Read Ebook: A Day with the Poet Burns by Burns Robert Contributor Hardy Dudley Illustrator Haslehust E W Illustrator Neatby William James Illustrator

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Ebook has 68 lines and 7137 words, and 2 pages

I spend, Are spent among the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, etc.

The war'ly race may riches chase, And riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, etc.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en My arms about my dearie, O; An' war'ly cares, and war'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! Green grow, etc.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Green grow, etc.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow, etc.

Sometimes a flower in the hedgerow opens out to him a new and exquisite signification.

My Luve is like a red red rose That's newly sprung in June; My Luve is like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my Dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, An' the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my Dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

O WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

O wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea; My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.

Or, as he meets the wind--still bleak, though now it is midday,--a cold wind charged with latent snow,--its chilly breaths are crystallized into a very jewel of song.

O wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; Or did Misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there; Or were I Monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.

Presently he turns his horse's head towards Dumfries. It is market-day in the town, and a score of friends give him clamorous welcome. They may not fully appreciate Rob's mental equipments, but they greet him as the best of good companions: and in a little while he forms the leading spirit of some excited group, discussing matters social and political. For Burns takes the keenest interest in current events: and, though most of his poems may be of a more ephemeral interest, he is capable, when deeply stirred, of expressing himself with a stern and lofty patriotism. It may be inspired by the events of the present: it often is evoked by glories of the past.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power-- Chains and Slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a Slave? Let him turn and flee!

Lay the proud Usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us Do--or Die!!!

Seated in the inn among his cronies, "as market-days are wearing late," the dour and bitter looks of the poet are exchanged for glowing eyes and laughing lips, while he recites some of the lines which he has wedded to old and familiar melodies. As Moore, a little later, secured for the Irish airs a world-wide reputation, by supplying them with words of a more popular character than their own--so Burns re-wrote the songs of his country. Thousands of people who never heard of "The Highland Watch's Farewell" have carolled that melody to his delightful verses,

My heart is sair--I dare na tell, My heart is sair for Somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake o' Somebody: Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on Somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my Somebody! Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I wad do--what would I not? For the sake o' Somebody.

As time wears by, Burns pulls out a manuscript from his pocket, and reads his latest poem to a hilarious audience: a very masterpiece, they acclaim it. The legend and the scenery are awhile familiar to them: but they have never heard the tale told thus before, as Burns has immortalized it in "Tam o' Shanter."

... As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the Rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, The hour approaches Tam maun ride-- That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he takes the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

Weel mounted on his grey meare Meg , Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er an auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry.

... The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll, When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze, Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

... And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance: Nae cotillion, brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels.

But now it is time that Burns, like his hero, should take the homeward road. He calls for his horse, parts from his boisterous comrades, and rides out into the wintry evening. Nithsdale is a land of lovely sunsets: and against the rose and gold of heaven, the poet sees the homely cottage-smoke of earth, thin spirals of blue vapour, speaking of happy hearths and labour ended. It is several years since Burns, standing with Douglas Stewart upon the Braid Hills, declared that to him the worthiest object in the whole bright morning landscape was the cluster of smoking cottages. But still he regards them with affection and enjoyment: and chiefly his eyes are bent towards that quiet homestead which holds his own dear folk. All the peace which that stormy heart can find is set and centred there: despite all previous fugitive fancies for Jessie, and Peggie, and Phemie, and the rest, he has found calm happiness with his Jean, the most devoted of wives.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between: But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

She comes out into the twilight to meet him, and his emotion shapes itself, on the instant, into song.

This is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; Weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e.

I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place; It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the e'e.

It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learn?d clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e.

The servants, sitting at the same table, according to Scottish farm custom, share his simple evening meal: and subsequently, before the children's bedtime, the master speaks with seriousness to his household, and reads aloud some passages from the Holy Book.

Their master's and their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; "And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, "And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; "Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, "Implore His counsel and assisting might: "They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."

Then homeward all take off their several way, The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

Now, in the quiet house, the man at last is free to take up his pen. He is writing hard, daily, or rather nightly: every week sees a parcel of manuscript despatched to his publisher. The thoughts which have crowded tumultuously upon him all day long, may at last be set down and conserved: for poetry, as Wordsworth says, "is emotion remembered in tranquillity." The grave and swarthy face bends above the paper in the candlelight--varying expressions chase each other across the mobile mouth and eyes. Sometimes the theme is one of poignant pathos.

Ae fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy. But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted!

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow, If I mauna marry Tam Glen!

There's Lowrie the Laird o' Dumeller-- "Gude-day to you"--brute! he comes ben: He brags and he braws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen!

My Minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen!

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten; But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen!

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