CXIX.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

TO THE

PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

[This Poem made its first appearance, as I was a.s.sured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, "To the Right honorable the Earl of Brendalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. ----, of A----s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing--LIBERTY." The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.]

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes--as lambkins like a knife.

Faith, you and A----s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight; I doubt na! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water; Then up among the lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; Some daring Hanc.o.c.k, or a Franklin'; May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, Till G.o.d knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed-- Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance, To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation?

They an' be d----d! what right hae they To meat or sleep, or light o' day?

Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna' say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a' tender mercies, An' tirl the hallions to the birses; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them! crash them a' to spails!

An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!

An' if the wives an' dirty brats E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese, Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An' gar the tattered gypsies pack Wi' a' their b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on their back!

Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you, An' in my house at hame to greet you; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle, At my right han' a.s.signed your seat 'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,-- Or if you on your station tarrow, Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; An' till ye come--Your humble rervant,

BEELZEBUB.

_June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790._

CXX.

TO

JOHN TAYLOR.

[Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse."]

With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying,

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol's business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod-- I'll pay you like my master.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Ramages_, _3 o'clock_, (_no date._)

CXXI.

LAMENT

OF

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

[The poet communicated this "Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the n.o.ble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.]

I.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the gra.s.sy lea: Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.

II.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

III.

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang!

IV.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands And never-ending care.

V.

But as for thee, thou false woman!

My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae!

The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.

VI.

My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine!

G.o.d keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend Remember him for me!