第9章 1785(2)

The muse,nae poet ever fand her,Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,Adown some trottin burn's meander,An'no think lang:

O sweet to stray,an'pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The war'ly race may drudge an'drive,Hog-shouther,jundie,stretch,an'strive;Let me fair Nature's face descrive,And I,wi'pleasure,Shall let the busy,grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel,"my rhyme-composing"brither!

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:

Now let us lay our heads thegither,In love fraternal:

May envy wallop in a tether,Black fiend,infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tools an'taxes;

While moorlan's herds like guid,fat braxies;While terra firma,on her axis,Diurnal turns;Count on a friend,in faith an'practice,In Robert Burns.

Postcript My memory's no worth a preen;I had amaist forgotten clean,Ye bade me write you what they mean By this "new-light,"'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans At grammar,logic,an'sic talents,They took nae pains their speech to balance,Or rules to gie;But spak their thoughts in plain,braid lallans,Like you or me.

In thae auld times,they thought the moon,Just like a sark,or pair o'shoon,Wore by degrees,till her last roon Gaed past their viewin;An'shortly after she was done They gat a new ane.

This passed for certain,undisputed;

It ne'er cam i'their heads to doubt it,Till chiels gat up an'wad confute it,An'ca'd it wrang;An'muckle din there was about it,Baith loud an'lang.

Some herds,weel learn'd upo'the beuk,Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk An'out of'sight,An'backlins-comin to the leuk She grew mair bright.

This was deny'd,it was affirm'd;

The herds and hissels were alarm'd The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an'storm'd,That beardless laddies Should think they better wer inform'd,Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair,it gaed to sticks;

Frae words an'aiths to clours an'nicks;An monie a fallow gat his licks,Wi'hearty crunt;An'some,to learn them for their tricks,Were hang'd an'brunt.

This game was play'd in mony lands,An'auld-light caddies bure sic hands,That faith,the youngsters took the sands Wi'nimble shanks;Till lairds forbad,by strict commands,Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe;Till now,amaist on ev'ry knowe Ye'll find ane plac'd;An'some their new-light fair avow,Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;Their zealous herds are vex'd an'sweatin;Mysel',I've even seen them greetin Wi'girnin spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word an'write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!

Some auld-light herds in neebor touns Are mind't,in things they ca'balloons,To tak a flight;An'stay ae month amang the moons An'see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

An'when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,The hindmaist shaird,they'll fetch it wi'them Just i'their pouch;An'when the new-light billies see them,I think they'll crouch!

Sae,ye observe that a'this clatter Is naething but a "moonshine matter";But tho'dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulyie,I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulyie.

One Night As I Did Wander Tune -"John Anderson,my jo."One night as I did wander,When corn begins to shoot,I sat me down to ponder Upon an auld tree root;Auld Ayr ran by before me,And bicker'd to the seas;A cushat crooded o'er me,That echoed through the braes...

Tho'Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part Tune -"The Northern Lass."Tho'cruel fate should bid us part,Far as the pole and line,Her dear idea round my heart,Should tenderly entwine.

Tho'mountains,rise,and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet,dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean.

.......

Song -Rantin',Rovin'Robin^1

[Footnote 1:Not published by Burns.]

Tune -"Daintie Davie."

There was a lad was born in Kyle,But whatna day o'whatna style,I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi'Robin.

Chor.-Robin was a rovin'boy,Rantin',rovin',rantin',rovin',Robin was a rovin'boy,Rantin',rovin',Robin!

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun^2,'Twas then a blast o'Janwar'win'

Blew hansel in on Robin.

Robin was,&c.

[Footnote 2:January 25,1759,the date of my bardship's vital existence.-R.

B.]

The gossip keekit in his loof,Quo'scho,"Wha lives will see the proof,This waly boy will be nae coof:

I think we'll ca'him Robin."

Robin was,&c.

"He'll hae misfortunes great an'sma',But aye a heart aboon them a',He'll be a credit till us a'-We'll a'be proud o'Robin."

Robin was,&c.

"But sure as three times three mak nine,I see by ilka score and line,This chap will dearly like our kin',So leeze me on thee!Robin."Robin was,&c.

"Guid faith,"quo',scho,"I doubt you gar The bonie lasses lie aspar;But twenty fauts ye may hae waur So blessins on thee!Robin."Robin was,&c.

Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1

Now Robin lies in his last lair,He'll gabble rhyme,nor sing nae mair;Cauld poverty,wi'hungry stare,Nae mair shall fear him;Nor anxious fear,nor cankert care,E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth,they seldom fash'd him,Except the moment that they crush'd him;For sune as chance or fate had hush'd 'em Tho'e'er sae short.

Then wi'a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em,And thought it sport.

[Footnote 1:Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or "burns,"a translation of his name.]

Tho'he was bred to kintra-wark,And counted was baith wight and stark,Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man;But tell him,he was learn'd and clark,Ye roos'd him then!

Epistle To John Goldie,In Kilmarnock Author Of The Gospel Recovered.-August,1785O Gowdie,terror o'the whigs,Dread o'blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!

Sour Bigotry,on her last legs,Girns an'looks back,Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues May seize you quick.

Poor gapin',glowrin'Superstition!

Wae's me,she's in a sad condition:

Fye:bring Black Jock,^1her state physician,To see her water;Alas,there's ground for great suspicion She'll ne'er get better.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,Gane in a gallopin'consumption:

Not a'her quacks,wi'a'their gumption,Can ever mend her;Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,She'll soon surrender.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,For every hole to get a stapple;But now she fetches at the thrapple,An'fights for breath;Haste,gie her name up in the chapel,^2

Near unto death.

It's you an'Taylor^3are the chief To blame for a'this black mischief;[Footnote 1:The Rev.J.Russell,Kilmarnock.-R.B.]

[Footnote 2:Mr.Russell's Kirk.-R.B.]

[Footnote 3:Dr.Taylor of Norwich.-R.B.]

But,could the Lord's ain folk get leave,A toom tar barrel An'twa red peats wad bring relief,And end the quarrel.

For me,my skill's but very sma',An'skill in prose I've nane ava';But quietlins-wise,between us twa,Weel may you speed!

And tho'they sud your sair misca',Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs,and thresh them sicker!

The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker O'something stout;It gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,And helps his wit.

There's naething like the honest nappy;

Whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,Or women sonsie,saft an'sappy,'Tween morn and morn,As them wha like to taste the drappie,In glass or horn?

I've seen me dazed upon a time,I scarce could wink or see a styme;Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,-

Ought less is little-

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,As gleg's a whittle.

The Holy Fair^1

A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty Observation;And secret hung,with poison'd crust,The dirk of Defamation:

[Footnote 1:"Holy Fair"is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.-R.B.]

A mask that like the gorget show'd,Dye-varying on the pigeon;And for a mantle large and broad,He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy A-La-Mode Upon a simmer Sunday morn When Nature's face is fair,I walked forth to view the corn,An'snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs Wi'glorious light was glintin;The hares were hirplin down the furrs,The lav'rocks they were chantin Fu'sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,To see a scene sae gay,Three hizzies,early at the road,Cam skelpin up the way.

Twa had manteeles o"dolefu'black,But ane wi'lyart lining;The third,that gaed a wee a-back,Was in the fashion shining Fu'gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,In feature,form,an'claes;Their visage wither'd,lang an'thin,An'sour as only slaes:

The third cam up,hap-stap-an'-lowp,As light as ony lambie,An'wi'a curchie low did stoop,As soon as e'er she saw me,Fu'kind that day.

Wi'bonnet aff,quoth I,"Sweet lass,I think ye seem to ken me;I'm sure I've seen that bonie face But yet I canna name ye."Quo'she,an'laughin as she spak,An'taks me by the han's,"Ye,for my sake,hae gien the feck Of a'the ten comman's A screed some day.""My name is Fun-your cronie dear,The nearest friend ye hae;An'this is Superstitution here,An'that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there,yon runkl'd pair,We will get famous laughin At them this day."Quoth I,"Wi'a'my heart,I'll do't;

I'll get my Sunday's sark on,An'meet you on the holy spot;Faith,we'se hae fine remarkin!"

Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,An'soon I made me ready;For roads were clad,frae side to side,Wi'mony a weary body In droves that day.

Here farmers gash,in ridin graith,Gaed hoddin by their cotters;There swankies young,in braw braid-claith,Are springing owre the gutters.

The lasses,skelpin barefit,thrang,In silks an'scarlets glitter;Wi'sweet-milk cheese,in mony a whang,An'farls,bak'd wi'butter,Fu'crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,Weel heaped up wi'ha'pence,A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,An'we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin;

Some carrying dails,some chairs an'stools,An'some are busy bleth'rin Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,An'screen our countra gentry;There Racer Jess,^2an'twa-three whores,Are blinkin at the entry.

Here sits a raw o'tittlin jads,Wi'heaving breast an'bare neck;An'there a batch o'wabster lads,Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,For fun this day.

Here,some are thinkin on their sins,An'some upo'their claes;Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,Anither sighs an'prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,Wi'screwed-up,grace-proud faces;On that a set o'chaps,at watch,Thrang winkin on the lasses To chairs that day.

O happy is that man,an'blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him!

Whase ain dear lass,that he likes best,Comes clinkin down beside him!

Wi'arms repos'd on the chair back,He sweetly does compose him;Which,by degrees,slips round her neck,An's loof upon her bosom,Unkend that day.

Now a'the congregation o'er Is silent expectation;For Moodie^3speels the holy door,Wi'tidings o'damnation:

[Footnote 2:Racer Jess (d.1813)was a half-witted daughter of Possie Nansie.

She was a great pedestrian.]

[Footnote 3:Rev.Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.]

Should Hornie,as in ancient days,'Mang sons o'God present him,The vera sight o'Moodie's face,To 's ain het hame had sent him Wi'fright that day.

Hear how he clears the point o'faith Wi'rattlin and wi'thumpin!

Now meekly calm,now wild in wrath,He's stampin,an'he's jumpin!

His lengthen'd chin,his turned-up snout,His eldritch squeel an'gestures,O how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plaisters On sic a day!

But hark!the tent has chang'd its voice,There's peace an'rest nae langer;For a'the real judges rise,They canna sit for anger,Smith^4opens out his cauld harangues,On practice and on morals;An'aff the godly pour in thrangs,To gie the jars an'barrels A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,Of moral powers an'reason?

His English style,an'gesture fine Are a'clean out o'season.

Like Socrates or Antonine,Or some auld pagan heathen,The moral man he does define,But ne'er a word o'faith in That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison'd nostrum;For Peebles,^5frae the water-fit,Ascends the holy rostrum:

[Footnote 4:Rev.George Smith of Galston.]

[Footnote 5:Rev.Wm.Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.]

See,up he's got,the word o'God,An'meek an'mim has view'd it,While Common-sense has taen the road,An'aff,an'up the Cowgate^6Fast,fast that day.

Wee Miller^7neist the guard relieves,An'Orthodoxy raibles,Tho'in his heart he weel believes,An'thinks it auld wives'fables:

But faith!the birkie wants a manse,So,cannilie he hums them;Altho'his carnal wit an'sense Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day.

Now,butt an'ben,the change-house fills,Wi'yill-caup commentators;Here 's cryin out for bakes and gills,An'there the pint-stowp clatters;While thick an'thrang,an'loud an'lang,Wi'logic an'wi'scripture,They raise a din,that in the end Is like to breed a rupture O'wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink!it gies us mair Than either school or college;It kindles wit,it waukens lear,It pangs us fou o'knowledge:

Be't whisky-gill or penny wheep,Or ony stronger potion,It never fails,or drinkin deep,To kittle up our notion,By night or day.

The lads an'lasses,blythely bent To mind baith saul an'body,Sit round the table,weel content,An'steer about the toddy:

[Footnote 6:A street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.-R.B.]

[Footnote 7:Rev.Alex.Miller,afterward of Kilmaurs.]

On this ane's dress,an'that ane's leuk,They're makin observations;While some are cozie i'the neuk,An'forming assignations To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,Till a'the hills are rairin,And echoes back return the shouts;Black Russell is na sparin:

His piercin words,like Highlan'swords,Divide the joints an'marrow;His talk o'Hell,whare devils dwell,Our vera "sauls does harrow"Wi'fright that day!

A vast,unbottom'd,boundless pit,Fill'd fou o'lowin brunstane,Whase raging flame,an'scorching heat,Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

The half-asleep start up wi'fear,An'think they hear it roarin;When presently it does appear,'Twas but some neibor snorin Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,How mony stories past;An'how they crouded to the yill,When they were a'dismist;How drink gaed round,in cogs an'caups,Amang the furms an'benches;An'cheese an'bread,frae women's laps,Was dealt about in lunches An'dawds that day.

In comes a gawsie,gash guidwife,An'sits down by the fire,Syne draws her kebbuck an'her knife;The lasses they are shyer:

The auld guidmen,about the grace Frae side to side they bother;Till some ane by his bonnet lays,An'gies them't like a tether,Fu'lang that day.

Waesucks!for him that gets nae lass,Or lasses that hae naething!

Sma'need has he to say a grace,Or melvie his braw claithing!

O wives,be mindfu'ance yoursel'

How bonie lads ye wanted;

An'dinna for a kebbuck-heel Let lasses be affronted On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell,wi'rattlin tow,Begins to jow an'croon;Some swagger hame the best they dow,Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi'faith an'hope,an'love an'drink,They're a'in famous tune For crack that day.

How mony hearts this day converts O'sinners and o'lasses!

Their hearts o'stane,gin night,are gane As saft as ony flesh is:

There's some are fou o'love divine;

There's some are fou o'brandy;

An'mony jobs that day begin,May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.

Third Epistle To J.Lapraik Guid speed and furder to you,Johnie,Guid health,hale han's,an'weather bonie;Now,when ye're nickin down fu'cannie The staff o'bread,May ye ne'er want a stoup o'bran'y To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an'haggs Like drivin wrack;But may the tapmost grain that wags Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie,too,an'skelpin at it,But bitter,daudin showers hae wat it;Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi'muckle wark,An'took my jocteleg an whatt it,Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,For your braw,nameless,dateless letter,Abusin me for harsh ill-nature On holy men,While deil a hair yoursel'ye're better,But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,Let's sing about our noble sel's:

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help,or roose us;But browster wives an'whisky stills,They are the muses.

Your friendship,Sir,I winna quat it,An'if ye mak'objections at it,Then hand in neive some day we'll knot it,An'witness take,An'when wi'usquabae we've wat it It winna break.

But if the beast an'branks be spar'd Till kye be gaun without the herd,And a'the vittel in the yard,An'theekit right,I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin'aqua-vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,Till ye forget ye're auld an'gatty,An'be as canty As ye were nine years less than thretty-Sweet ane an'twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi'the blast,And now the sinn keeks in the west,Then I maun rin amang the rest,An'quat my chanter;Sae I subscribe myself'in haste,Yours,Rab the Ranter.

Sept.13,1785.

Epistle To The Rev.John M'math Inclosing A Copy Of "Holy Willie's Prayer,"Which He Had Requested,Sept.17,1785While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin'show'r,Or in gulravage rinnin scowr To pass the time,To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme.

My musie,tir'd wi'mony a sonnet On gown,an'ban',an'douse black bonnet,Is grown right eerie now she's done it,Lest they should blame her,An'rouse their holy thunder on it An anathem her.

I own 'twas rash,an'rather hardy,That I,a simple,country bardie,Should meddle wi'a pack sae sturdy,Wha,if they ken me,Can easy,wi'a single wordie,Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,Their sighin,cantin,grace-proud faces,Their three-mile prayers,an'half-mile graces,Their raxin conscience,Whase greed,revenge,an'pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaw'n,misca'd waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus'd him:

And may a bard no crack his jest What way they've us'd him?

See him,the poor man's friend in need,The gentleman in word an'deed-An'shall his fame an'honour bleed By worthless,skellums,An'not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums?

O Pope,had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts,I'd rip their rotten,hollow hearts,An'tell aloud Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd.

God knows,I'm no the thing I should be,Nor am I even the thing I could be,But twenty times I rather would be An atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge,an'malice fause He'll still disdain,An'then cry zeal for gospel laws,Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;

They talk o'mercy,grace,an'truth,For what?-to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight,An'hunt him down,owre right and ruth,To ruin straight.

All hail,Religion!maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,Who in her rough imperfect line Thus daurs to name thee;To stigmatise false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho'blotch't and foul wi'mony a stain,An'far unworthy of thy train,With trembling voice I tune my strain,To join with those Who boldly dare thy cause maintain In spite of foes:

In spite o'crowds,in spite o'mobs,In spite o'undermining jobs,In spite o'dark banditti stabs At worth an'merit,By scoundrels,even wi'holy robes,But hellish spirit.

O Ayr!my dear,my native ground,Within thy presbyterial bound A candid liberal band is found Of public teachers,As men,as Christians too,renown'd,An'manly preachers.

