ROBERT BURNS.*
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Ingersoll, Robert Green and Widger, David
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. "John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo."
Burns taught that the love of wife and children was the highest—that to toil for them was the noblest.
"The sacred lowe o' weel placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt the illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it." "I waine the quantum of the sin, The hazzard o'concealing; But och! it hardens all within, And petrifies the feeling." "To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos, and sublime, Of human life."
FRIENDSHIP.
He was the poet of friendship:
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' auld lang syne?"
Wherever those who speak the English language assemble—wherever the Anglo-Saxon people meet with clasp and smile—these words are given to the air.
SCOTCH DRINK.
The poet of good Scotch drink, of merry meetings, of the cup that cheers, author of the best drinking song in the world:
"O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allen came to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wadna find in Christendie. Chorus. "We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
"Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae we hope to be! We are na fou, &c. "It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's bClinkin in the lift say hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee! We are na fou, &c. "Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three! We are na fou, &c."
POETS BORN, NOT MADE.
He did not think the poet could be made—that colleges could furnish feeling, capacity, genius. He gave his opinion of these manufactured minstrels:
"A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek!" "Gie me ane spark o' Nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart."
BURNS, THE ARTIST.
He was an artist—a painter of pictures.
This of the brook:
"Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter's to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night."
Or this from Tam O'Shanter:
"But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed, Or, like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or, like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or, like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm."
This:
"As in the bosom of the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So, trembling, pure, was tender love, Within the breast o' bonnie Jean." "The sun had clos'd the winter day, The Curlers quat their roarin play, An' hunger's Maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she had been." "O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croons Wi' wailfu' cry!" "Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day!"
This of the lark and daisy—the daintiest and nearest perfect in our language:
"Alas! it's no' thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east."
A REAL DEMOCRAT.
He was in every fibre of his being a sincere democrat. He was a believer in the people—in the sacred rights of man. He believed that honest peasants were superior to titled parasites. He knew the so-called "gentrv" of his time.
In one of his letters to Dr. Moore is this passage: "It takes a few dashes into the world to give the young great man that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils—the mechanics and peasantry around him—who were born in the same village."
He knew the infinitely cruel spirit of caste—a spirit that despises the useful—the children of toil—those who bear the burdens of the world.
"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, By nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to . His cruelty, or scorn? Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn?"
Against the political injustice of his time—against the artificial distinctions among men by which the lowest were regarded as the highest—he protested in the great poem, "A man's a man for a' that," every line of which came like lava from his heart.
"Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that." "What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that." "Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man' o' independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that." "A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. "Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree and a' that. For a' that, and a' that; It's cornin' yet for a' that That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that."
No grander declaration of independence was ever uttered. It stirs the blood like a declaration of war. It is the apotheosis of honesty, independence, sense and worth. And it is a prophecy of that better day when men will be brothers the world over.
HIS THEOLOGY.
Burns was superior in heart and brain to the theologians of his time. He knew that the creed of Calvin was infinitely cruel and absurd, and he attacked it with every weapon that his brain could forge.
He was not awed by the clergy, and he cared nothing for what was called "authority." He insisted on thinking for himself. Sometimes he faltered, and now and then, fearing that some friend might take offence, he would say or write a word in favor of the Bible, and sometimes he praised the Scriptures in words of scorn.
He laughed at the dogma of eternal pain—at hell as described by the preacher:
"A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame an' scorchin' 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 neebor snorin'. Asleep that day."
The dear old doctrine that man is totally depraved, that morality is a snare—a flowery path leading to perdition—excited the indignation of Burns. He put the doctrine in verse:
"Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice." He understood the hypocrites of his day: "Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back." "Then orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd owre the seas to France; Let him bark there." "They talk 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, o'er right an' ruth, To ruin straight." "Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, To strike evil doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error."
But the greatest, the sharpest, the deadliest, the keenest, the wittiest thing ever said or written against Calvinism is Holy Willie's Prayer:—