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.