I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple countra bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae st.u.r.dy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse h.e.l.l upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaun,[45] miska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him.

An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him.

See him, the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.

G.o.d knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, But twenty times, I rather wou'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a gla.s.s, An honest man may like a la.s.s, But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what?--to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth, To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who in her rough imperfect line, Thus daurs to name thee; To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch'd an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, But h.e.l.lish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd, An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, (Which gies you honour,) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, An' if impertinent I've been, Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 45: Gavin Hamilton, Esq.]

x.x.xVI.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,

NOVEMBER, 1785.

[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, "What think you of our mouse now?"]

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear.

x.x.xVII.

SCOTCH DRINK.

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' b.u.mpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more."

SOLOMON'S PROVERB, x.x.xi. 6, 7.

["I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to his friend Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."]

Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus, An' crabbit names and stories wrack us, An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In gla.s.s or jug.

O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink; Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food!

Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief.