The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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ruffian feeling in thy breast,

      Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;

      But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,

      Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

      Or pity’s notes in luxury of tears,

      As modest want the tale of woe reveals;

      While conscious virtue all the strain endears,

      And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

      CXL. THE VOWELS. A TALE

      [Burns admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him with writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he said, “Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker between vowels and consonants!”]

      ’Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply’d,

      The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

      Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,

      And cruelty directs the thickening blows;

      upon a time, Sir Abece the great,

      In all his pedagogic powers elate,

      His awful chair of state resolves to mount,

      And call the trembling vowels to account.—

      First enter’d A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,

      But, ah! deform’d, dishonest to the sight!

      His twisted head look’d backward on the way,

      And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!

      Reluctant, E stalk’d in; with piteous race

      The justling tears ran down his honest face!

      That name! that well-worn name, and all his own,

      Pale he surrenders at the tyrant’s throne!

      The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound

      Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;

      And next the title following close behind,

      He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign’d.

      The cobweb’d gothic dome resounded Y!

      In sullen vengeance, I, disdain’d reply:

      The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,

      And knock’d the groaning vowel to the ground!

      In rueful apprehension enter’d O,

      The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;

      Th’ Inquisitor of Spain the most expert

      Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art;

      So grim, deform’d, with horrors entering U,

      His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

      As trembling U stood staring all aghast,

      The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,

      In helpless infants’ tears he dipp’d his right,

      Baptiz’d him eu, and kick’d him from his sight.

      CXLI. VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE

      [With the “rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,” of Adamhill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o’-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed, that those lines were suggested by Falstaff’s account of his ragged recruits:—

      “I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat!”]

      Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,

      Was driving to the tither warl’

      A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,

      And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;

      Black gowns of each denomination,

      And thieves of every rank and station,

      From him that wears the star and garter,

      To him that wintles in a halter:

      Asham’d himsel’ to see the wretches,

      He mutters, glowrin’ at the bitches,

      “By G—d, I’ll not be seen behint them,

      Nor ‘mang the sp’ritual core present them,

      Without, at least, ae honest man,

      To grace this d—d infernal clan.”

      By Adamhill a glance he threw,

      “L—d G—d!” quoth he, “I have it now,

      There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”

      And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.

      CXLII. ON SENSIBILITY. TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP

      [These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,

      “Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell!”

      and so transferring the whole to another heroine.]

      Sensibility how charming,

      Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:

      But distress with horrors arming,

      Thou host also known too well.

      Fairest flower, behold the lily,

      Blooming in the sunny ray:

      Let the blast sweep o’er the valley,

      See it prostrate on the clay.

      Hear the woodlark charm the forest,

      Telling o’er his little joys:

      Hapless bird! a prey the surest,

      To each pirate of the skies.

      Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,

      Finer feeling can bestow;

      Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

      Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

      CXLIII. LINES, SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED

      [The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously offended.]

      The friend whom wild from wisdom’s way,

      The fumes of wine infuriate send;

      (Not moony madness more astray;)

      Who but deplores that hapless friend?

      Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part,

      Ah, why should I such scenes outlive

      Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

      ’Tis thine to pity and forgive.

      CXLIV. ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT

      [This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.]

      Still anxious to secure your partial favour,

      And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,

      A Prologue,

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