The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH

      [“I enclose you two poems,” said Burns to his friend Chalmers, “which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, ‘Fair B–,’ is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve, on the first day of her existence.” Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The “Address” was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet’s hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]

      I.

      Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

      All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,

      Where once beneath a monarch’s feet

      Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!

      From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,

      As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,

      And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

      I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

      II.

      Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

      As busy Trade his labour plies;

      There Architecture’s noble pride

      Bids elegance and splendour rise;

      Here Justice, from her native skies,

      High wields her balance and her rod;

      There Learning, with his eagle eyes,

      Seeks Science in her coy abode.

      III.

      Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

      With open arms the stranger hail;

      Their views enlarg’d, their liberal mind,

      Above the narrow, rural vale;

      Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,

      Or modest merit’s silent claim;

      And never may their sources fail!

      And never envy blot their name!

      IV.

      Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,

      Gay as the gilded summer sky,

      Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

      Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!

      Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,

      Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine;

      I see the Sire of Love on high,

      And own his work indeed divine!

      V.

      There, watching high the least alarms,

      Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar,

      Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms,

      And mark’d with many a seamy scar:

      The pond’rous wall and massy bar,

      Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,

      Have oft withstood assailing war,

      And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

      VI.

      With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

      I view that noble, stately dome,

      Where Scotia’s kings of other years,

      Fam’d heroes! had their royal home:

      Alas, how chang’d the times to come!

      Their royal name low in the dust!

      Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam,

      Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’twas just!

      VII.

      Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

      Whose ancestors, in days of yore,

      Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps

      Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:

      Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,

      Haply, my sires have left their shed,

      And fac’d grim danger’s loudest roar,

      Bold-following where your fathers led!

      VIII.

      Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

      All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,

      Where once beneath a monarch’s feet

      Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!

      From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,

      As on the hanks of Ayr I stray’d,

      And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

      I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

      LXX. EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN

      [Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.]

      Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!

      Though fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly

      To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

      We never heed,

      But tak’ it like the unback’d filly,

      Proud o’ her speed.

      When idly goavan whyles we saunter

      Yirr, fancy barks, awa’ we canter

      Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,

      Some black bog-hole,

      Arrests us, then the scathe an’ banter

      We’re forced to thole.

      Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!

      Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,

      To cheer you through the weary widdle

      O’ this wild warl’,

      Until you on a crummock driddle

      A gray-hair’d carl.

      Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,

      Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune,

      And screw your temper pins aboon

      A fifth or mair,

      The melancholious, lazy croon

      O’ cankrie care.

      May still your life from day to day

      Nae “lente largo” in the play,

      But “allegretto forte” gay

      Harmonious flow:

      A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—

      Encore! Bravo!

      A blessing on the cheery gang

      Wha dearly like a jig or sang,

      An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang

      By square an’ rule,

      But as the clegs o’ feeling stang

      Are wise or fool.

      My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase

      The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,

      Wha

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