Sir,in that circle you are nam'd;

Sir,in that circle you are fam'd;

An'some,by whom your doctrine's blam'd (Which gies you honour)Even,sir,by them your heart's esteem'd,An'winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,An'if impertinent I've been,Impute it not,good Sir,in ane Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye.

Second Epistle to Davie A Brother Poet Auld Neibour,I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,For your auld-farrant,frien'ly letter;Tho'I maun say't I doubt ye flatter,Ye speak sae fair;For my puir,silly,rhymin clatter Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart,hale be your fiddle,Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,To cheer you thro'the weary widdle O'war'ly cares;Till barins'barins kindly cuddle Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie,lad,I'm red ye're glaikit;

I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;

An,gif it's sae,ye sud by lickit Until ye fyke;Sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit,Be hain't wha like.

For me,I'm on Parnassus'brink,Rivin the words to gar them clink;Whiles dazed wi'love,whiles dazed wi'drink,Wi'jads or masons;An'whiles,but aye owre late,I think Braw sober lessons.

Of a'the thoughtless sons o'man,Commen'to me the bardie clan;Except it be some idle plan O'rhymin clink,The devil haet,-that I sud ban-They ever think.

Nae thought,nae view,nae scheme o'livin,Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,But just the pouchie put the neive in,An'while ought's there,Then,hiltie,skiltie,we gae scrievin',An'fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme!it's aye a treasure,My chief,amaist my only pleasure;At hame,a-fiel',at wark,or leisure,The Muse,poor hizzie!

Tho'rough an'raploch be her measure,She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse,my daintie Davie:

The warl'may play you mony a shavie;

But for the Muse,she'll never leave ye,Tho'e'er sae puir,Na,even tho'limpin wi'the spavie Frae door tae door.

Song-Young Peggy Blooms Tune-"Loch Eroch-side."Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass,Her blush is like the morning,The rosy dawn,the springing grass,With early gems adorning.

Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower,And glitter o'er the crystal streams,And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

Her lips,more than the cherries bright,A richer dye has graced them;They charm th'admiring gazer's sight,And sweetly tempt to taste them;Her smile is as the evening mild,When feather'd pairs are courting,And little lambkins wanton wild,In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,Such sweetness would relent her;As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly,savage Winter.

Detraction's eye no aim can gain,Her winning pow'rs to lessen;And fretful Envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow'rs of Honour,Love,and Truth,From ev'ry ill defend her!

Inspire the highly-favour'd youth The destinies intend her:

Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom;And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.

Song-Farewell To Ballochmyle Tune-"Miss Forbe's farewell to Banff."The Catrine woods were yellow seen,The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,But nature sicken'd on the e'e.

Thro'faded groves Maria sang,Hersel'in beauty's bloom the while;And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang,Fareweel the braes o'Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds,ye flowers,Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;Ye birdies dumb,in with'ring bowers,Again ye'll charm the vocal air.

But here,alas!for me nae mair Shall birdie charm,or floweret smile;Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr,Fareweel,fareweel!sweet Ballochmyle!

Fragment-Her Flowing Locks Her flowing locks,the raven's wing,Adown her neck and bosom hing;How sweet unto that breast to cling,And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi'dew,O'what a feast her bonie mou'!

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,A crimson still diviner!

Halloween^1

[Footnote 1:Is thought to be a night when witches,devils,and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands;particularly those aerial people,the fairies,are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary,.-R.B.]

The following poem will,by many readers,be well enough understood;but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast,notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night,so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland.The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state,in all ages and nations;and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind,if any such honour the author with a perusal,to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.-R.B.

Yes!let the rich deride,the proud disdain,The simple pleasure of the lowly train;To me more dear,congenial to my heart,One native charm,than all the gloss of art.-Goldsmith.

Upon that night,when fairies light On Cassilis Downans^2dance,Or owre the lays,in splendid blaze,On sprightly coursers prance;Or for Colean the rout is ta'en,Beneath the moon's pale beams;There,up the Cove,^3to stray an'rove,Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night;[Footnote 2:Certain little,romantic,rocky,green hills,in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.-R.B.]

[Footnote 3:A noted cavern near Colean house,called the Cove of Colean;which,as well as Cassilis Downans,is famed,in country story,for being a favorite haunt of fairies.-R.B.]