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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
VERSES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE.
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of fire?
And whose that generous princely mien
Even rooted foes admire?
And whose that eye of fire?
And whose that generous princely mien
Even rooted foes admire?
Stranger, to justly shew that brow,
And mark that eye of fire,
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints
His other works admire.
And mark that eye of fire,
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints
His other works admire.
Bright as a cloudless summer sun,
With stately port he moves;
His guardian seraph eyes with awe
The noble ward he loves.
With stately port he moves;
His guardian seraph eyes with awe
The noble ward he loves.
Among the illustrious Scottish sons
That chief thou may'st discern;
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye,
It dwells upon Glencairn.
That chief thou may'st discern;
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye,
It dwells upon Glencairn.
TO A LADY,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES.
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous toast—
'The whole of human kind!'
As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous toast—
'The whole of human kind!'
'To those who love us!'—second fill
But not to those whom we love!
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third—'to thee and me, Love!':
But not to those whom we love!
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third—'to thee and me, Love!':
ELEGY ON THE YEAR, 1778.
SKETCH.
For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die—for that they're born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a head,
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead!
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bludie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck.
Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowf and daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As muckle better as you can.
E'en let them die—for that they're born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a head,
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead!
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bludie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck.
Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowf and daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As muckle better as you can.
January 1, 1789.