As I cam by Crochallan, I cannilie keekit ben; Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en'; Sittin at yon boord-en, And amang gude companie; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, You're welcome hame to me!
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie! My blessin's upon thy e'e-brie! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's aye the dearer, and dearer to me!
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonie banks, Whare Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; An' I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
He clenched his pamphlet in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, Till, in a declamation-mist, His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he graped for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short, He eked out wi' law, man.
Collected, Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man;
[Footnote 1: William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club.]
His Lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driven hail it did assail' Or torrents owre a lin, man: The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.
Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1
No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, “No storied urn nor animated bust;” This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.
She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state, And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.
This tribute, with a tear, now gives A brother Bard--he can no more bestow: But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, A nobler monument than Art can shew.
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure. O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
[Footnote 1: The stone was erected at Burns' expenses in February--March, 1789.]
Gudewife of Wauchope--House, Roxburghshire.
I Mind it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh; An, tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man I reckon'd was, An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stooked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa.