The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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THE FAREWELL

      “The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?

      Or what does he regard his single woes?

      But when, alas! he multiplies himself,

      To dearer selves, to the lov’d tender fair,

      The those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,

      To helpless children! then, O then! he feels

      The point of misery fest’ring in his heart,

      And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.

      Such, such am I! undone.”

Thomson.

      [In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the lines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle, Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.]

      I.

      Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains,

      Far dearer than the torrid plains

      Where rich ananas blow!

      Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!

      A brother’s sigh! a sister’s tear!

      My Jean’s heart-rending throe!

      Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft

      Of my parental care,

      A faithful brother I have left,

      My part in him thou’lt share!

      Adieu too, to you too,

      My Smith, my bosom frien’;

      When kindly you mind me,

      O then befriend my Jean!

      II.

      What bursting anguish tears my heart!

      From thee, my Jeany, must I part!

      Thou weeping answ’rest—“No!”

      Alas! misfortune stares my face,

      And points to ruin and disgrace,

      I for thy sake must go!

      Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,

      A grateful, warm adieu;

      I, with a much-indebted tear,

      Shall still remember you!

      All-hail then, the gale then,

      Wafts me from thee, dear shore!

      It rustles, and whistles

      I’ll never see thee more!

      LII. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF MY POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED

      [This is another of the poet’s lamentations, at the prospect of “torrid climes” and the roars of the Atlantic. To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise; and the land of dread, Jamaica! I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were addressed, it is thought, to the “Dear E.” of his earliest correspondence.]

      Once fondly lov’d and still remember’d dear;

      Sweet early object of my youthful vows!

      Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,—

      Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows.

      And when you read the simple artless rhymes,

      One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,—

      Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,

      Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.

      LIII. A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ

      [The gentleman to whom these manly lines are addressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature: he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days; for having, without the fear of God’s servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and far having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother of the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well as of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as an express dedication.]

      Expect na, Sir, in this narration,

      A fleechin’, fleth’rin dedication,

      To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid,

      An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid,

      Because ye’re surnam’d like his Grace;

      Perhaps related to the race;

      Then when I’m tir’d—and sae are ye,

      Wi’ monie a fulsome, sinfu’ lie,

      Set up a face, how I stop short,

      For fear your modesty be hurt.

      This may do—maun do, Sir, wi’ them wha

      Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;

      For me! sae laigh I needna bow,

      For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;

      And when I downa yoke a naig,

      Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;

      Sae I shall say, an’ that’s nae flatt’rin’,

      It’s just sic poet, an’ sic patron.

      The Poet, some guid angel help him,

      Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him,

      He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,

      But only—he’s no just begun yet.

      The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,

      I winna lie, come what will o’ me,)

      On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be,

      He’s just—nae better than he should be.

      I readily and freely grant,

      He downa see a poor man want;

      What’s no his ain, he winna tak it;

      What ance he says, he winna break it;

      Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t,

      ’Till aft his guidness is abus’d;

      And rascals whyles that do him wrang,

      E’en that, he does na mind it lang:

      As master, landlord, husband, father,

      He does na fail his part in either.

      But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that;

      Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that;

      It’s naething but a milder feature,

      Of our poor sinfu’, corrupt nature:

      Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works,

      ‘Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,

      Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

      Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

      That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,

      The gentleman in word and deed,

      It’s no thro’ terror of damnation;

      It’s just a carnal inclination.

      Morality, thou deadly bane,

      Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain!

      Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is

      In

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