To a Mountain Daisy

Source

Source: Project Gutenberg #1279: Poems and Songs of Robert Burns (chronological arrangement) Source URL: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1279 Public domain basis: Burns died in 1796; poems first published 1786–1800; public domain. Coverage: Complete individual poem extracted from parent edition poems-and-songs-of-robert-burns at bytes 268853-281845; checksum 3db8ab580ffd8581d685a7a18c7e11b480d7ede07faf0dac3c3f938f16e344dd.

# To a Mountain Daisy

To a Mountain Daisy

On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786.

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!

To Ruin

All hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then low’ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Tho’ thick’ning, and black’ning, Round my devoted head.

And thou grim Pow’r by life abhorr’d, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch’s pray’r! Nor more I shrink appall’d, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid, To close this scene of care! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life’s joyless day— My weary heart its throbbing cease, Cold mould’ring in the clay? No fear more, no tear more, To stain my lifeless face, Enclasped, and grasped, Within thy cold embrace!

The Lament

Occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend’s Amour.

Alas! how oft does goodness would itself, And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!

Home.

O thou pale orb that silent shines While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep, Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream!

I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly-marked, distant hill; I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! Thou busy pow’r, remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace!

No idly-feign’d, poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim: No shepherd’s pipe-Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame. The plighted faith, the mutual flame, The oft-attested pow’rs above, The promis’d father’s tender name; These were the pledges of my love!

Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur’d moments flown! How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms, For her dear sake, and her’s alone! And, must I think it! is she gone, My secret heart’s exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart, So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part, The plighted husband of her youth? Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro’ rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe Her sorrows share, and make them less?

Ye winged hours that o’er us pass’d, Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d, Your dear remembrance in my breast My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d: That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d, And not a wish to gild the gloom!

The morn, that warns th’ approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe; I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering, slow: Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection’s direful train, Must wring my soul, were Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant western main.

And when my nightly couch I try, Sore harass’d out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, Reigns, haggard—wild, in sore affright: Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief From such a horror-breathing night.

O thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanse Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray! The time, unheeded, sped away, While love’s luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, To mark the mutual-kindling eye.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! Scenes, never, never to return! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn! From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn, Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’; And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll mourn A faithless woman’s broken vow!

Despondency: An Ode

Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care, A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh; O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I! Dim backward as I cast my view, What sick’ning scenes appear! What sorrows yet may pierce me through, Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne’er But with the closing tomb!

Happy! ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! Ev’n when the wished end’s denied, Yet while the busy means are plied, They bring their own reward: Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev’ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same! You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find ev’ry prospect vain.

How blest the solitary’s lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern, wild with tangling roots, Sits o’er his newly gather’d fruits, Beside his crystal well! Or haply, to his ev’ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint, collected dream; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav’n on high, As wand’ring, meand’ring, He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac’d Where never human footstep trac’d, Less fit to play the part, The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate; Whilst I here must cry here At perfidy ingrate!

O, enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchang’d for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage; The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age!

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline,

Recommending a Boy.

Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.

I hold it, sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M’Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away ’Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An’ wad hae don’t aff han’;

But lest he learn the callan tricks— An’ faith I muckle doubt him— Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks, An’ tellin lies about them; As lieve then, I’d have then Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, An’ get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear. Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk, An’ shore him weel wi’ hell; An’ gar him follow to the kirk— Aye when ye gang yoursel. If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin’ Friday, Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir, The orders wi’ your lady.

My word of honour I hae gi’en, In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en, To meet the warld’s worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An’ name the airles an’ the fee, In legal mode an’ form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him: An’ if a Devil be at a’, In faith he’s sure to get him. To phrase you and praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray’r still you share still Of grateful Minstrel Burns.

Versified Reply To An Invitation

Sir,

Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I’m gay and hearty! To tell the truth and shame the deil, I am as fou as Bartie: But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, Expect me o’ your partie, If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,

Robert Burns. Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o’clock.

Song—Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?

Tune—“Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion.”

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia’s shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th’ Atlantic roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a’ the charms o’ the Indies Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia’s strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o’ time!

Song—My Highland Lassie, O

Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy.”

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse’s care: Their titles a’ arc empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O.

Chorus.—Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down wi’ right guid will, To sing my Highland lassie, O.

O were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine! The world then the love should know I bear my Highland Lassie, O.

But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea! But while my crimson currents flow, I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.

Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour’s glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O.

For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar, For her I’ll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret troth and honour’s band! Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rashy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O.