The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      Where infamy with sad repentance dwells;

      Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,

      And deal from iron hands the spare repast;

      Where truant ‘prentices, yet young in sin,

      Blush at the curious stranger peeping in;

      Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,

      Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more;

      Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing,

      Beat hemp for others, riper for the string:

      From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,

      To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate.

      “Alas! I feel I am no actor here!”

      ’Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear!

      Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale

      Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;

      Will make they hair, tho’ erst from gipsy polled,

      By barber woven, and by barber sold,

      Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care,

      Like hoary bristles to erect and stare.

      The hero of the mimic scene, no more

      I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;

      Or haughty Chieftain, ‘mid the din of arms,

      In Highland bonnet woo Malvina’s charms;

      While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high,

      And steal from me Maria’s prying eye.

      Blest Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress,

      Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press.

      I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,

      And call each coxcomb to the wordy war.

      I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons,[112]

      And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;

      The crafty colonel[113] leaves the tartan’d lines,

      For other wars, where he a hero shines;

      The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,

      Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head;

      Comes, ‘mid a string of coxcombs to display

      That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;

      The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks,

      And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks;

      Though there, his heresies in church and state

      Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fate:

      Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,

      And dares the public like a noontide sun.

      (What scandal call’d Maria’s janty stagger

      The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger,

      Whose spleen e’en worse than Burns’ venom when

      He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen,—

      And pours his vengeance in the burning line,

      Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre divine;

      The idiot strum of vanity bemused,

      And even th’ abuse of poesy abused!

      Who call’d her verse, a parish workhouse made

      For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray’d?)

      A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,

      And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose!

      In durance vile here must I wake and weep,

      And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;

      That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,

      And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore.

      Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?

      Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?

      Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,

      And make a vast monopoly of hell?

      Thou know’st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse,

      The vices also, must they club their curse?

      Or must no tiny sin to others fall,

      Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all?

      Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;

      In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.

      As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,

      Who on my fair one satire’s vengeance hurls?

      Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,

      A wit in folly, and a fool in wit?

      Who says, that fool alone is not thy due,

      And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?

      Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn,

      And dare the war with all of woman born:

      For who can write and speak as thou and I?

      My periods that deciphering defy,

      And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

      CXXXIV. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY

      [Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Chambers declares that he “has scarcely a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard,” I must print it as his, for I have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Burns’ stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting: they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compared them, as little as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the wren.]