O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow'r a.s.sist ev'n me Those headlong furious pa.s.sions to confine; For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

XII.

A WINTER NIGHT.

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you From seasons such as these?"

SHAKSPEARE.

["This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, "is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."]

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl.

Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl.

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark m.u.f.fled, viewed the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole:--

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!

And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost: Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!

Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows; See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear.

With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coa.r.s.er substance, unrefin'd, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow, The powers you proudly own?

Is there, beneath love's n.o.ble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone!

Mark maiden innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!

Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While through the ragged roof and c.h.i.n.ky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!

Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!

Guilt, erring man, relenting view!

But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hailed the morning with a cheer-- A cottage-rousing craw!

But deep this truth impressed my mind-- Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles G.o.d.

XIII.

REMORSE.

A FRAGMENT.

["I entirely agree," says Burns, "with the author of the _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, that Remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom; an ordinary pitch of fort.i.tude may bear up admirably well, under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command."]

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In every other circ.u.mstance, the mind Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'

But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self!'

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,-- Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!

O burning h.e.l.l! in all thy store of torments, There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

XIV.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.

A CANTATA.

[This inimitable poem, unknown to Currie and unheardof while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the work of Burns; but the parentage is certain: the original ma.n.u.script at the time of its composition, in 1785, was put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauchline, and afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr. Woodburn, factor of the laird of Craigen-gillan; the song of "For a' that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with his name, in the _Musical Museum_ of February, 1790. Cromek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice, print it in the _Reliques_, for which he was sharply censured by Sir Walter Scott, in the _Quarterly Review._ The scene of the poem is in Mauchline, where Poosie Nancy had her change-house. Only one copy in the handwriting of Burns is supposed to exist; and of it a very accurate fac-simile has been given.]

RECITATIVO.

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte And infant frosts begin to bite, In h.o.a.ry cranreuch drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, To drink their orra duddies: Wi' quaffing and laughing, They ranted an' they sang; Wi' jumping and thumping, The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm-- She blinket on her sodger: An' ay he gies the tozie drab The t.i.ther skelpin' kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an aumous dish.

Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger's whip, Then staggering and swaggering He roar'd this ditty up--

AIR.