connected with her.
Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.
For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
’Twad please me to the nine.
I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,
Douce hingin’ owre my curple
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heel then,
An’ plenty be your fa’;
May losses and crosses
Ne’er at your hallan ca’.
LXXXIII. EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH
[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education and taste; he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonious, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.]
Selkirk, 13 May, 1787.
Auld chukie Reekie’s[69] sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
Can yield ava,
Her darling bird that she lo’es best,
Willie’s awa!
O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o’ things an unco slight;
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,
An’ trig an’ braw:
But now they’ll busk her like a fright,
Willie’s awa!
The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d;
The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d;
They durst nae mair than he allow’d,
That was a law;
We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd,
Willie’s awa!
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock stools
In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie’s awa!
The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chaumer[70]
May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar
Amang them a’;
I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer,
Willie’s awa!
Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,[71]
And toothy critics by the score
In bloody raw!
The adjutant o’ a’ the core,
Willie’s awa!
Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face,
Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace
As Rome n’er saw;
They a’ maun meet some ither place,
Willie’s awa!
Poor Burns—e’en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken,
Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckin
By hoodie-craw;
Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’,
Willie’s awa!
Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum,
And Calvin’s fock are fit to fell him;
And self-conceited critic skellum
His quill may draw;
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
Willie’s awa!
Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure’s fled,
Willie’s awa!
May I be slander’s common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;
When I forget thee! Willie Creech,
Tho’ far awa!
May never wicked fortune touzle him!
May never wicked man bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem
He canty claw!
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!
LXXXIV. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE
[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: “he threw himself,” said the Professor, “on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed.” His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]
I.
My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
II.
The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts,
That thro’ my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I’m scorching up so shallow,
They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.
III.
Last