The Canongate Burns (122 page)
Read The Canongate Burns Online
Authors: Robert Burns
Tune: Oran gaoil â
First printed in Currie, 1800.
BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive;
      Thou goest, the darling of my heart:
Sever'd from thee, can I survive,
      But Fate has will'd â and we must part.
5
I'll often greet the surging swell,
      Yon distant Isle will often hail:
âE'en here I took the last farewell;
      There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.'
Along the solitary shore,
10
      While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar
      I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
      Where now my Nancy's path may be!
15
While through thy sweets she loves to stray,
      O, tell me, does she muse on me!
This was appropriately printed in
The Clarinda Correspondence
in 1834 given that it is written about Agnes McLehose's departure from Scotland for Jamaica in December 1791 on her quest to be reunited with her estranged husband. Kinsley rightly suggests there are similarities with a song printed in
The Edinburgh Magazine
of 1774. He underestimates Burns's originality by calling it a âScotticized revision' (Vol. III, p. 1444). Kinsley takes his information from
The Burns Chronicle
, 1962. Having examined the original text, the song by Burns possesses the tone of the earlier song, but it is significantly different. Mackay gives two versions. This is the latter.
Tune: The Grey Cock or Saw Ye My Father
First printed in Currie, 1800.
WHERE are the joys I hae met in the morning,
have
      That danc'd to the lark's early sang?
song
Where is the peace that awaited my wandering,
      At evening the wild-woods amang?
among
5
Nae mair a winding the course o' yon river,
no more
      And marking sweet flowerets sae fair,
so
Nae mair I trace the light footsteps o' Pleasure,
no more
     But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care. â
Is it that Summer's forsaken our vallies,
10
       And grim, surly Winter is near?
No, no! the bees humming round the gay roses
      Proclaim it the pride o' the year. â
Fain wad I hide, what I fear to discover,
would
     Yet lang, lang, too well hae I known:
long, have
15
A' that has causè d the wreck in my bosom
     Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. â
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
     Not Hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then, enamor'd and fond of my anguish,
20
     Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. â
As is often the case, Mackay remarks verbatim from Kinsley on this song: âProbably the song sent to Janet Miller of Dalswinton, elder daughter of Burns's former landlord, on 9th September, 1793'. Burns wrote to her, âI have formed in my fancy a little love story for you' (Letter 585).
Capt. Wm. Roddick Of Corbiston
First printed in
The Wanderer,
Glasgow, 1818.
Light lay the earth on Billie's breast,
      His chicken heart's so tender;
But build a castle on his head â
      His scull will prop it under. â
This was sent (Letter 590) to Marion Riddell. Kinsley (p. 1446) acutely points out it is a parody of Henry Mackenzie's
The Man of
Feeling
, ch. xx. The reactionary Henderson and Henley typically denounce this piece: âthe rubbish is also inscribed in
The Glenriddell
Book'
(Notes, Vol. II, p. 456).
Tune: The Quaker's Wife.
First printed in Thomson, 1799.
Thine am I, my Chloris fair,
      Well thou may'st discover;
Every pulse along my veins,
      Tells the ardent Lover.
5
To thy bosom lay my heart,
      There to throb and languish:
Tho' Despair had wrung its core,
      That would heal its anguish.
Take away those rosy lips,
10
      Rich with balmy treasure:
Turn away thine eyes of love,
      Lest I die with pleasure!
What is Life when wanting Love?
      Night without a morning:
15
Love's the cloudless summer sun,
      Nature gay adorning.
A variant of the above song exists referring to Nancy McLehose rather than Chloris (Jean Lorimer). The heroine was changed in the Autumn of 1794. Kinsley gives the final version as above but Mackay opts for the earlier, ignoring the general editorial rule of printing the last version (p. 505).
Â
On being Asked Why I was not to be of the Party
With him and his Brother Kenmure at Syme's
First printed in Barke, 1958.
DOST ask, dear Captain, why from
Syme
      I have no invitation,
When well he knows he has with him
      My first friends in the nation?
5
Is it because I love to toast,
      And round the bottle hurl?
No! there conjecture wild is lost,
      For
Syme
by God's no churl! â
Is 't lest with bawdy jests I bore,
10
       As oft the matter of fact is?
No!
Syme
the theory can't abhor â
      Who loves so well the practice. â
Is it a fear I should avow
      Some heresy seditious?
15
No!
