Читать книгу The Complete Works - Роберт Бернс, Robert Burns - Страница 26

The sun had clos’d the winter day,

The curlers quat their roaring play,

An’ hunger’d maukin ta’en 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 closed 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 mused on wastet time,

How I had spent my youthfu’ prime,

An’ done nae thing,

But stringin’ 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 an’ 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, would be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath—

When, click! the string the snick did draw:

And, 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 wisht;

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 modest worth, she blusht,

And 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;

An’ come to stop those reckless vows,

Wou’d soon be 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:

And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and 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 tost:

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[20] heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dy’d steel

In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seem’d to reel

Their southron foes.

His Country’s Saviour,[21] mark him well!

Bold Richardton’s[22] heroic swell;

The chief on Sark[23] who glorious fell,

In high command;

And He whom ruthless fates expel

His native land.

There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade[24]

Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,

I mark’d a martial race portray’d

In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d

They strode along.

Thro’ many a wild romantic grove,[25]

Near many a hermit-fancy’d 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,[26]

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.

Brydone’s brave ward[27] 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.

DUAN SECOND

With musing-deep, astonish’d stare,

I view’d the heavenly-seeming fair;

A whisp’ring 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 aërial 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, poetic 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 op’ning 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 pow’r:

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 carroll’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 through 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 flow’ret’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,

Called forth the reaper’s rustling noise,

I saw thee leave their evening 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 can I 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 the unrivall’d rose,

The 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.