Читать книгу The Canongate Burns - Robert Burns - Страница 27

First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

While winds frae aff BEN-LOMOND blaw, from off, blow (north wind)

And bar the doors wi’ drivin’ snaw, snow

And hing us owre the ingle, sit around/over, fireplace

I set me down to pass the time,

5 And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme, two

In hamely, westlin jingle: western

While frosty winds blaw in the drift, blow

Ben to the chimla lug, right, chimney bottom/fire

I grudge a wee the Great-folk’s gift, little

10 That live sae bien an’ snug: so comfortable

I tent less, and want less care for

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker, and canker,

To see their cursed pride.

15 It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r,

To keep, at times, frae being sour, from

To see how things are shar’d;

How best o’ chiels are whyles in want, people, often

While Coofs on countless thousands rant, fools, make merry/riot

20 And ken na how to ware’t; know not, spend

But DAVIE, lad, ne’er fash your head, trouble

Tho’ we hae little gear; have, wealth

We’re fit to win our daily bread,

As lang’s we’re hale and fier: long as, whole, vigorous

25 ‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’1 don’t ask more, nor fear

Auld age ne’er mind a feg; old, fig

The last o’t, the warst o’t, worst

Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,

30 When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin, bones, blood

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;

Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

35 The honest heart that’s free frae a’ from all

Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba’, ball – whatever misfortunes

Has ay some cause to smile; always

And mind still, you’ll find still,

40 A comfort this nae sma’; not small

Nae mair then, we’ll care then, no more

Nae farther can we fa’. no, fall

What tho’, like Commoners of air, owners of air, not land

We wander out, we know not where,

45 But either house or hal’? without house or hall

Yet Nature’s charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when Daisies deck the ground,

50 And Blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound,

To see the coming year:

On braes when we please then, hillsides

We’ll sit an’ sowth a tune; hum

55 Syne rhyme till ’t we’ll time till ’t, then

An’ sing ’t when we hae done. have

It’s no in titles nor in rank: not

It’s no in wealth like Lon’on Bank, not, London

To purchase peace and rest.

60 It’s no in makin muckle, mair: making much, more

It’s no in books, it’s no in Lear, wisdom

To make us truly blest:

If happiness hae not her seat has

An’ centre in the breast,

65 We may be wise, or rich, or great,

But never can be blest:

Nae treasures nor pleasures no

Could make us happy lang; long

The heart ay ’s the part ay always is

70 That makes us right or wrang. wrong

Think ye, that sic as you and I, such

Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet and dry, who

Wi’ never ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,

75 Wha scarcely tent us in their way, who, notice

As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how oft, in haughty mood,

GOD’s creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, good

80 They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless both

Of either Heaven or Hell;

Esteeming and deeming

It a’ an idle tale!

85 Then let us chearfu’ acquiesce,

Nor make our scanty Pleasures less

By pining at our state:

And, even should Misfortunes come,

I here wha sit hae met wi’ some, who, have

90 An ’s thankfu’ for them yet,

They gie the wit of Age to Youth; give

They let us ken oursel; know ourselves

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill: good

95 Tho’ losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There’s Wit there, ye’ll get there,

Ye’ll find nae other where. no

But tent me, DAVIE, Ace o’ Hearts! take heed

100 (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt’ry I detest) anything, would wrong, cards

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne’er could buy,

And joys the very best.

105 There’s a’ the Pleasures o’ the Heart,

The Lover an’ the Frien’; friend

Ye hae your MEG, your dearest part, have

And I my darling JEAN!

It warms me, it charms me

110 To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me, enraptures

And sets me a’ on flame!

O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!

O THOU whose very self art love!

115 THOU know’st my words sincere!

The life blood streaming thro’ my heart,

Or my more dear Immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

120 Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.

Thou BEING, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray’r!

125 Still take her, and make her

THY most peculiar care!

All hail! ye tender feelings dear!

The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow!

130 Long since, this world’s thorny ways

Had number’d out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend

In every care and ill;

135 And oft a more endearing band,

A tye more tender still. tie

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene, darkening/depressive

To meet with, and greet with

140 My DAVIE or my JEAN!

O, how that Name inspires my style!

The words come skelpin’ rank an’ file, rattling/running

Amaist before I ken! almost, know

The ready measure rins as fine, runs

145 As Phoebus and the famous Nine

Were glowran owre my pen. looking over

My spavet Pegasus will limp, lame, leg joint problems

Till ance he’s fairly het; once, hot

And then he’ll hilch, an’ stilt, an’ jimp, hobble, limp, jump

150 And rin an unco fit; run, rapid pace

But least then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I’ll light now, and dight now wipe clean

His sweaty, wizen’d hide. withered

David Sillar (1760–1830) was one of several recipients of Burns’s Ayrshire epistolary poetry whom the Bard certainly overestimated poetically if not personally. Sillar had a mixed career as failed teacher then grocer but eventually inherited the family farm, Spittleside, Tarbolton and died a rich Irvine magistrate. This is the very reverse of the life of shared deprivation outlined for him and Burns himself in this poem. A good fiddler and composer (he composed the music to Burns’s The Rosebud), he published his less than mediocre Poems at Kilmarnock in 1789. His proximity to Burns can be gauged by ll. 114– 17 where, as in Sterne, rugged, biological reality constantly pene-trates the surface of fine feeling. The poem is a technically formidable example of Burns’s employment of Alexander Montgomerie’s The Cherry and the Slae measure which James VI defined as one example of ‘cuttit and broken verse, quhairof new formes daylie inuentit’ (Poems, STS, l. 82). Burns is, however, hardly ever given to technique for its own sake. As Daiches has remarked (p. 163), the poem is remarkable for its ability to mould the process of thought to such complex form. However, the nature of this thought itself is more questionable. The exposed multiple, tangible distresses of penury are expressed with extraordinary power throughout the poem as is the sense of chronic injustice between rich and poor. The compensations of poverty are less credible. Edwin Muir was particularly unhappy with ‘The heart ay’s the part ay, /That makes us right or wrang.’ Nor do the notions of compensatory and sexual harmony ring wholly true. Daiches in discussing stanza three, with its extraordinary initial delineation of the life of the beggars, defends the poem against such a sense of disparity between the desperate life it presents and the possible compensation for such a life thus:

Here the poet is not posturing for the benefit of the Edinburgh gentry, but letting the poem work itself easily into a lively expression of careless, cheerful view of life. The theme is a mood rather than a philosophy, a mood of defiance of the rich and happy acceptance of easygoing poverty. To seek for profundity of ethical thought here would be to miss the point of the poem, which seeks to capture a transitory state of mind rather than to state general principles (p. 163).

Arguably, rather than refuting it, this repeats the poem’s own inadequacy. Daiches, however, also considers that, after stanza seven, the poem falters badly. ‘Tenebrific’ (l. 138) is the poet’s neologism and not, certainly, the happiest of touches. The irresistible, Pegasian flood of language in the last stanza is a quite remarkable self-analysis of Burns in the grip of creativity.

1 Ramsay, R.B.