No More Learning

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Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self! '
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,--
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O, happy! happy! enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!

* * * * *




XIV.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.

A CANTATA.

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet
lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces,
by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801.
Some have surmised that
it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the
original manuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put
into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by
Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan;
the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with
his name, in the _Musical Museum_ of February, 1790. Cromek admired,
yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the _Reliques_, for
which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the _Quarterly
Review. _ The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had
her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is
supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been
given. ]


RECITATIVO.

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies:
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted an' they sang;
Wi' jumping and thumping,
The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm--
She blinket on her sodger:
An' ay he gies the tozie drab
The tither skelpin' kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab
Just like an aumous dish.
Ilk smack still, did crack still,
Just like a cadger's whip,
Then staggering and swaggering
He roar'd this ditty up--

AIR.

Tune--"_Soldiers' Joy. _"

I am a son of Mars,
Who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars
Wherever I come;
This here was for a wench,
And that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French
At the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.

My 'prenticeship I past
Where my leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast
On the heights of Abram;
I served out my trade
When the gallant game was play'd,
And the Moro low was laid
At the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.

I lastly was with Curtis,
Among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness
An arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me,
With Elliot to head me,
I'd clatter on my stumps
At the sound of a drum.