Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
91 . The Vision
T
The curless quat their roarin play,
And hunger’d maukin taen her way,
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.
The lee-lang day had tired me; And when the day had clos’d his e’e, Far i’ the west, Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. I sat and ey’d the spewing reek, That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin; An’ heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. I backward mus’d on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, An’ done nae thing, But stringing blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank and clarkit My cash-account; While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit. Is a’ th’ amount. And heav’d on high my waukit loof, To swear by a’ yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof Till my last breath— An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht, An’ steppèd ben. Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token; And come to stop those reckless vows, Would soon been broken. Was strongly markèd in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space, Beam’d keen with honour. Till half a leg was scrimply seen; An’ such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight an’ clean— Nane else came near it. My gazing wonder chiefly drew: Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand; And seem’d, to my astonish’d view, A well-known land. There, mountains to the skies were toss’t: Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast, The lordly dome. There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. An ancient borough rear’d her head; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, And polish’d grace. Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern; Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare, With feature stern. To see a race heroic wheel, In sturdy blows; While, back-recoiling, seem’d to reel Their Suthron foes. Bold Richardton’s heroic swell,; The chief, on Sark who glorious fell, In high command; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native land. Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid, I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d In colours strong: Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d, They strode along. Near many a hermit-fancied cove (Fit haunts for friendship or for love, In musing mood), An aged Judge, I saw him rove, Dispensing good. The learned Sire and Son I saw: To Nature’s God, and Nature’s law, They gave their lore; This, all its source and end to draw, That, to adore. Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye: Who call’d on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a patriot-name on high, And hero shone. I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; A whispering throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister’s air She did me greet. In me thy native Muse regard; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low; I come to give thee such reward, As we bestow! Has many a light aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, Their labours ply. Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption’s heart: Some teach the bard—a darling care— The tuneful art. They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand. Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetric rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. Hence, Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue; Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung His ’Minstrel lays’; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic’s bays. The humbler ranks of human-kind, The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind, The artisan; All choose, as various they’re inclin’d, The various man. The threat’ning storm some strongly rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain With tillage-skill; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o’er the hill. Some grace the maiden’s artless smile; Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. Explore at large man’s infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard; And careful note each opening grace, A guide and guard. And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling power: I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely, caroll’d, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes; Fir’d at the simple, artless lays Of other times. Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the North his fleecy store Drove thro’ the sky, I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye. Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev’ry grove; I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise, In pensive walk. Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue, Th’ adorèd Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. Wild send thee Pleasure’s devious way, Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o’er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, Become thy friends. To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone’s art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. T e lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi’s mine, Nor king’s regard, Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, A rustic bard. Thy tuneful flame still careful fan: Preserve the dignity of Man, With soul erect; And trust the Universal Plan Will all protect. And bound the holly round my head: The polish’d leaves and berries red Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away.
With musing-deep, astonish’d stare,
[To Mrs. Stewart of Stair Burns presented a manuscript copy of the Vision. That copy embraces about twenty stanzas at the end of Duan First, which he cancelled when he came to print the price in his Kilmarnock volume. Seven of these he restored in printing his second edition, as noted on p. 174. The following are the verses which he left unpublished.]