Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very sense doited.
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very sense doited.
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
"
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;
"Low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save,
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear;
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier;
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow:
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues last;
That distant years may boast of other Blairs! "--
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works
We cam na here to view your warks,
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise:
But when we tirl'd at your door
Your porter dought na hear us;
Sae may, shou'd we to Hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!
To Miss Ferrier
Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.
Nae heathen name shall I prefix,
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
For rhyme-inspiring lasses.
Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their debtor;
But, gien the body half an e'e,
Nine Ferriers wad done better!
Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very sense doited.
Do what I dought to set her free,
My saul lay in the mire;
Ye turned a neuk--I saw your e'e--
She took the wing like fire!
The mournfu' sang I here enclose,
In gratitude I send you,
And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,
A' gude things may attend you!
Written By Somebody On The Window
Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.
Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
Fallen indeed, and to the earth
Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most.
The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic
My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I
believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a MS. , where I met the answer, I wrote
below:--
With Esop's lion, Burns says: Sore I feel
Each other's scorn, but damn that ass' heel!
The Libeller's Self-Reproof^1
Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says, the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel!
Verses Written With A Pencil
Over the Chimney--piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
[Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity. --Lang. ]
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;
"Low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save,
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
"A weeping country joins a widow's tear;
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier;
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!
"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow:
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
"My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.
"And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues last;
That distant years may boast of other Blairs! "--
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works
We cam na here to view your warks,
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise:
But when we tirl'd at your door
Your porter dought na hear us;
Sae may, shou'd we to Hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!
To Miss Ferrier
Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.
Nae heathen name shall I prefix,
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
For rhyme-inspiring lasses.
Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their debtor;
But, gien the body half an e'e,
Nine Ferriers wad done better!
Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very sense doited.
Do what I dought to set her free,
My saul lay in the mire;
Ye turned a neuk--I saw your e'e--
She took the wing like fire!
The mournfu' sang I here enclose,
In gratitude I send you,
And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,
A' gude things may attend you!
Written By Somebody On The Window
Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.
Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
Fallen indeed, and to the earth
Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most.
The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic
My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I
believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a MS. , where I met the answer, I wrote
below:--
With Esop's lion, Burns says: Sore I feel
Each other's scorn, but damn that ass' heel!
The Libeller's Self-Reproof^1
Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says, the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel!
Verses Written With A Pencil
Over the Chimney--piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
[Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity. --Lang. ]
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
