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Best Famous Cunningham Poems

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Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

88. The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer

 YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,
An’ doucely manage our affairs
 In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s pray’rs
 Are humbly sent.


Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her ****
 Low i’ the dust,
And scriechinh out prosaic verse,
 An like to brust!


Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction
 On aqua-vit&æ;
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
 An’ move their pity.


Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,
 His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
 If ye dissemble!


Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?
Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!
Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom
 Wi’ them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
 Far better want them.


In gath’rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,
 An’ hum an’ haw;
But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack
 Before them a’.


Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;
An’ d—mn’d excisemen in a bussle,
 Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,
 Or limpet shell!


Then, on the tither hand present her—
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner
 Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
 Of a’ kind coin.


Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither’s pot
 Thus dung in staves,
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat
 By gallows knaves?


Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
 Or gab like Boswell, 2
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
 An’ tie some hose well.


God bless your Honours! can ye see’t—
The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,
An’ no get warmly to your feet,
 An’ gar them hear it,
An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat
 Ye winna bear it?


Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric clause on clause
 To mak harangues;
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s
 Auld Scotland’s wrangs.


Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4
An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
 The Laird o’ Graham; 5
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
 Dundas his name: 6


Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9
 An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
 Might own for brithers.


See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,
If poets e’er are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
 Ye’d lend a hand;
But when there’s ought to say anent it,
 Ye’re at a stand.


Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
 Ye’ll see’t or lang,
She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle,
 Anither sang.


This while she’s been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
 Play’d her that pliskie!)
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud
 About her whisky.


An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t,
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,
An’durk an’ pistol at her belt,
 She’ll tak the streets,
An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,
 I’ the first she meets!


For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,
An’ to the muckle house repair,
 Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear,
 To get remead.


Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;
But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!
 E’en cowe the cadie!
An’ send him to his dicing box
 An’ sportin’ lady.


Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12
 Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,
 Was kindly seek.


Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach
 Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, ***** hotch-potch,
 The Coalition.


Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;
An’ if she promise auld or young
 To tak their part,
Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,
 She’ll no desert.


And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither’s heart support ye;
Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,
 An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,
 Before his face.


God bless your Honours, a’ your days,
Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,
 That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings an’ prays,
 While Rab his name is.


POSTSCRIPTLET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,
 But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
 Tak aff their whisky.


What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,
 The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
 In hungry droves!


Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither
 To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,
 To save their skin.


But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George’s will,
 An’ there’s the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
 Twa at a blow.


Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
 An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
 In faint huzzas.


Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek,
 In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s name in Greek
 I’ll tell the reason.


Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,
 Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!
 Take aff your dram!


 Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back]
Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back]
Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back]
Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back]
Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back]
Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back]
Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back]
Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back]
Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back]
Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back]
Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R. B. [back]


Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Alarm

 In Memory of one of the Writer's Family who was a Volunteer during the War
with Napoleon

In a ferny byway
Near the great South-Wessex Highway,
A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft;
The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way,
And twilight cloaked the croft.

'Twas hard to realize on
This snug side the mute horizon
That beyond it hostile armaments might steer,
Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on
A harnessed Volunteer.

In haste he'd flown there
To his comely wife alone there,
While marching south hard by, to still her fears,
For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there
In these campaigning years.

'Twas time to be Good-bying,
Since the assembly-hour was nighing
In royal George's town at six that morn;
And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing
Ere ring of bugle-horn.

"I've laid in food, Dear,
And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear;
And if our July hope should antedate,
Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear,
And fetch assistance straight.

"As for Buonaparte, forget him;
He's not like to land! But let him,
Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons!
And the war-boats built to float him; 'twere but wanted to upset him
A slat from Nelson's guns!

"But, to assure thee,
And of creeping fears to cure thee,
If he should be rumored anchoring in the Road,
Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee
Till we've him safe-bestowed.

"Now, to turn to marching matters:--
I've my knapsack, firelock, spatters,
Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay'net, blackball, clay,
Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters;
...My heart, Dear; that must stay!"

--With breathings broken
Farewell was kissed unspoken,
And they parted there as morning stroked the panes;
And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for
token,
And took the coastward lanes.

When above He'th Hills he found him,
He saw, on gazing round him,
The Barrow-Beacon burning--burning low,
As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he'd homeward bound him;
And it meant: Expect the Foe!

Leaving the byway,
And following swift the highway,
Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland;
"He's anchored, Soldier!" shouted some:
"God save thee, marching thy way,
Th'lt front him on the strand!"

He slowed; he stopped; he paltered
Awhile with self, and faltered,
"Why courting misadventure shoreward roam?
To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered;
Charity favors home.

"Else, my denying
He would come she'll read as lying--
Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes--
That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying
My life to jeopardize.

"At home is stocked provision,
And to-night, without suspicion,
We might bear it with us to a covert near;
Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ's remission,
Though none forgive it here!"

While thus he, thinking,
A little bird, quick drinking
Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore,
Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking,
Near him, upon the moor.

He stepped in, reached, and seized it,
And, preening, had released it
But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred,
And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it
As guide to send the bird.

"O Lord, direct me!...
Doth Duty now expect me
To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near?
Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me
The southward or the rear."

He loosed his clasp; when, rising,
The bird--as if surmising--
Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom,
And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising--
Prompted he wist by Whom.

Then on he panted
By grim Mai-Don, and slanted
Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles,
Till, nearing coast and harbor, he beheld the shore-line planted
With Foot and Horse for miles.

Mistrusting not the omen,
He gained the beach, where Yeomen,
Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold,
With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen,
Whose fleet had not yet shoaled.

Captain and Colonel,
Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal,
Were there, of neighbor-natives, Michel, Smith,
Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal
Swoop on their land and kith.

But Buonaparte still tarried;
His project had miscarried;
At the last hour, equipped for victory,
The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried
By British strategy.

Homeward returning
Anon, no beacons burning,
No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss,
Te Deum sang with wife and friends: "We praise Thee, Lord, discerning
That Thou hast helped in this!"
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

228. To Alex. Cunningham Esq. Writer Edinburgh

 MY godlike friend—nay, do not stare,
 You think the phrase is odd-like;
But “God is love,” the saints declare,
 Then surely thou art god-like.


And is thy ardour still the same?
 And kindled still at ANNA?
Others may boast a partial flame,
 But thou art a volcano!


Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond
 Death’s tie-dissolving portal;
But thou, omnipotently fond,
 May’st promise love immortal!


Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
 Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try—
 MARRIAGE perhaps may mend them.


Sweet Anna has an air-a grace,
 Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms-but who can trace
 The process of bewitching? · · · · · ·

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry