No More Learning

An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tattered gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,--
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come--Your humble rervant,

BEELZEBUB.

_June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. _

* * * * *




CXX.

TO

JOHN TAYLOR.

[Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters,
likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with
ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths
of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence
in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem,
begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to
his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for
thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid but ance, and
that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid
him in verse. "]


With Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying,

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod--
I'll pay you like my master.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Ramages_, _3 o'clock_, (_no date. _)

* * * * *




CXXI.
LAMENT

OF

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

[The poet communicated this "Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in
February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding
year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of
Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house
of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly
pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady
Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the
unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in
Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take
refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter
from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the
Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives. ]


I.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

II.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang!

IV.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands
And never-ending care.

V.

But as for thee, thou false woman!
My sister and my fae,
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword
That thro' thy soul shall gae!