The poetical works of Janet Little, the Scotch milkmaid — Story, Setting & Ideas

vy’s self approv’d, Which time or sickness never can efface.

[1] The Residence of the celebrated Poet, Robert Burns.

THE _LOTTERY TICKET_.

Celia, fair, beyond description, Soon became the fav’rite toast; Charms unrival’d ev’n by fiction, Did the lovely maiden boast.

Beaux and sages, panting, dying, Did of love and her complain, While the nymph, his darts defying, Triumph’d o’er her thousands slain.

With their woes too rashly sporting, Still more fatal darts were sought; Anxious to augment her fortune, She a lott’ry-ticket bought.

But old Plutus, sullen power, Can the fair and brave withstand; He, in the decisive hour, Shov’d a blank to Celia’s hand:

While Brunetta, short of stature, Limbs distorted, shoulders round, Gain’d new charms, in spite of Nature, By good thirty thousand pound.

Celia now, with looks dejected, Seem’d the erring wheel to blame, When the god, with brows erected, Did a moment’s audience claim.

Go bright Celia, fair and cruel, Still of countless charms secure, Would you heedless add more fuel To the flames you will not cure?

View the maid to grief inclined, Though she grasps the golden prize, O how gladly she’d resign it, For the conquests of your eyes!

Ye maidens attend to my tale, Of love that sly archer take care; His darts o’er all ranks do prevail, The wealthy, the wise, and the fair.

When once his fierce arrow he throws, Contentment will bid you adieu; No potion the doctor bestows, Can then be of service to you.

Experience prompts me to tell, I felt his tyrannical sway; The time I remember too well; It was a long month and a day.

The youth, I’ll not mention his name, Who was the sole cause of my smart, His deeds were unnotic’d by fame, His manners unpolish’d by art.

His person could boast of no charm, His words of no conquering power; Yet his footsteps did give the alarm, Which made my heart beat for an hour.

When absent from him I ador’d, One minute as ages did prove; Though plenty replenish’d my board, I fasted and feasted on love.

My couch but augmented my pain; No sleep ever closed my eyes; One glance of my rustic young swain Was what I more highly did prize.

None ever bemoan’d my sad case; They laugh’d at the ills I endur’d; But time did my sorrows efface, And spite of the imp I was cur’d.

I saw my lov’d youth in the shade, Soft whisp’ring to Susan apart; Resentment came quick to my aid, And I banish’d him quite from my heart.

But be not too forward, ye fair, Nor take too much courage from me, How many have fall’n in the snare That got not so easily free?

_DAMON AND PHILANDER._

The sun with keenness darts his sultry ray; To some cool shade Philander haste away, Nigh yon smooth riv’let, where the southern breeze So softly plays among the bord’ring trees. Beneath yon spreading elm let’s rest a while, And with our songs the tedious hours beguile: There will I tune my pipe to Delia’s praise, While ev’ry swain’s attentive to my lays.

O Damon! how insipid is thy theme? Philander’s sick of thy lov’d Delia’s name: Nor can the fairest nymph enslave my heart; Man’s soul was form’d to act a nobler part. This gewgaw train can ne’er my thoughts employ; Such would dispel but can’t augment my joy. I’ll sing the beauties of the breathing spring, The treasures Autumn to my barns will bring. To notes of transport ever tune my reed, While on the plains my num’rous flocks I feed.

Let Damon’s breast such trivial joys disdain; What though my flocks o’erspread the wide domain? What though my barns were with abundance stor’d, And gen’rous nectar ever grac’d my board? Nor honour, riches, though their force unite, In Delia’s absence ever can delight. O Delia! sweeter than the op’ning dawn, More bright than rays that cheer the dewy lawn. Her sparkling eye the orient gem outshines, Or brightest lustre of Golconda’s mines: Her cheeks of roseate hue, her flaxen hair, In easy curls, waves gently in the air. Her coral lips ambrosial sweets retain; She rivals Juno in her air and mien; She far exceeds what ancient painters drew, When fancy’s flights the Cyprian queen pursue. Such excellence might grace a prince’s arms; Yet this must yield to her interior charms. In her fair bosom virtue bears the sway; There wisdom sheds a pure unmingl’d ray. Truth, innocence, and modesty combine T’ adorn her mind, where all perfections shine: Apollo’s wit does to the maid belong; Her voice more charming than the Syren’s song.

