I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy cursed restriction I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victim's spoil: And for thy potence vainly wished, To crush the villain in the dust.

For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd sh.o.r.e, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

LXV.

A DREAM.

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."

On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following "Address."

[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought ent.i.tled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses, On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes!

My bardship here, at your levee, On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang, By many a lord an' lady; "G.o.d save the King!" 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day.

For me, before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, My skill may weel be doubted: But facts are chiels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed: Your royal nest beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, And now the third part of the string, An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation.

But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister; Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester; For me, thank G.o.d, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, A name not envy spairges,) That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges; But, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An' may ye rax corruption's neck, And gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!

While n.o.bles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gi'es ye?

Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a n.o.ble aiver; So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver: There, him at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver; And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, He was an unco shaver For monie a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley,[58] stem an' stern, Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discern Your hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An', large upon her quarter, Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal la.s.ses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty: But sneer na British Boys awa', For kings are unco scant ay; An' German gentles are but sma', They're better just than want ay On onie day.

G.o.d bless you a'! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet; But ere the course o' life be thro', It may be bitter sautet: An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 58: Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour]

LXVI.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

[This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it: "Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the 'poor inhabitant' it is supposed to be inscribed that

'Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name!'

Who but himself--himself antic.i.p.ating the but too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal--a confession at once devout, poetical, and human--a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer, than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized and that the record was authentic?"]

Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this gra.s.sy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pa.s.s not by!

But with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause--and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend--whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know, prudent, cautious self-control, Is wisdom's root.

LXVII.

THE TWA DOGS.

A TALE.

[Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the ma.n.u.scripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, said, "The Address to the Deil" and "The Holy Fair" were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on his way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of "Wee Johnnie." On the 17th February Burns says to John Richmond, of Mauchline, "I have completed my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have not shown it to the world." It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to compositions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. "Luath was one of the poet's dogs, which some person had wantonly killed,"