The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail!

      Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,

      To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:

      Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

      Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

      Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign,

      Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,

      To mourn the woes my country must endure,

      That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

      LXXIII. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN M’LEOD, ESQ. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S

      [John M’Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M’Leod, for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in M’Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M’Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]

      Sad thy tale, thou idle page,

      And rueful thy alarms:

      Death tears the brother of her love

      From Isabella’s arms.

      Sweetly deck’d with pearly dew

      The morning rose may blow;

      But cold successive noontide blasts

      May lay its beauties low.

      Fair on Isabella’s morn

      The sun propitious smil’d;

      But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

      Succeeding hopes beguil’d.

      Fate oft tears the bosom chords

      That nature finest strung:

      So Isabella’s heart was form’d,

      And so that heart was wrung.

      Were it in the poet’s power,

      Strong as he shares the grief

      That pierces Isabella’s heart,

      To give that heart relief!

      Dread Omnipotence, alone,

      Can heal the wound He gave;

      Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes

      To scenes beyond the grave.

      Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,

      And fear no withering blast;

      There Isabella’s spotless worth

      Shall happy be at last.

      LXXIV. TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE’S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR’S GIFT. JAN. 1, 1787

      [Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the “sentimental sister Susie,” of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet’s correspondence.]

      Again the silent wheels of time

      Their annual round have driv’n,

      And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,

      Are so much nearer Heav’n.

      No gifts have I from Indian coasts

      The infant year to hail:

      I send you more than India boasts

      In Edwin’s simple tale.

      Our sex with guile and faithless love

      Is charg’d, perhaps, too true;

      But may, dear maid, each lover prove

      An Edwin still to you!

      LXXV. THE AMERICAN WAR. A FRAGMENT

      [Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of “Chatham’s Boy,” called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Ritson.]

      I.

      When Guildford good our pilot stood,

      And did our hellim thraw, man,

      Ae night, at tea, began a plea,

      Within America, man:

      Then up they gat the maskin-pat,

      And in the sea did jaw, man;

      An’ did nae less in full Congress,

      Than quite refuse our law, man.

      II.

      Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,

      I wat he was na slaw, man;

      Down Lowrie’s burn he took a turn,

      And Carleton did ca’, man;

      But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,

      Montgomery-like did fa’, man,

      Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,

      Amang his en’mies a’, man.

      III.

      Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,

      Was kept at Boston ha’, man;

      Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe

      For Philadelphia, man;

      Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin

      Guid Christian blood to draw, man:

      But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,

      Sir-loin he hacked sma’, man.

      IV.

      Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,

      Till Fraser brave did fa’, man,

      Then lost his way, ae misty day,

      In Saratoga shaw, man.

      Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,

      An’ did the buckskins claw, man;

      But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,

      He hung it to the wa’, man.

      V.

      Then Montague, an’ Guilford, too,

      Began to fear a fa’, man;

      And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,

      The German Chief to thraw, man;

      For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,

      Nae mercy had at a’, man;

      An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,

      An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man.

      VI.

      Then Rockingham took up the game,

      Till death did on him ca’, man;

      When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,

      Conform to gospel law, man;

      Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,

      They did his measures thraw, man,

      For North an’ Fox united stocks,

      An’ bore him to the wa’, man.

      VII.

      Then

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