But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels.
Her cutty sark," o' Paisley harn," That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.57
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft58 for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd59 and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The gray-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd,
As Tammie glowr'd amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The Piper loud and louder blew,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 41
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies42 to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!44
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich 5 and hollow. 200
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tails she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
50 Perhaps wrinkled, withered.
2 Staff, a witch's stick.
Paisley yarn, i. e., a kind of coarse linen. Paisley
is noted for its manufacture of linen, shawls, etc. 57 Proud of it.
64 Pussy, here, hare, or rabbit.
40 Mouth. 42 Cast off her old clothes.
65 Ghastly, or unearthly, screech.
38 Rattle, tremble.
41 Joined hands.
43 Tripped.
Greasy flannel.
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carling claught70 her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man, and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk," How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Now's the day, and now's the hour; 5
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud EDWARD's power-
Chains and Slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha, for Scotland's King and Law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
FREEMAN stand, or FREEMAN fa',
Let him on wi' me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
LIBERTY'S in every blow!-
Let us Do or Die!
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see you birkie2 ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof3 for a' that: For a' that, and a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a that,
Their dignities an' a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a' that),
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 May bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
1 Hodden grey, a coarse woolen stuff, which (being undyed) retained the natural gray color of the wool.
2 A conceited, self-assertive man; a "young sport.' Lout, fool.
VII. THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT
& Wordsword.
William Wordsworth
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY,1
ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
some ching lins lightened:-that serene and blessed mood,
milton
In which the affections gently lead us on,-
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
DURING A TOUR (July 13, 1798)
Five years have past; five summers, with the
length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-
springs
With a soft inland murmur.-Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-
tufts,
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:-feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
1 This poem was composed during a short excursion in the valley of the Wye, which Wordsworth made with his sister. He visited the ruins of Tintern Abbey, but the poem, we are told, was composed some miles from the historic ruin, and deals entirely with the beauties of the Wye valley, and apparently with some scenes especially associated with memories of the past.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the
woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished
thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature
then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 115 Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read 120
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing
thoughts
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things forever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone,
And dream my time away."
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence wilt thou then forget
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
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