The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ on bonie DOON!

      An’ wha on AIRE your chanters tune! who, Ayr, bagpipes

      45 Come, join the melancholious croon

      O’ Robin’s reed!

      His heart will never get aboon! above/over

      His Mailie’s dead!

      This was probably written in 1785–6 as a companion piece for publication with the preceding Mailie monologue. Again the tone of the poem is mixed. Burns employs the six-line Standard Habbie used in vernacular eighteenth-century elegy while partly parodying the content of these poems. His most specified source is probably Fergusson’s Elegy on the Death of Mr David Gregory with its repetitive end-line ‘Sin Gregory’s dead’. He is also partly sending up his own emotions. This is emphasised by the recent discovery from a London saleroom catalogue for May 1962 of an hitherto unknown last stanza:

      She was nae get o’ runted rams,

      Wi’ woo’ like goat’s an’ legs like trams;

      She was the flower o’ Fairlee lambs,

      A famous breed:

      Now Robin, greetin’, chows the hams

      O’ Mailie dead.

      This peasant practicality would have been too much for his genteel audience. On the other hand, there is real affection for its pedigree beauty. This was the man who was still surrounding himself with pet sheep at Ellisland. Further, as in his mouse poem, the lives of men and beasts are both brutally intruded upon not only by lethal elemental forces but by human-inspired, cruel economic and political forces. The accidentally throttled beast has its more sinister legally garrotted human counterpart:

      Wae worth the man wha first did shape

      That vile chancie thing – a rape!

      It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape,

      Wi’ chokin dread …

       Epistle to James Smith

      First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

       Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!

       Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society!

       I owe thee much.

      – BLAIR

      Dear Smith, the sleest, pawkie thief, slyest, cunning

      That e’er attempted stealth or rief! robbery/plunder

      Ye surely hae some warlock-breef have, wizard-spell

      Owre human hearts; over

      5 For ne’er a bosom yet was prief proof

      Against your arts.

      For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,

      And ev’ry star that blinks aboon, above

      Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon, shoes

      10 Just gaun to see you; going

      And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, other

      Mair taen I’m wi’ you. more taken

      That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, hag

      To mak amends for scrimpit stature, make, stunted

      15 She’s turn’d you off, a human-creature

      On her first plan;

      And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature

      She’s wrote the Man.

      Just now I’ve taen the fit o’ rhyme, taken

      20 My barmie noddle’s working prime, excited head/brain

      My fancy yerket up sublime, pulled together

      Wi’ hasty summon:

      Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time have

      To hear what’s comin?

      25 Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash; neighbour

      Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash;

      Some rhyme to court the countra clash, country gossip

      An’ raise a din;

      For me, an aim I never fash; think of

      30 I rhyme for fun.

      The star that rules my luckless lot,

      Has fated me the russet coat, poor man’s coat

      An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; smallest coin

      But, in requit, as compensation

      35 Has blest me with a random-shot

      O’ countra wit. country

      This while my notion’s taen a sklent, taken a turn/bend

      To try my fate in guid, black prent; good, print

      But still the mair I’m that way bent, more

      40 Something cries, ‘Hoolie! halt

      I red you, honest man, tak tent! warn, heed

      Ye’ll shaw your folly: show

      ‘There’s ither Poets, much your betters, other

      Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, well versed

      45 Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors, have

      A’ future ages;

      Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,

      Their unknown pages.’

      Then farewell hopes o’ Laurel-boughs

      50 To garland my poetic brows!

      Henceforth, I’ll rove where busy ploughs

      Are whistling thrang; busily/at work

      An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes lonely hills and dales

      My rustic sang. song

      55 I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed carefree

      How never-halting moments СКАЧАТЬ