Syme
(but this entre nous)
      Is quite an old Tiresias. â
In vain Conjecture would thus flit
      Thro mental clime and season:
In short, dear Captain,
Syme's
a Wit â
20
      Who asks of Wits a reason? â
Yet must I still the sort deplore
      That to my griefs adds one more,
In baulking me the social hour
      With you and the noble Kenmure. â
Captain Adam Gordon, of Kenmure Castle near New Galloway (now in ruins), was the son of John Gordon, whom Burns visited during his tour of Galloway in July 1793. There is a mixture of friendly wit and some indignation with Syme brought out in the poem's clever question-and-answer pattern regarding Syme's drinking, bawdry and politics. Was he a prophet of the coming political catastrophe? Certainly there were tensions between him and Burns. In his 1815 introduction to the re-issue of Currie's edition, Peterkin was absolutely furious with Walter Scott's treatment of a row between Burns and Syme involving Burns gesturally drawing his Excise sword. Sadly, but predictably, the Carswell archive in the Mitchell Library, Glasgow, talks of seventy missing letters from Syme to Cunningham which would have shed invaluable light on the politics of the Dumfries years (Mitchell Library MS 53).
Birthday
4th Nov. 1793
This first appears in Currie, 1800.
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred.
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
5
My chearless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
Now Jove, for once be mighty civil;
10
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me MARIA's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.
15
'Tis done!!! says Jove: so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
Mrs Walter Riddell was Maria Woodley to her own name, the daughter of William Woodley, Governor of St Kitts. Burns wrote several pieces on Maria, particularly
The Last Time I Came O'er the
Muir
.
On Her Benefit-Night, Dec. 4th, 1793,
At The Dumfries Theatre
First printed in Currie, 1800.
STILL anxious to secure your partial favor,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my Bill, thought I, if nothing better;
5
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed,
And last, my Prologue-business, slily hinted.
  Ma'am, let me tell you, quoth my Man of RHYMES,
10
I know your bent â these are no laughing times;
Can you, but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause â and sentimental tears â
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
15 Paint Vengeance, as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty Land!
  I could no more â askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
20
I'll laugh, that's pos â nay more, the world shall know it;
And so, your servant, gloomy Master Poet.
Firm as my creed, Sirs,' tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief.
I also think â so may I be a Bride!
25
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
  Thou man of crazy care, and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive â
To make three guineas do the work of five;
30
Laugh in Misfortune's face â the beldam witch!
Say, you 'll be merry â tho' you can't be rich.
  Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
35
Measur'st in desperate thought â a rope â thy neck â
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhang the deep
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
[For shame! For shame! I tell thee, thou art no man:
This for a giddy, vain, capricious woman?
40
A creature, though I say't, you know, that should not;
Ridiculous with her idiot, âWould and would not'.]
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies, laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns, now so terrific;
45
And love a kinder â that's your grand specific!
To sum up all â be merry! I advise;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. â
The
Address
, in first draft, was sent to Miss Louisa Fontenelle on 1st December, 1793. Burns deleted ll. 38â41. They are now reinserted within brackets. Fascinated by Miss Fontenelle, this poem grants her near-magical female powers to laugh Burns out of his dark pre-occupations with his two great recurrent enemies, reactionary politics and poverty. The last section, dealing with the suicidal lover is probably a jokey reference to his feelings for the actress. While mainly a witty piece, ll. 14â17 are charged with the dark political forces of 1793.
First printed in Cunningham, 1834.
Sweet naiveté of feature,
       Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature
       Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
       Spurning Nature, torturing art,
Loves and Graces all rejected,
       Then indeed thou 'd'st act a part.
This was probably included in the letter Burns sent to Miss Fontenelle in December 1793 (Letter 599). Dr Currie was guilty of detaching, or tearing away fragments of poetry from Burns's letters. The manuscript, which was in private hands in 1834, is now lost.
Tune: My Joe Janet First printed in Thomson, 1799.
HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
      Nor longer idly rave, Sir:
Tho' I am your wedded wife,
      Yet I am not your slave, Sir.
5
âOne of two must still obey,
      Nancy, Nancy;
Is it Man or Woman, say,
      My Spouse Nancy.'
If 'tis still the lordly word,
10
      Service and obedience;
I'll desert my Sov'reign lord,
      And so good bye, Allegiance!
âSad will I be, so bereft,
      Nancy, Nancy;
15
Yet I'll try to make a shift,
      My Spouse Nancy.'
My poor heart then break it must,
      My last hour I am near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
20
      Think, how will you bear it. â
âI will hope and trust in Heaven,
      Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
      My Spouse Nancy.'
25
Well, Sir, from the silent dead,
      Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
      Horrid sprites shall haunt you. â
âI'll wed another, like my Dear,
30
      Nancy, Nancy;
Then all Hell will fly for fear,
      My Spouse, Nancy.'â
This eloquent song in the alternate voice of husband and wife was sent to Thomson in December 1793. Henley and Henderson quote a further verse, probably from an early draft which reads:
If the word is still obey,
Always love and fear you,
I will take myself away
And never more come near you.
Burns, often now presented as exclusively a Jack-the-lad male chauvinist, gives the more dominant voice here to the female, who is robustly egalitarian.
