I’ve seen the day
5 Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie, have gone, any colt
Out-owre the lay. -over, lea
Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, drooping
An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie, old
I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie, glossy
10 A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, able, dared, excite
Ance in a day. once
Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, once
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank; strong, trim, stately
15 An’ set weel down a shapely shank well, leg
As e’er tread yird; earth
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank have, -over, ditch
Like onie bird. any
It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year
20 Sin’ thou was my Guidfather’s Meere; father-in-law’s, mare
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, gave, dowry
An’ fifty mark; a coin worth 13s 4d
Tho’ it was sma’,’ twas weel-won gear, small, well-won money
An’ thou was stark. strong
25 When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, went
Ye then was trottan wi’ your Minnie: mother
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, difficult, sly
Ye ne’er was donsie; mischievous
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, homely, placid, docile
30 An’ unco sonsie. very good-natured
That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride, great
When ye bure hame my bonie Bride: bore/carried home
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!
35 KYLE-STEWART I could bragged wide, boasted the district over
For sic a pair. such
Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, can, limp, stumble
An’ wintle like a saumont-coble, twist, salmon-boat
That day, ye was a jinker noble, runner
40 For heels an’ win’! wind
An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble, wobble
Far, far behin’!
When thou an’ I were young and skiegh, proud/fiery
An’ Stable-meals at Fairs were driegh, tedious
45 How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ scriegh, would, snort, whinny
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abiegh, out of the way
An’ ca’t thee mad. called
When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, fed
50 We took the road ay like a Swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, a horse race at a wedding
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, beat
Whare’er thou gaed. went
55 The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle small, short-rumped
Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle; perhaps beat, short race
But sax Scotch mile thou try’t their mettle, six
An’ gar’t them whaizle: made, wheeze
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle no, stick
60 O’ saugh or hazle. willow, hazel
Thou was a noble Fittie-lan’, back left-hand plough horse
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun, often, any, going
On guid March-weather, good
65 Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’ have, six quarter acres
For days thegither. together
Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ flisket; plunged, stalled, capered
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket, old, would have lashed
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, across to, breast
70 Wi’ pith an’ pow’r;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t, an’ risket, rush-covered knolls were cracked and ripped
An’ slypet owre. smashed over (by plough)
When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep, long, snows
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
75 I gied thy cog a wee bit heap gave, feed measure
Aboon the timmer: above the rim
I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep knew, would not
For that, or Simmer. before summer
In cart or car thou never reestet; baulked
80 The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it; steepest hill, would have
Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastet, leaped, reared
Then stood to blaw; puff for air
But just thy step a wee thing hastet, a little shortened
Thou snoov’t awa. pushed away
85 My Pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, my plough-team is your offspring
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa, six more, sold away
That thou hast nurst: nursed
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, thirteen pound, two
90 The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, many, sore day’s work, two, have
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! world
An’ monie an anxious day I thought many
We wad be beat! would
95 Yet here to crazy Age we’re brought,
Wi’ something yet.
An’ think na, my auld trusty Servan’, not, old
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin; old
100 For my last fow, bushel
A heapet Stimpart, I’ll reserve ane heaped, 8th of a bushel
Laid by for you.
We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; together
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; totter, one another
105 Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether heedful, change
To some hain’d rig, reserved ground
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather stretch your body
Wi’ sma’ fatigue.
Inevitably, in that now forever lost agrarian world, of all the deep bonds between man and beast, those with horses were the most intimate and profound. Burns’s extraordinary empathy with his horses is everywhere present in his writing and is exemplified by his often naming them as expression of the current state of his own feelings. Thus, for example, the quixotic Rosinante or the disruptively comic, stool-throwing, anti-clerical Jenny Geddes. If Wordsworth needed the rhythmical stimulation of walking to write poetry, Burns discovered more varied, energised rhythms in the saddle. His Excise horse he named Pegasus, that mythical winged icon of poetical creativity. In a sense, however, all his horses had contained these magical energies as can be seen in those astonishing lines (ll. 17–44) of The Epistle to Hugh Parker.
The horse honoured here is not a flyer of that kind, though her young power had allowed her eventually to outpace the lightweight hunters of the gentry in an actual and, hence, political victory. The poem is a deeply moving, heavily vernacularised, monologue by the old man as he parallels the life of his mare and himself. Not the least of Burns’s intentions in the poem is to document the sheer, brutal harshness of the work conditions man and horse had to overcome in order to survive. McGuirk postulates that in part the poem is drawn from Burns’s memories of his father. The poem was probably written in January 1786.
The Cotter’s Saturday Night
Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq.
First published in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor.
GRAY.
My lov’d, my honor’d, much respected friend!
No mercenary Bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
5 To yo
u I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a Cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween! trust
10 November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; blows, whistling wind
The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; dirty, from, plough
The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose: crows
The toil-worn COTTER frae his labour goes, from
15 This night his weekly moil is at an end, toil/drudgery
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, a two-mouthed pick
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. homeward
At length his lonely Cot appears in view, cottage
20 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlan, stacher through children, totter
To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin noise and glee. fluttering
His wee bit ingle, blinkan bonilie, fire, burning nicely
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie’s smile, fireside, wife’s
25 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, anxiety
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil.
At Service out, amang the Farmers roun’; among, round
30 Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin work, shepherd, attentively run
A cannie errand to a neebor town: private, neighbour
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom, Love sparkling in her e’e, eye
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, home, show, fine
35 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, sore-, wages
To help her Parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers: welfare, inquires
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
40 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. news
The Parents partial eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The Mother, wi’ her needle and her sheers, scissors
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; makes old clothes, almost, well
45 The Father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.
Their Master’s and their Mistress’s command
The youngkers a’ are warned to obey; youngsters all
And mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand, diligent
And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: fool around
50 ‘And O! be sure to fear the LORD always! always
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!
Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, go
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the LORD aright.’
55 But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same. who knows
Tells how a neebor lad came o’er the moor, neighbour
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. home
The wily Mother sees the conscious flame
60 Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; eye
With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; almost/partly
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, no
worthless Rake.
With kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; inside
65 A strappan youth, he takes the Mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen; taken
The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. talks, ploughs, cattle
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; shy, hesitating, well
70 The Mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy cunning
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave; so
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. well-, child’s, the others
O happy love! where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
75 I’ve pacè d much this weary, mortal round,
And sage EXPERIENCE bids me this declare —
‘If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy Vale,
‘Tis when a youthful, loving, modest Pair,
80 In other’s arms, breathe out the tender tale
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.’
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart —
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
85 Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling, smoothe!
Are Honor, Virtue, Conscience, all exil’d?
Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth, sorrow
Points to the Parents fondling o’er their Child?
90 Then paints the ruin’d Maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the Supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome Porritch, chief o’ SCOTIA’S food; wholesome porridge
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, drink/milk, cow
That, ‘yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; beyond, partition, chews
95 The Dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; well-matured cheese, tasty
And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid; often, asked, calls, good
How ‘twas a towmond auld, sin’ Lint was i’ the bell. 12 months old, flax, flower
100 The chearfu’ Supper done, wi’ serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace,
The big ha’-Bible, ance his Father’s pride. hall Bible, once
His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
105 His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; grey sidelocks
Those strains that once did sweet in ZION glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care,
‘And let us worship GOD!’ he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
110 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, fans
The sweetest far of SCOTIA’S holy lays:
115 Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our CREATOR’S praise. no, have
The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the Friend of God on high;
120 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lye
Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
125 Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other Holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
; 130 Had not on Earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The Precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banishè d,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
135 And heard great Bab’lon’s doompronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then kneeling down to HEAVEN’S ETERNAL KING,
The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays:
Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’1
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
140 There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their CREATOR’S praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
145 Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart!
The POWER, incens’d, the Pageant will desert,
150 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some Cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the Soul,
And in His Book of Life the Inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
155 The youngling Cottagers retire to rest: youthful
The Parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That ‘He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
‘And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
160 ‘Would, in the way His Wisdom sees the best,
‘For them and for their little ones provide;
‘But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside’.
From Scenes like these, old SCOTIA’S grandeur springs,
That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
165 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,