Chapter IV · SATIRES AND EPISTLES
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Fame first came to Burns through his satires. Before he had been recognized by the Edinburgh litterateurs, before he had written more than a handful of songs, he was known and feared on his own countryside as a formidable critic of ecclesiastical tyranny. It was this reputation that made possible the success of the subscription to the Kilmarnock volume, and so saved Burns to Scotland.
Two characteristics of the Kirk of Scotland had tended to prepare the people to welcome an attack on its authority: the severity with which the clergy administered discipline, and the extremes to which they had pushed their Calvinism.
In spite of the existence of dissenting bodies, the great mass of the population belonged to the established church, and both their spiritual privileges and their social standing were at the mercy of the Kirk session and the presiding minister. It is difficult for a Protestant community to-day to realize the extent to which the conduct of the individual and the family were controlled by the ecclesiastical authorities. Offenses which now would at most be the subject of private remonstrance were treated as public crimes and expiated in church before the whole parish. Gavin Hamilton, Burns's friend and landlord at Mossgiel, a liberal gentleman of means and standing, was prosecuted in the church courts for lax attendance at divine service, for traveling on Sabbath, for neglecting family worship, and for having had one of his servants dig new potatoes on the Lord's day. Burns's irregular relations with Jean Armour led to successive appearances by both him and Jean before the congregation, to receive open rebuke and to profess repentance. Further expiation was demanded in the form of a contribution for the poor.
Against the discipline which he himself had to suffer Burns seems to have made no protest, and probably thought it just enough; but what he considered the persecution of his friend roused his indignation. This was all the fiercer as he regarded some of the members of the session as hypocrites, whose own private morals would not stand examination. Chief among these was a certain William Fisher, immortalized in a satire the application of which was meant to extend to the whole class which he represented.
HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER
Thou, that in the Heavens does dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel', Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony guid or ill They've done before thee! I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here before thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burning and a shining light, To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation? such I, wha deserv'd most just damnation, For broken laws, Sax thousand years ere my creation, Six Thro' Adam's cause. When from my mither's womb I fell, Thou might have plung'd me deep in hell, To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail, gums In burning lakes, Where damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes; Yet I am here a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock. But yet, O Lord! confess I must At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; troubled An' sometimes too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin. O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg— Thy pardon I sincerely beg— O! may't ne'er be a living plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Besides I farther maun avow— must Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow— But, Lord, that Friday I was fou, drunk When I cam near her, Or else, Thou kens, thy servant true Wad never steer her. meddle with May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e'en and morn Lest he owre high and proud should turn, too That he's sae gifted; If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race; But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha' bring Thy elders to disgrace An' public shame. Lord, mind Gau'n Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, cards Yet has sae mony takin' arts Wi' great an' sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa'. An' when we chasten'd him therefor, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore raised such a row As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us; Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes! Lord hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare Upo' their heads; Lord, visit them, and dinna spare, do not For their misdeeds. O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and soul are quakin', To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', An' pish'd wi' dread, While he, wi' hingin' lips and snakin', sneering Held up his head. Lord, in Thy day of vengeance try him; Lord, visit him wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r: But, for Thy people's sake, destroy them, And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me and mine Wi' mercies temporal and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine wealth Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!
Still more highly generalized is his Address to the Unco Guid, a plea for charity in judgment, kept from sentimentalism by its gleam of humor. It has perhaps the widest appeal of any of his poems of this class. One may note that as Burns passes from the satirical and humorous tone to the directly didactic, the dialect disappears, and the last two stanzas are practically pure English.
ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS
My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; together The rigid righteous is a fool, The rigid wise anither; The cleanest corn that e'er was dight, sifted May hae some pyles o' caff in grains, chaff So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. larking Solomon (Eccles. vii. 16). O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, so good Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour's fauts and folly! faults Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, well-going Supplied wi' store o' water: The heapet happer's ebbing still, hopper An' still the clap plays clatter! clapper Hear me, ye venerable core, company As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, sedate For glaikit Folly's portals; giddy I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences,— put forth Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, restive Their failings and mischances. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer; exchange But cast a moment's fair regard— What makes the mighty differ? difference Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) rest Your better art o' hidin'. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, Gives What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco leeway. uncommon See Social life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or—your more dreaded hell to state— Damnation of expenses! Ye high, exalted virtuous Dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i' your lug, ear Ye're aiblins nae temptation. perhaps Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, trifle To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias. Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.
