: The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems Songs and Correspondence. With a New Life of the Poet and Notices Critical and Biographical by Allan Cunningham by Burns Robert Cunningham Allan - Songs Scots Scotland Texts; Scotland Poetry; Burns

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SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT,

MONDAY, 16 April, 1787.

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war-- Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear! Where every science--every nobler art-- That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here History paints, with elegance and force, The tide of Empires' fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge--you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet: Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.

O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire: May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

FOOTNOTES:

SKETCH.

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets: A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour: So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. Much specious lore, but little understood; Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: His solid sense--by inches you must tell. But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

TO MRS. SCOTT,

OF WAUCHOPE.

I mind it weel in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn; Or hand a yokin at the pleugh; An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing, The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the symbol dear: No nation, no station, My envy e'er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang In formless jumble, right an' wrang, Wild floated in my brain; 'Till on that har'st I said before, My partner in the merry core, She rous'd the forming strain: I see her yet, the sonsie quean, That lighted up her jingle, Her witching smile, her pauky een That gart my heart-strings tingle: I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek, But bashing and dashing I feared aye to speak.

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