I. O YE wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, III. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) IV. Think, when your castigated pulse V. See social life and glee sit down, "Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and drinking : O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, VI. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, A treacherous inclination- VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving Why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark How far, perhaps, they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone He knows each chord-its various tone, What's done we partly may compute, In this beautiful poem, the author has interwoven the following reflections, which are to be found in the early prose memoranda given by him to Mr. Riddell, March, 1784:"I have often experienced, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about him, tho' very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other person, besides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any one of the strictest character for regularity of conduct, amongst us, examine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but from want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such temptation; and how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all: I say, any man who can thus think will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye." ["To unmask hypocrisy was a favourite pursuit of the muse of Burns. Not content with exposing others, the Poet bared his own bosom, and displayed his errors to the world, with a confidence which has been ill-requited. His confessions of frailty have supplied texts to preach from against the follies of poets-men of whom one who had a right to speak, has said,— "Naked feeling, and in aching pride, This has been pushed so far, in the story of Burns, that a clergyman intimated from the pulpit that Heaven, at the Poet's funeral, manifested its wrath in "thunder, lightning, and in rain." Instead of this, however, July sent one of her brightest and balmiest days." ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. "Burns has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet, of which this poem is an instance. With the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted, and deeply versed in their mysteries. The last two verses are above all praise."-THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.] Tam Samson's Elegy.* "An honest man's the noblest work of God."-POPE. HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, To death, she's dearly paid the kane- The brethren o' the mystic level Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel- When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o' a' the core, In time o' need; Now safe the stately sawmont sail, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; Your mortal fae is now awa',- That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd In vain auld age his body batters; * When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields;" and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. R. B. A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. R. B. In vain the burns cam' down like waters, Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, When at his heart he felt the dagger, Wi' weel-aim'd heed; "L-d, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did staggerTam Samson's dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; There low he lies, in lasting rest; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! Tam Samson's dead! O' pouther an' lead, ЕРІТАРН. TAM SAMSON's weel worn clay here lies, PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly, Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killic,* Tell ev'ry social, honest billie To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin'. Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, stanza IX. R. B. Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for the name of a certain town in the west [Kilmarnock]. R. B. [Thomas Samson was a respectable old nursery and seedsman of Kilmarnock, greatly addicted to sporting, and one of the Poet's earliest friends. "No poet ever emblazoned fact with fiction more happily than Burns: the hero of this poem was a country sportsman, who loved curling on the ice in winter, and shooting on the moors in the season. When no longer able to march over hill and hag in quest of 'Paitricks, teals, moor-pouts, and plivers,' he loved to lie on the lang-settle, and listen to the deeds of others on field and flood; and when a good tale was told, he would cry Hech man! three at a shot; that was famous!' Some one having informed Tam, in his old age, that Burns had written a poem-'a gay queer ane'-concerning him, he sent for the Bard, and, in something like wrath, requested to hear it: he smiled grimly at the relation of his exploits, and then cried out, I'm no dead yet, Robin-I'm worth ten dead fowk: wherefore should ye say that I am dead?' Burns took the hint, retired to the window for a minute or so, and, coming back, recited the 'Per Contra,' III. No idly feign'd poetic pains My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft-attested Pow'rs above; The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love! IV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and her's alone! And must I think it?-is she gone, My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost? V.. Oh! can she bear so base a heart, The plighted husband of her youth! Her way may lie through rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less? VI. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd And not a wish to gild the gloom! VII. The morn, that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe: I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. VIII. And when my nightly couch I try, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. IX. O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! X. Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! Again I feel, again I burn! Life's weary vale I'll wander through; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. After mentioning the appearance of 'Holy Willie's Prayer,' which alarmed the kirk-session so much that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers, Burns states, "unluckily for me my wanderings led me on another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament.' This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the charter, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy Night is gathering fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." "It is scarcely necessary to mention that "The Lament' was composed on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial history which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop―[alluding to his connexion with Jean Armour.] After the first distraction of his feelings had subsided, that connexion could no longer be concealed. Robert durst not engage with a family in his, poor unsettled state, but was anxious to shield his partner, by every means in his power, from the consequences of their imprudence. It was agreed, therefore, between them, that they should make a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and private marriage; that he should go to Jamaica to push his fortune; and that she should remain with her father till it might please Providence to put the means of supporting a family in his power."-GILBERT BURNS. "The charm of that composition, beginning, O thou pale orb!' is that it speaks the language of truth and of nature." A. F. TYTLER. |