that her honour is at stake. When taken together, these issues are a call to trust no one but oneself and to fear the power of others. And these are fundamental themes in Burns’s ‘Epistle to a Young Friend’. As in the case of Shakespeare’s play, Burns’s advice preaches an essential mistrust of the world, hence leads to a stultifying and isolating philosophy of life. Leaving aside the very possibility that Burns may be engaging in a bit of tongue-in-cheek irony with the epistle, the philosophy upon which it is premised is a matter of crime and punishment, and this takes two forms. First, insofar as religion and, broadly speaking, morality are concerned, fear particularly as something that can be manipulated by institutions and powers beyond the individual’s control, is that which key ‘To haud the wretch in order’ as Burns says (l. 58). The second fear, and for Burns apparently the more important of the two, is the fear of self-punishment. In other words, one’s sense of honour and integrity appears to be paramount, superseding potentially the ‘fear o’ hell’ (l. 57). This is not to say Burns thumbs his nose at God, for stanzas nine and ten he sees the natural necessity of ‘the Creature’ revering the ‘Creator’. Rather, this aspect of his epistle centres squarely on pitting the individual and conscience in opposition to formalised, institutionalised dogma. As he says, ‘… still the preaching cant forbear, / And ev’n the rigid feature’ (67–8). Thus, in this case, organised religion is not the solution but rather the problem. Another case of churches built to please the priest, to bestow upon the ecclesiastical class the power to control people’s lives. In the face of this, Burns posits the apparently radical notion that one’s conscience should be one’s guide (See Love and Liberty, p. 159).
On a Scotch Bard
Gone to the West Indies
First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.
A’ Ye wha live by sowps o’ drink, who, mouthfuls
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, who, doggerel verse
A’ ye wha live and never think, who
Come, mourn wi’ me
5 Our billie’s gien us a’ a jink, friend, given, the slip
An’ owre the Sea. over
Lament him a’ ye rantan core, merry crowd
Wha dearly like a random-splore; who, frolic
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar, no more
10 In social key;
For now he’s taen anither shore, taken another
An’ owre the Sea! over
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, handsome, well, wish
And in their dear petitions place him:
15 The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him
Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; eye
For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him well I trust/know, sorely
That’s owre the Sea! over
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! have
20 Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, taken off, bungler
Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble, who, fuss
’Twad been nae plea; it would have, no
But he was gleg as onie wumble, keen-eyed, gimlet (phallus)
That’s owre the Sea! over
25 Auld, cantie KYLE may weepers wear, old, cheerful, mourning cuffs
An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear: salt, salt
’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, old
In flinders flee: splinters fly
He was her Laureat monie a year, poetic champion, many
30 That’s owre the Sea! over
He saw Misfortune’s cauld Nor-west cold, north-
Lang-mustering up a bitter blast; long-
A Jillet brak his heart at last, broke
Ill may she be!
35 So, took a berth afore the mast,
An’ owre the Sea! over
To tremble under Fortune’s cummock, rod
On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, stomachful, meal & water
Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,
40 Could ill agree;
So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, rolled, hips/buttocks
An’ owre the Sea! over
He ne’er was gien to great misguidin, given
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; pockets would not stay
45 Wi’ him it ne’er was under hidin,
He dealt it free: gave it away
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
That’s owre the Sea! over
Jamaica bodies, use him weel, folk, well
50 An’ hap him in a cozie biel: shelter, cosy place
Ye’ll find him ay a dainty chiel, friendly fellow
An’ fou o’ glee: full of good nature
He wad na wrang’d the vera Deil, would not wrong, very Devil
That’s owre the Sea! over
55 Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! farewell, friend
Your native soil was right ill-willie: ill-willed
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!
I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie, last gill (whisky)
60 Tho’ owre the Sea! over
There is unresolved critical contention about the reality of Burns’s plan to immigrate to Jamaica. Kinsley writes (Vol. III, p. 1176):
The spirit of On a Scotch Bard, though sturdily more cheerful than that of the letters, hardly justifies Daiches’s view that Burns was never serious about emigrating (pp. 95, 189). He was volatile, and ready to shift to extremes; he was capable of representing his misfortunes as tragic or comic, as occasions for dependency or from a display of swaggering courage. ‘I have heard Wordsworth praise the ready flow of verse
