XXVII.

TO RUIN.

["I have been," says Burns, in his common-place book, "taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 'The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts, what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.]

I.

All hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall!

Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Though thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's prayer!

No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care!

When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day; My weary heart its throbbings cease, Cold mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face; Enclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace!

XXVIII.

TO

JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK.

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS

[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.]

O Goudie! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin', looks back, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superst.i.tion, Waes me! she's in a sad condition: Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician, To see her water: Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she's got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, Nigh unto death; See, how she fetches at the thrapple, An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a gallopin' consumption, Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor[44] are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel, An' twa red peats wad send relief, An' end the quarrel.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 44: Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.]

XXIX.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

_April 1st, 1785._

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, "was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both s.e.xes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women."]

While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin', To ca' the crack and weave our stockin', And there was muckle fun an' jokin', Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin'

At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?"

They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't, Then a' that ken't him round declar'd He had injine, That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Tho' I should p.a.w.n my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death At some d.y.k.e-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel', Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet what the matter?

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may c.o.c.k their nose, And say, "How can you e'er propose, You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may-be wrang.