Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/175
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
121
SKETCH—NEW YEAR DAY.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow—
—That grandchild's cap will make tomorrow—
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
'Another year is gone for ever.'
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on—for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may, a few years must,
Repose us in the silent dust;
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes—all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies;
That on this frail, uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as Heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as Misery's woful night.—
Since then, my honor'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends;
Let us th' important Now employ,
And live as those that never die.
Tho' you, with days and honors crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight—life's sorrows to repulse;
A sight—pale Envy to convulse;)
Others may claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow—
—That grandchild's cap will make tomorrow—
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
'Another year is gone for ever.'
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on—for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may, a few years must,
Repose us in the silent dust;
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes—all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies;
That on this frail, uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as Heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as Misery's woful night.—
Since then, my honor'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends;
Let us th' important Now employ,
And live as those that never die.
Tho' you, with days and honors crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight—life's sorrows to repulse;
A sight—pale Envy to convulse;)
Others may claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,
AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH.
Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night;
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd:
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night;
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd:
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.