They set their heads together, I say, They set their heads together; On right, on left, on every hand, We saw none to deliver.

Thou madest strong two chosen ones To quell the Wicked's pride; That Young Man, great in Issachar, The burden-bearing tribe.

And him, among the Princes chief In our Jerusalem, The judge that's mighty in thy law, The man that fears thy name.

Yet they, even they, with all their strength, Began to faint and fail: Even as two howling, ravenous wolves To dogs do turn their tail.

Th' unG.o.dly o'er the just prevail'd, For so thou hadst appointed; That thou might'st greater glory give Unto thine own anointed.

And now thou hast restored our State, Pity our Kirk also; For she by tribulations Is now brought very low.

Consume that high-place, Patronage, From off thy holy hill; And in thy fury burn the book-- Even of that man M'Gill.^1

Now hear our prayer, accept our song, And fight thy chosen's battle: We seek but little, Lord, from thee, Thou kens we get as little.

[Footnote 1: Dr. William M'Gill of Ayr, whose "Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ" led to a charge of heresy against him. Burns took up his cause in "The Kirk of Scotland's Alarm" (p. 351).--Lang.]

Sketch In Verse

Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.

How wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite, How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white, How Genius, th' ill.u.s.trious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction, I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I--let the Critics go whistle!

But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory, At once may ill.u.s.trate and honour my story.

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong; With pa.s.sions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right; A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, For using thy name, offers fifty excuses.

Good Lord, what is Man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

On his one ruling pa.s.sion Sir Pope hugely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours: Mankind are his show-box--a friend, would you know him?

Pull the string, Ruling Pa.s.sion the picture will show him, What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him; For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t'other? There's more in the wind; As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, In the make of that wonderful creature called Man, No two virtues, whatever relation they claim.

Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse: Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels?

My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor poet, Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it: In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle: He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle: Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back stairs, and by G.o.d, he would steal 'em, Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em; It is not, out-do him--the task is, out-thieve him!

The Wounded Hare

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field!

The bitter little that of life remains: No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy b.l.o.o.d.y bosom prest.

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe; The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide That life a mother only can bestow!

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

Delia, An Ode

"To the Editor of The Star.--Mr. Printer--If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the l.u.s.tre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from--Yours, &c., R. Burns.

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789."

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty shows.

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; O let me steal one liquid kiss, For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

The Gard'ner Wi' His Paidle

Tune--"The Gardener's March."

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours, The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

The crystal waters gently fa', The merry bards are lovers a', The scented breezes round him blaw-- The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare; Then thro' the dews he maun repair-- The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, He flies to her arms he lo'es the best, The Gard'ner wi' his paidle.

On A Bank Of Flowers

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued; He gaz'd, he wish'd He fear'd, he blush'd, And trembled where he stood.