Last sonnet

I definitely overextended myself this semester  L  After today, I’m putting the blog on hold for the quad.  I hope to resume it when it’s summer, though.

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Sonnet Written On The Author's Birthday, On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk

By Robert Burns

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,

At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys-

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,

The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

Burns sonnet 2 of 3

The other two of the three sonnets have this form.  Great late volta (the semicolon at the end of line 13):

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Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell Of Glenriddell and Friars' Carse

By Robert Burns

No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;

Nor pour your descant grating on my soul;

Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole,

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend!

How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe,

And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier:

The man of worth-and hath not left his peer!

Is in his "narrow house," for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet;

Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

Burns sonnets (1 of 3)

Returning to sonnets (because sonnets were my theme of the year):  I found only three sonnets by Burns.  This one’s composed in seven rhyming couplets:

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Sonnet On Receiving A Favour, Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry

By Robert Burns

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains,

A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:

Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,

And all the tribute of my heart returns,

For boons accorded, goodness ever new,

The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!

And all ye many sparkling stars of night!

If aught that giver from my mind efface,

If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,

Then roll to me along your wand'rig spheres,

Only to number out a villain's years!

I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,

And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Musespeak

The rest of the vision (continued from yesterday’s post):

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The Vision

By Robert Burns

Duan Second

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare,

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.

"All hail! my own inspired bard!

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!

"Know, the great genius of this land

Has many a light aerial band,

Who, all beneath his high command,

Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,

Their labours ply.

"They Scotia's race among them share:

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.

"'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,

They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;

Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest patriot-lore,

And grace the hand.

"And when the bard, or hoary sage,

Charm or instruct the future age,

They bind the wild poetric rage

In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

"Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young;

Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;

Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung

His 'Minstrel lays';

Or tore, with noble ardour stung,

The sceptic's bays.

"To lower orders are assign'd

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.

"When yellow waves the heavy grain,

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 hint the lover's harmless wile;

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.

"Some, bounded to a district-space

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.

"Of these am I-Coila my name:

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.

"With future hope I oft would gaze

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.

"I saw thee seek the sounding shore,

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.

"Or when the deep green-mantled earth

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.

"When ripen'd fields and azure skies

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.

"When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,

Keen-shivering, shot thy nerves along,

Those accents grateful to thy tongue,

Th' adored Name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

"I saw thy pulse's maddening play,

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.

"I taught thy manners-painting strains,

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.

"Thou canst not learn, nor I can show,

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.

"Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,

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.

"Then never murmur nor repine;

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.

"To give my counsels all in one,

Thy tuneful flame still careful fan:

Preserve the dignity of Man,

With soul erect;

And trust the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

"And wear thou this"-she solemn said,

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.

Half a vision

The first of two parts of a longer poem.  I’ll post “Duan Second” tomorrow:

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The Vision

By Robert Burns

Duan First

The sun had clos'd the winter day,

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 thresher's weary flingin-tree,

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.

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,

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.

All in this mottie, misty clime,

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.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,

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.

I started, mutt'ring, "blockhead! coof!"

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-

When click! the string the snick did draw;

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.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;

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' stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs

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.

A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace"

Was strongly marked 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.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,

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.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

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.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

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.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;

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.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,

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.

By stately tow'r, or palace fair,

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.

My heart did glowing transport feel,

To see a race heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel,

In sturdy blows;

While, back-recoiling, seem'd to reel

Their Suthron foes.

His Country's Saviour, mark him well!

Bold Richardton's heroic swell;

The chief, on Sark who glorious fell,

In high command;

And he whom ruthless fates expel

His native land.

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade

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.

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,

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.

With deep-struck, reverential awe,

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.

Brydon's brave ward I well could spy,

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.

Even greeting card poetry can be high art!

New Year’s poem:

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Verses To Collector Mitchell

By Robert Burns

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;

Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it skelpin jig and reel,

In my poor pouches?

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,

That One-pound-one, I sairly want it;

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,

I'd bear't in mind.

So may the Auld year gang out moanin'

To see the New come laden, groanin',

Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',

To thee and thine:

Domestic peace and comforts crownin'

The hale design.

Postscript

Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,

And by fell Death was nearly nickit;

Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;

But by gude luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,

But by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,

My hale and wee, I'll tak a care o't,

A tentier way;

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,

For ance and aye!

"Gude be wi' you"

I earlier posted the one-stanza farewell Burns wrote to Joh Kennedy when he (Burns) was planning to sail for the New World.

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To John Kennedy, Dumfries House

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse

E'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse,

(Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force

A hermit's fancy;

An' down the gate in faith they're worse,

An' mair unchancy).

But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's,

An' taste sic gear as Johnie brews,

Till some bit callan bring me news

That ye are there;

An' if we dinna hae a bouze,

I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow,

Then like a swine to puke an' wallow;

But gie me just a true good fallow,

Wi' right ingine,

And spunkie ance to mak us mellow,

An' then we'll shine.

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,

Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,

An' sklent on poverty their joke,

Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you nae friendship I will troke,

Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel,

Ye hate as ill's the very deil

The flinty heart that canna feel-

Come, sir, here's to you!

Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel,

An' gude be wi' you.

Robt. Burness.

Mossgiel

The one with the mice and the men

No commentary needed for this masterpiece  J

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To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

By Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell-

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men

Gang aft agley,

An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

Yes you can be whelmed! In Scotland :)

Blogging late today, but what a beauty of an extended metaphor!  And see the last line of the antepenultimate stanza  J—

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To A Mountain Daisy, On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786

By Robert Burns

Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

The bonie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast!

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink;

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!