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obert Burns

      THE COMPLETE WORKS

      DEDICATION

      TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT

      [On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words: “Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by William Creech, 1787.” The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted; a very numerous list of subscribers followed: the volume was printed by the celebrated Smellie.]

      My Lords and Gentlemen:

      A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his country’s service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land: those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha—at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue; I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates.

      Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours: that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favours: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, for your welfare and happiness.

      When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party: and may social joy await your return! When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats; and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable foe!

      I have the honour to be,

      With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect,

      My Lords and Gentlemen,

      Your most devoted humble servant,

      ROBERT BURNS.

      Edinburgh, April 4, 1787.

      Mossgiel, 13th Nov. 1786.

      TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAURIE

      Dear Sir,

      I have along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. Ossian I am not in such a hurry about; but I wish the Songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. Wilson, the bookseller’s shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me.

      My most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie; and a Poet’s warmest wishes for their happiness to the young ladies; particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better qualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of a Saul.

      Indeed, it needs not the Feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw; as I think the peaceful unity of St. Margaret’s Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion.

      I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,

      Robert Burns.

      THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS

      I. WINTER. A DIRGE

      [This is one of the earliest of the poet’s recorded compositions: it was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, ‘a juvenile production.’ To walk by a river while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among the leafless trees, exalted the poet’s thoughts. “In such a season,” he said, “just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a Dirge.”]

      The wintry west extends his blast,

      And hail and rain does blaw;

      Or the stormy north sends driving forth

      The blinding sleet and snaw;

      While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

      And roars frae bank to brae;

      And bird and beast in covert rest,

      And pass the heartless day.

      “The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”[1]

      The joyless winter day

      Let others fear, to me more dear

      Than all the pride of May:

      The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,

      My griefs it seems to join;

      The leafless trees my fancy please,

      Their fate resembles mine!

      Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

      These woes of mine fulfil,

      Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

      Because they are Thy will!

      Then all I want (O, do thou grant

      This one request of mine!)

      Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

      Assist me to resign!

      II. THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU’ TALE

      [This tale is partly true; the poet’s pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immediately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell, are still pointed out.]

      As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,

      Were ae day nibbling on the tether,

      Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,

      An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch:

      There, groaning, dying, she did lie,

      When Hughoc[2] he cam doytin by.

      Wi’ glowing e’en an’ lifted han’s,

      Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;

      He saw her days were near-hand ended,

      But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!

      He gaped wide but naething spak—

      At length poor Mailie silence brak.

      “O thou, whose lamentable face

      Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!

      My dying words attentive hear,

      An’ bear them to my master dear.

      “Tell him, if e’er again he keep

      As muckle gear as buy a sheep,

      O bid him never tie them mair

      Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!

      But ca’ them out to park or hill,

      An’ let them wander at their will;

      So may his flock increase, and grow

      To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs of

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