang,
To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters;
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace;
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share
A rival place?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan--
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever!
Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!
In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love;
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.
* * * * *
CXXXV.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm
howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on
the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins
of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for
song of the thrush as a fortunate omen. ]
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away.
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.
* * * * *
CXXXVI.
SONNET,
ON THE
DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.
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!
