LITMIR.BIZ

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sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,

      Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;

      Said nothing like his works was ever printed;

      And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!

      “Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,

      “I know your bent—these are no laughing times:

      Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears,

      Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears;

      With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,

      Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;

      Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,

      Waving on high the desolating brand,

      Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”

      I could no more—askance the creature eyeing,

      D’ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?

      I’ll laugh, that’s poz—nay more, the world shall know it;

      And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet!

      Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief,

      That Misery’s another word for Grief;

      I also think—so may I be a bride!

      That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.

      Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,

      Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye;

      Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive—

      To make three guineas do the work of five:

      Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch!

      Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.

      Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,

      Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;

      Who, us the boughs all temptingly project,

      Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—

      Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep,

      Peerest to meditate the healing leap:

      Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf?

      Laugh at their follies—laugh e’en at thyself:

      Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,

      And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.

      To sum up all, be merry, I advise;

      And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

      CXLV. ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER

      [The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fontenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes: she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.]

      Sweet naiveté of feature,

      Simple, wild, enchanting elf,

      Not to thee, but thanks to nature,

      Thou art acting but thyself.

      Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,

      Spurning nature, torturing art;

      Loves and graces all rejected,

      Then indeed thou’dst act a part.

      R. B.

      CXLVI. TO CHLORIS

      [Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow were strongly mingled in her early history: that she did not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of Burns is well known: but he had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice.]

      ’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair friend,

      Nor thou the gift refuse,

      Nor with unwilling ear attend

      The moralizing muse.

      Since thou in all thy youth and charms,

      Must bid the world adieu,

      (A world ‘gainst peace in constant arms)

      To join the friendly few.

      Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast,

      Chill came the tempest’s lower;

      (And ne’er misfortune’s eastern blast

      Did nip a fairer flower.)

      Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more,

      Still much is left behind;

      Still nobler wealth hast thou in store—

      The comforts of the mind!

      Thine is the self-approving glow,

      On conscious honour’s part;

      And, dearest gift of heaven below,

      Thine friendship’s truest heart.

      The joys refin’d of sense and taste,

      With every muse to rove:

      And doubly were the poet blest,

      These joys could he improve.

      CXLVII. POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE

      [It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of Kerroughtree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the purpose of announcing the candidate’s sentiments on freedom.]

      Thou of an independent mind,

      With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d;

      Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave,

      Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;

      Virtue alone who dost revere,

      Thy own reproach alone dost fear,

      Approach this shrine, and worship here.

      CXLVIII. THE HERON BALLADS

      [BALLAD FIRST]

      [This is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which he was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and secondly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will be displeased, and some will smile.]

      I.

      Whom will you send to London town,

      To Parliament and a’ that?

      Or wha in a’ the country round

      The best deserves to fa’ that?

      For a’ that, and a’ that;

      Thro Galloway and a’ that;

      Where is the laird or belted knight

      That best deserves to fa’ that?

      II.

      Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett,

      And wha is’t never saw that?

      Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree meets

      And has a doubt of a’ that?

      For a’ that, and a’ that,

      Here’s Heron yet for a’ that,

      The independent patriot,

      The

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