But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy-- An honest Bard"s esteem.
CV.
PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES,
1 JAN. 1790.
[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year"s night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o"er our taste--the more"s the pity: Tho", by-the-by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home: But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The sage grave ancient cough"d, and bade me say, "You"re one year older this important day."
If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion, But "twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word--"think!"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle: That tho" some by the skirt may try to s.n.a.t.c.h him, Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho" not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven"s peculiar care!
To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you"ll mind the important NOW!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho" haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe"er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
CVI.
SCOTS PROLOGUE,
FOR MR. SUTHERLAND"S BENEFIT NIGHT,
DUMFRIES.
[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.--Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]
What needs this din about the town o" Lon"on, How this new play an" that new sang is comin"?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need nae toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There"s themes enough in Caledonian story, Would show the tragic muse in a" her glory.
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o" the name o" Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath"d the sword, "Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, And after mony a b.l.o.o.d.y, deathless doing, Wrench"d his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th" omnipotence of female charms "Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion"s arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman--tho" the phrase may seem uncivil-- As able and as cruel as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home"s immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age: And tho" your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas follow"d to the martial strife, Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a" the land Would take the muses" servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a" the land do this, then I"ll be caution Ye"ll soon hae poets o" the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time, on" lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier, "Whose aught thae chiels maks a" this bustle here!"
My best leg foremost, I"ll set up my brow, We have the honour to belong to you!
We"re your ain bairns, e"en guide us as ye like, But like good withers, sh.o.r.e before ye strike.-- And gratefu" still I hope ye"ll ever find us, For a" the patronage and meikle kindness We"ve got frae a" professions, sets, and ranks: G.o.d help us! we"re but poor--ye"se get but thanks.
CVII.
SKETCH.
NEW YEAR"S DAY.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]
This day, Time winds th" exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth"s length again: I see the old, bald-pated follow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair"d machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir, In vain a.s.sail him with their prayer; Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major"s with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila"s fair Rachel"s care to-day, And blooming Keith"s engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow-- That grandchild"s cap will do to-morrow-- And join with me a moralizing, This day"s propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day"s strong suggestion?
"The pa.s.sing moment"s all we rest on!"
Rest on--for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the pa.s.sing year?
Will time, amus"d with proverb"d lore, Add to our date one minute more?
A few days more--a few years must-- Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes--all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies: That on this frail, uncertain state, Hang matters of eternal weight: That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone; Whether as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery"s woeful night.--