As regards the questions of doctrine there were in the church two main parties, known as the Auld Lichts and the New Lichts. The former were high Calvinists, emphasizing the doctrines of election, predestination, original sin, and eternal punishment. The latter comprised many of the younger clergy who had been touched by the rationalistic tendencies of the century, and who were blamed for various heresies—notably Arminianism and Socinianism. Whatever their precise beliefs, they laid less stress than their opponents on dogma and more on benevolent conduct, and Burns had strong sympathy with their liberalism. He first appeared in their support in an Epistle to John Goldie, a Kilmarnock wine-merchant who had published Essays on Various Important Subjects, Moral and Divine. Though he does not explicitly accept the author's Arminianism, he makes it clear that he relished his attacks on orthodoxy. A quarrel between two prominent Auld Licht ministers gave him his next opportunity, and the circulation in manuscript of The Twa Herds: or, The Holy Tulyie made him a personage in the district. With an irony more vigorous than delicate he affects to lament that
The twa best herds in a' the wast, pastors, west That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast gave These five an' twenty simmers past— Oh, dool to tell! sorrow Hae had a bitter black out-cast quarrel Atween themsel, Between
and he ends with the hope that if patronage could be abolished and the lairds forced to give
the brutes the power themsels To chuse their herds, Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, An' Learning in a woody dance, gallows An' that fell cur ca'd ‘common-sense,’ That bites sae sair, sorely Be banish'd o'er the sea to France; Let him bark there.
More light is thrown on Burns's positive attitude in religious matters by his Epistle to McMath, a young New Licht minister in Tarbolton. From the evidences of the letters, we are justified in accepting at its face value the profession of reverence for true religion made by Burns in this epistle; his hatred of the sham needs no corroboration.
TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH
Enclosing a Copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, which he had requested, September 17, 1785
While at the stook the shearers cow'r shock, reapers To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, driving Or, in gulravage rinnin', scour; horseplay running 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' douce black-bonnet, sedate Is grown right eerie now she's done it, scared Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it, And anathém her. curse I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple country bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. Loose But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, elastic Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. Worse than There's Gau'n, misca't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest good as Wha sae abus'd him: An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've used him? On the fashion 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, railers An' not a Muse erect her head To cowe the blellums? daunt, blusterers O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, give 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, false He'll still disdain, An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. They tak religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what? To gie their malice skouth scope On some puir wight, An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, against 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 stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain To join wi' those Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' foes: In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of 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 lib'ral 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. was yours
A further fling at orthodoxy appeared in The Ordination, a piece written to comfort the Kilmarnock liberals when an Auld Licht minister was selected for the second charge there. The tone is again one of ironical congratulation, and Burns describes the rejoicings of the elect with infinite zest. Two stanzas on the church music will illustrate his method.
Mak haste an' turn King David owre, open the Psalms An' lilt wi' holy clangor; sing O' double verse come gie us fourgive An' skirl up the Bangor: shriek, a Psalm-tune This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, dust Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, No more For Heresy is in her pow'r, And gloriously she'll whang her thrash Wi' pith this day. Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep,hang Like baby-clouts a-dryin'; Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, chirp And o'er the thairms be tryin';strings O, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, elbows jerk And a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day!
In the same ironical fashion he digresses in his Dedication to Gavin Hamilton to satirize the “high-fliers'” contempt for “cold morality” and for their faith in the power of orthodox belief to cover lapses in conduct.
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! No—stretch a point to catch a plack; small coin Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore, window from But point the rake that takes the door: Be to the poor like ony whunstane,any whinstone And haud their noses to the grunstane;hold, grindstone Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter—stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces; palms Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own; I'll warrant them ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
The period within which these satires were written was short—1785 and 1786; but some three years later, on the prosecution of a liberal minister, Doctor McGill of Ayr, for the publication of A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, which was charged with teaching Unitarianism, Burns took up the theme again. The Kirk's Alarm is a rattling “ballad,” full of energy and scurrilous wit, but, like many of its kind, it has lost much of its interest through the great amount of personal detail. A few stanzas will show that, even after his absence from local politics during his Edinburgh sojourn, he had lost none of his gusto in belaboring the Ayrshire Calvinists.
Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense. Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi' terror; To join faith and sense upon any pretence, Is heretic, damnable error. D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.
