ON A SCOTCH BARD

On a Scotch Bard,

Gone to the West Indies.1

A' YE wha live by sowps" o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,b
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' me!
Our billie c's gien us a' a jink,d 2
An' owre the sea!

Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random splore®;
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,3
An' owre the sea!

The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him;
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,'
Wha can do nought but fykes an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,h

That's owre the sea!

ON A SCOTCH BARD

a

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flindersb flee:

He was her Laureat mony a year,

That's owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be !

So, took a berth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

e

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,d
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies' in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin;

He dealt it free:

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel:

Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,h

An' fou o' glee :

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie !1
Your native soil was right ill-willie';

stripes of white muslin on the cuffs of mourners.

• girl.

d cudgel. comfortable home.

• meal and water.
h fellow.

b fragments f haunches.

i unkind.

1 "Then fare-ye-weel, my rhymin billie."

a gill.

FAREWELL TO ELIZA

But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!

I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,"
Tho' owre the sea!

Song.-Farewell to Eliza.1

Tune-" Gilderoy."

FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,

They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!

But the latest throb that leaves my heart,
While Death stands victor by,-

That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh!

A Bard's Epitaph.2

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,d

b bashful

1He had a good many farewells to utter, to a variety of jillets. This one was perhaps a "Mauchline belle," Miss Millar. Thore is also rumour of a

And drap a tear.

A BARD'S EPITAPH

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by !

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit:

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom's root.

Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq.1

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

1 To whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is dedicated.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE

Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq.1

THE poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd;
But with such as he, where'er he be,
May I be sav'd or d-d!

Epitaph on "Wee Johnie."2

Hic Jacet wee Johnie.

WHOE'ER thou art, O, reader, know
That Death has murder'd Johnie;
An' here his body lies fu' low;
For saul he ne'er had ony.

The Lass o' Ballochmyle.3

Tune-"Ettrick Banks."

"TWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,

All nature list'ning seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:

1 Who never was so berhymed since he was a rat in Pythagoras' time, like Rosalind.

2 Said to be the poet's Kilmarnock printer. There is another claimant.

* Sent to Miss Wilhelmina Alexander

of Ballochmyle, who did not reply, though, when old, she was proud of the tribute. "You will easily see," wrote Burns to Mrs Stewart of Stair, "the impropriety of exposing the song much, even in manuscript."