The Beauties of Burn's Poems/The Vision

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Vision.

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST^[1]

The Sun had clos'd the winter-day,The curlers quat their roaring play,And hunger'd Maukin taen her wayTo kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk stap betrayWhar she has been.

The Thresher's weary flinging-treeThe lee-lang day had tired me;And whan the day had clos'd his ee,Far i' the west,Ben i' the spence, right pensylie,I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,I sat, and e'ed the spewin reek,That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeekThe auld clay-biggin;And heard the restless rattons squeekAbout the riggin.

A' in this motty, misty clime,I backwards mus'd on wastet time,How I had spent my youthfu' prime,And done naething,But stringing blethers up in rime,For fools to sing.

Had I to gude advice but harkit,I might by this hae led a market,Or struttet in a bank, and 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 wad be rhyme-proofTo my last breath—

When click! the string the sneck did draw,And jee the door gaed to the wa';And by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezing bright,A tight outlandish hizzie, braw,Come full in sight.

Ye needna doubt I held my whisht;The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dushtIn some wild glen:When sweet, like modest Worth, she blusht,And stappet ben.

Green slender leaf-clad holly boughs,Were twisted gracefu' round her brows;I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token;And come to stap these reckless vowsWad soon been broken.

A hair-brain'd sentimental traceWas strongly marked in her face;A wildly-witty, rustic grace,Shone full upon her:Her ee, ev'n turn'd on empty space,Beam'd keen wi' honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,Till hauf a leg was scrimply seen;And sic a leg! my bonny JeanCould only peer it;Sae straight, sae taper, tight, and clean,Nane else can near it.

Her mantle large, o' greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew;Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand!And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,A well-known land.

Here rivers in the sea were lost,There mountains in the skies were tost;Here tumbling billows mark'd the coastWi' 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' the woods,On to the shore;And mony a lesser torrent scuds,Wi' seeming roar!

Low in a sandy valley spread,An ancient Borough rear'd her head,Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a raceTo every nobler virtue bred,And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendant in the air,Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I cou'd discern;Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dareWi' feature stern.

My heart did glowin transport feel,To see a Race^[2] heroic wheel,And brandish round the deep-dy'd stechIn sturdy blows,While back recoiling seem'd to reelTheir southern foes.

His Country's Saviour^[3], mark him well:Bold Richarton's^[4] heroic swell;The chief on Sark^[5], who glorious fell,In high command:And He wham ruthless Fates expelHis native land.

There where a scepter'd Pictish^[6] shadeStalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race pourtray'dIn colours strong:Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'dThey strode along.

^[7]Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,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.

^[8]With deep-struck reverential awe,The learned Sire and Son I saw,To Nature's God, and Nature's lawThey gave their lore;This, all its source and end to draw;That, to adore.

Brydon's brave Ward^[9] 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 highAnd Hero shone.

DUAN SECOND.

With musing deep, astonish'd stare,I view'd the heav'nly-seeming Fair!And whisp'ring throb did witness bearOf kindred sweet,When with an elder sister's airShe 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 gie thee such rewardAs we bestow.

Know, the great Genius of this LandHas many a light, ærial band,Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously,As Arts or Arms they understand,Their labours ply,

They Scotia's Race amang them share;Some fire the Soldier on to dare;Some rouse the Patriot up to bareCorruption's heart;Some teach the Bard a darling care,The tuneful art.

'Mongst swelling floods of reeking gore,They ardent, kindling spirits pour;Or 'mid the venal Senate's roar,They slightless stand, To mend the honest Patriot-lore,And grace the land.

And when the Bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age,They bind the wild poetic rageIn energy,Or point the inconclusive pageFull on the eye.

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;Hence sweet, harmonious Beatie sungHis Minstrel-Lays,Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The Sceptic's bays.

The lower orders are assign'dThe humbler ranks of Human-kind,The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind,The Artisan;All choose, as various they're inclin'dThe 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 owre the hill.

Some hint the Lover's harmless wile;Some grace the Maiden's artless smile:Some soothe the Lab'rers weary toilFor humble gains, And mak his cottage-scenes beguileHis cares and pains.

Some, bounded to a district space,Explore at large Man's infant race,To mark the embryotic traceOf rustic Bard:And careful note each op'ning grace,A guide and guard.

Of these I am—Coila my name;And these districts as mine I claim,Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,Held ruling pow'r;I mark'd thy embryo tunefu' flame,Thy natal hour.

With future hope I oft would gaze,Fond, on thy little early ways,Thy rudely-caroll'd chiming phrase,In uncouth rhymes,Fir'd at the simple, artless laysOf other times.

I saw thee seek the sounding shore,Delighted with the dashing roar!Or when the North his fleecy storeDrove thro' the sky,I saw grim Nature's visage hoarStruck thy young eye,

Or when the deep green-mantled EarthWarm cherish'd every flow'ret's birth,And joy and music pouring forthIn every grove, I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirthWith boundless love.

When ripen'd fields, and azure skies,Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise,I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,And lonely stalk,To vent thy bosom's swelling riseIn pensive walk.

When youtfu' 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 the 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 the manners-painting strains,The Loves, the ways of simple swains,Till now, owre 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 throeWith Shenstone's art; Or pour, with Gray, the moving flowWarm on the heart.

Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd Rose,The lowly Daisy sweetly blows;Tho' large the forest's Monarch throwsHis 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 ManWith soul erect,And trust the universal PlanWill all protect.

And wear thou this, the solemn said,And bound the holly round my head:The polish'd leaves, and berries red,Did rustling playAnd, like a passing thought, she fledIn light away.

1. Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive Poem. See his Cath-Loda, Vol. 2. of M'Pherson's Translation.
2. The Wallaces.
3. William Wallace.
4. Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal Preserver of Scottish Independence.
5. Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought Anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.
6. Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to have taken its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries, of Coilfield, where his burial-place is still shown.
7. Barskimming, the seat of the Lord-Justice-Clerk.
8. Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and also Professor Stewart.
9. Colonel Fullarton.