It was inevitable from the nature and purpose of these satirical poems that, however keen an interest they might raise in their time and place, a large part of that interest should evaporate in the course of time. Yet it would be a mistake to regard their importance as limited to raising a laugh against a few obscure bigots. The evils that Burns attacked, however his verses may be tinged with personal animus and occasional injustice, were real evils that existed far beyond the county of Ayr; and in the movement for enlightenment and liberation from these evils and their like that was then sweeping over Scotland, the wit and invective of the poet played no small part. The development that followed did, indeed, take a direction that he was far from foreseeing. The moderate party, which he supported, gradually gained the upper hand in the Kirk, and, upholding as it did the system of patronage, became more and more associated with the aristocracy who bestowed the livings. The result was that the moderate clergy degenerated under prosperity and lost their spiritual zeal; while their opponents, chastened by adversity, became the champions of the autonomy of the church, and, in the “ten years' conflict” that broke out little more than a generation after the death of Burns, showed themselves of the stuff of the martyrs. It would be impossible to trace the extent of the influence of the poet on the purging of orthodoxy or on the limitation of ecclesiastical despotism, since his work was in accord with the drift of the times; but it is fair to infer that, especially among the common people who were less likely to be reached by more philosophical discussion, his share was far from inconsiderable.
The poetical value of the satires is another matter. It may be questioned whether satire is ever essentially poetry, as poetry has been understood for the last hundred years. The dominant mood of satire is too antagonistic to imagination. But if we restrict our attention to the characteristic qualities of verse satire—vividness in depicting its object, blazing indignation or bitter scorn in its attitude, and wit in its expression, we shall be forced to grant that Burns achieved here notable success. Of the rarer power of satire to rise above the local, temporal, and personal to the exhibiting of universal elements in human life, there are comparatively few instances in Burns. The Address to the Unco Guid is perhaps the finest example; and here, as usually in his work, the approach to the general leads him to drop the scourge for the sermon.
In his tendency to preach, Burns was as much the inheritor of a national tradition as in any of his other characteristics. A strain of moralizing is well marked in the Scottish poets even before the Reformation, and, since the time of Burns, the preaching Scot has been notably exemplified not only in a professed prophet like Carlyle, but in so artistic a temperament as Stevenson. Nor did consciousness of his failures in practise embarrass Burns in the indulgence of the luxury of precept. Side by side with frank confessions of weakness we find earnest if not stern exhortations to do, not as he did, but as he taught. And as Scots have an appetite for hearing as well as for making sermons, his didactic pieces are among those most quoted and relished by his countrymen. The morally elevated but poetically inferior closing stanzas of The Cotter's Saturday Night are an instance in point; others are the morals appended to To a Mouse and To a Daisy, and to a number of his rhyming epistles.
These epistles are among the most significant of his writings for the reader in search of personal revelations. The Epistle to James Smith contains the much-quoted stanza on the poet's motives:
Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needful cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, gossip An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; trouble about I rhyme for fun.
Another gives his view of his equipment:
The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An' damned my fortune to the groat; But, in requit, Has blest me with a random-shot O' countra wit. country
Then he passes from literary considerations to his general philosophy of life:
But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound an' hale; Then top and maintop crowd the sail; Heave Care o'er-side! And large, before Enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, An' social noise: An' fareweel dear, deluding Woman, The joy of joys!
Here, as often, he contrasts his own reckless impulsive temper with that of prudent calculation:
With steady aim, some Fortune chase; Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey: Then cannie, in some cozie place, quietly They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin', To right or left eternal swervin', They zig-zag on; Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin', They aften groan. O ye douce folk that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool, Compar'd wi' you—O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke! stone wall
Nothing is more characteristic of the poet than this attitude toward prudence—this mixture of Intellectual respect with emotional contempt. He admits freely that restraint and calculation pay, but impulse makes life so much more interesting!
The Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, deserves to be quoted in full. It contains the final phrasing of the central point of Burns's ethics, the Scottish rustic's version of that philosophy of benevolence with which Shaftesbury sought to warm the chill of eighteenth-century thought:
The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang.
The mood of this poem is Burns's middle mood, lying between the black melancholy of his poems of despair and remorse and the exhilaration of his more exalted bacchanalian and love songs—the mood, we may infer, of his normal working life. We may again observe the correspondence between the change of dialect and change of tone in stanzas nine and ten, the increase of artificiality coming with his literary English and culminating in the unspeakable “tenebrific scene.” His humor returns with his Scots in the last verse.
EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, hang, fire I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely westlin jingle. west-country While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, In, chimney-corner I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, That live sae bien an' snug; comfortable I tent less, and want less value Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursèd pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whyles in want fellows, sometimes While coofs on countless thousands rant dolts, roister And ken na how to wair't: spend it But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, trouble Tho' we hae little gear, wealth We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: lusty ‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’ More ask not Auld age ne'er mind a feg; fig The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, bones Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could mak us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', ball Has aye some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; not small Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther can we fa'. What tho' like commoners of air, We wander out, we know not where, But either house or hal'? Without Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound, To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, hill-sides We'll sit and sowth a tune hum Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, Then And sing't when we hae done. It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in making muckle, mair: much, more It's no in books, it's no in lear, learning To make us truly blest: If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang. Think ye, that sic as you and I, such Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, note As hardly worth their while? Alas! how oft in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless, and fearless, Of either heav'n or hell! Esteeming, and deeming It's a' an idle tale! Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. And am They gie the wit of age to youth; They let us ken oursel; They mak us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, Ye'll find nae other where. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! note (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, cards And flatt'ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne'er could buy; And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean! It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, kindles And sets me a' on flame! O all ye pow'rs who rule above! O Thou, whose very self art love! Thou know'st my words sincere! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care! All hail, ye tender feelings dear! The smile of love, the friendly tear, The sympathetic glow! Long since this world's thorny ways Had number'd out my weary days, Had it not been for you! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still, It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene, To meet with, and greet with My Davie or my Jean. O, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin', rank and file, spanking Amaist before I ken! Almost The ready measure ring as fine As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin' owre my pen. staring over My spavied Pegasus will limp, spavined Till ance he's fairly het; once, hot And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jump, hobble, limp, jump An' rin an unco fit: surprising spurt But lest then the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now wipe His sweaty, wizen'd hide.
The didactic tendency reaches its height in the Epistle to a Young Friend. Here there is no personal confession, but a conscious and professed sermon, unrelated, as the last line shows, to the practise of the preacher. It is, of course, only poetry in the eighteenth-century sense—
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed—
and as such it should be judged. The critics who have reacted most violently against the attempted canonization of Burns have been inclined to sneer at this admirable homily, and to insinuate insincerity. But human nature affords every-day examples of just such perfectly sincere inconsistency as we find between the sixth stanza and Burns's own conduct; while not inconsistency but a very genuine rhetoric inspires the characteristic quatrain which closes the seventh.
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento; sort of But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, queer And muckle they may grieve ye: much For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attainéd: And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strainéd. I'll no say men are villains a'; The real harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But och! mankind are unco weak, extremely An' little to be trusted; If Self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife. Their fate we shouldna censure; For still th' important end of life They equally may answer. A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; poverty A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man pry Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, flame Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, attempt, roving Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; hold But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border: Its slightest touches, instant pause— Debar a' side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended. When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, frolicking Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest-driv'n— A conscience but a canker— A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n Is sure a noble anchor. Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting. In ploughman phrase, God send you speed Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede heed the advice Than ever did th' adviser!
The general level of the rhyming letters of Burns is astonishingly high. They bear, as such compositions should, the impression of free spontaneity, and indeed often read like sheer improvisations. Yet they are sprinkled with admirable stanzas of natural description, shrewd criticism, delightful humor, and are pervaded by a delicate tactfulness possible only to a man with a genius for friendship. They are usually written in the favorite six-line stanza, the meter that flowed most easily from his pen, and in language are the richest vernacular. His ambition to be “literary” seldom brings in its jarring notes here, and indeed at times he seems to avenge himself on this besetting sin by a very individual jocoseness toward the mythological figures that intrude into his more serious efforts. His Muse is the special victim. Instead of the conventional draped figure she becomes a “tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie,” “saft at best an' something lazy;” she is a “thowless jad;” or she is dethroned altogether:
“We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help or roose us, inspire But browster wives an' whisky stills—brewer They are the Muses!”
Again the tone is one of affectionate familiarity:
Leeze me on rhyme! It's aye a treasure, Blessings on My chief, amaist my only pleasure; almost At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie, Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, homespun She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl' may play you monie a shavie, ill turn But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir; so poor Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie spavin Frae door to door!
Once more, half scolding, half flattering:
Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, giddy Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies winding Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Dance Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.
The epigrams, epitaphs, elegies, and other occasional verses thrown off by Burns and diligently collected by his editors need little discussion. They not infrequently exhibit the less generous sides of his character, and but seldom demand rereading on account of their neatness or felicity or energy. One may be given as an example:
ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER
Here lies Johnie Pigeon: What was his religion Whae'er desires to ken In some other warl' world Maun follow the carl Must, old fellow For here Johnie Pigeon had none! Strong ale was ablution; Small beer, persecution; A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory!