Chapter V: Descriptive and Narrative Poetry (3)

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters;
In vain the burns cam down like waters, [brooks, lakes]
An acre braid!
Now ev'ry auld wife, greeting clatters [weeping]
'Tam Samson's dead!'

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, [moss]
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behin' him jumpit
Wi' deadly feide; [feud]
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, [blast]
'Tam Samson's dead!'

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi' weel-aim'd heed;
'Lord, five!' he cried, an' owre did stagger;
Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,
Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, [nonsense]
'Tam Samson's dead!'

There low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitfu' muirfowl bigs her nest, [builds]
To hatch and breed;
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!
Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave
O' pouther an' lead, [powder]
Till Echo answer frae her cave
'Tam Samson's dead!'

'Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be!'
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me: [more]
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead? [remedy]
Ae social honest man want we: [One]
Tam Samson's dead!

THE EPITAPH

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies:
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye'll mend ere ye win near him.

_Per Contra_

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, [nooks]
Tell ev'ry social honest billie [fellow]
To cease his grievin',
For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, [unharmed, nimble knife]
Tam Samson's livin'!

[23] In curling, to _guard_ is to protect one stone by another in front; to _draw_ is to drive a stone into a good position by striking it with another; to _wick a bore_ is to hit a stone obliquely and send it through between two others.

[24] The line a curling stone must cross to stay in the game.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie [big, gallows-rope]
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie [Drag, smithy]
O'er hurcheon hides, [hedgehog]
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie [anvil]
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, [gone]
The ae best fellow e'er was born! [one]
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns, [stars]
That proudly cock your cresting cairns! [mounds]
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, [eagles]
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, [children]
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! [each, dove]
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! [woods]
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, [winding]
Wi' toddlin din,
Or foaming strang wi' hasty stens [heaps]
Frae lin to lin. [fall]

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev'n when beans their fragrance shed
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, [hares, scudding]
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; [crop]
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; [cloud]
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood-- [partridge]
He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake. [Boom]

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, [corncrakes]
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, [those]
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r [owls]
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, [haunted]
What time the moon wi' silent glow'r [stare]
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn! [wakeful]

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains; [cheerful]
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains [eyes]
Maun ever flow. [Must]

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: [catch]
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay green flow'ry tresses shear
For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked warld, declare
The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, [starlets]
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
Ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life's dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth.

SCOTCH DRINK

_Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care;

There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more._
SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).

Let other Poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,
An' crabbed names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug; [ear]
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, [barley]
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, [winding, dodge]
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, [cream]
In glorious faem, [foam]
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, [flat river-lands]
An' aits set up their awnie horn, [oats, bearded]
An' pease an' beans at een or morn,
Perfume the plain;
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, [Commend me to]
Thou King o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, [chews, cud]
In souple scones, the wale o' food! [soft cakes, choice]
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; [belly]
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin',
But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin' [careering]
Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: [muddled Learning]
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil:
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need,
The poor man's wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine. [makest palatable]

Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants? [Without, frolics]
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, [saints]
By thee inspir'd,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in!
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! [foamest]
Or reekin' on a New-Year mornin' [smoking]
In cog or bicker, [bowl, cup]
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, [whisky]
An' gusty sucker! [tasty sugar]

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, [implements]
O rare to see thee fizz an' freath [froth]
I' th' lugged caup! [two-eared cup]
Then Burnewin comes on like death [The Blacksmith]
At ev'ry chaup. [blow]

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; [iron]
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, [bony, fellow]
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel [anvil]
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light, [squalling babies]
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight-- [dolts]
Wae worth the name!
Nae Howdie gets a social night, [Midwife]
Or plack frae them. [small coin]

When neibors anger at a plea, [lawsuit]
An' just as wud as wud can be, [mad]
How easy can the barley-bree [-brew]
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason; [blame]
But mony daily weet their weasan' [throat]
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price. [ask]

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash? [illness]
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, [Robs, stupid, drunken oaf]
O' half his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel' [penniless]
It sets you ill, [becomes]
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, [meddle]
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, [ladder]
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch [face, growl]
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch
Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks [creakings]
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes--they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh![25] O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic-grips an' barkin' hoast [cough]
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, [These]
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize-- [stills]
Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance--twice--thrice!
There, seize the blinkers! [spies]
An' bake them up in brunstane pies [brimstone]
For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, [Whole breeches, oatmeal cake]
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, [plenty]
Tak' a' the rest,
An' deal'd about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

[25] Forbes of Culloden was given in 1690 liberty to distil grain at Ferintosh without excise. When this privilege was withdrawn in 1785, the price of whisky rose--hence Burns's lament.

TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, [jolly]
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, [Above]
Painch, tripe, or thairm: [Paunch, guts]
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace [worthy]
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill; [buttocks]
Your pin wad help to mend a mill [skewer]
In time o' need;
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight, [wipe]
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, [skill]
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich! [-smoking]

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, [spoon]
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve [well-swelled bellies soon]
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, [burst]
'Be-thankit!' hums.

Is there that o'er his French _ragout_,
Or _olio_ that wad staw a sow, [sicken]
Or _fricassee_ wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view [disgust]
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash, [feeble, rush]
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit: [fist, nut]
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed--
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, [ample fist]
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, [crop]
Like taps o' thrissle. [thistle]

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware [watery stuff]
That jaups in luggies; [splashes, porringers]
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

A BARD'S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, [Too]
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, [bashful, cringe]
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, [woe]
And drap a tear.

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.