Hold, hold, dear Damon, sure too much is said; Your Delia’s then a most bewitching maid: As blind men judge of colours, so you trace The matchless beauties of her charming face, Recount her virtues, and, with partial eyes, Admire in her what others would despise. A sad delirium sure has seiz’d thy brain, Which makes thee fancy what the poets feign, Of love, and such like vain fantastic whims, ’Tis wild chimera all, and idle dreams.

And dost thou doubt of such a thing as love? If once thy breast, like mine, the smart should prove, More than is painted by the poet’s art, In genuine colours will affect thy heart. But wherefore now contemn my rural lays? Thy notes were swell’d once with Lucretia’s praise! Does she thy favours treat with disrespect, Which makes thee now all other maids neglect!

Lucretia still appears in all her charms, A match most fitting for Philander’s arms. What she possesses yields most solid joy, Since bags of wealth buy pleasures ne’er can cloy. These beauties catch; they set my heart on fire; Her farm, her flocks, are all I do admire: Her darts are powerful, of a yellowish hue, More fierce than those the fam’d Alcides threw. Her striking beauty in full bloom appears, At the dull period of full fifty years: Then Delia will no admiration claim, But dear Lucretia ever is the same.

For this you love her; now I truly find, That none but gilded cords your heart can bind; Nor wit nor beauty can obtain your vow; At Mammon’s shrine you still devoutly bow.

Vain would th’ attempts of either be to hold My am’rous heart, without the force of gold: Beauty an empty trifle still I deem, A childish toy, unworthy of esteem. Its gaudy foliage may attract the eye; But as the tulip it will fade and die: The glowing cheek enamour’d fops may prize, But men of sense can ruby lips despise. And what is wit? a giddy flutt’ring thing, Which can no real satisfaction bring. A thousand ills attend his wretched life, Whose dear companion is a witty wife: Still she is right, and ever in the wrong, Such elocution dwells upon her tongue. But if assisted by the Muse’s skill, He sure may dread the poison of her quill; She with keen satire lashes all around, And with the rest her husband feels the wound. Should poverty, by sudden threats alarm, Can wit with all its power now prove a charm? The fairest flowers Parnassus ere could boast, Yield to the treasures of the golden coast. The maid who comes fraught with that precious ore, Brings virtue, wit, and beauty all in store; This gives the palid cheek a crimson glow, The tawny skin the tincture of the snow. This makes the dwarf complete in ev’ry part: She wounds most sure who throws the golden dart. Short of one foot, distorted of one eye, Struck by its lustre, no defects I spy.

Thus does Philander waste his wits to prove A happy marriage destitute of love. Gold, cursed gold, the bane of ev’ry bliss, Thy _summum bonum_, all thy happiness. Say, to what purpose do thy words avail? Beauty and wit to give us joy may fail. Wit cease to please, and beauty may decay, } Riches make wings and swiftly fly away; } Depriv’d of all, what will Philander say? } But to secure thee of thy darling’s charms, Go to the mines, and lodge within her arms; Enfold thy mistress in a fond embrace, For ever banish’d from the shepherd race. Nor quit thy mansion till thou breathe thy last: Such sordid souls no social joys should taste. Blest with my Delia on this happy plain, Where peace and pleasure in perfection reign, I’ll more serenely pass life’s hours away, Than without her, though crown’d with princely sway. To please my charmer all my care shall be; Can I be wretched when she smiles on me? But we must go, our fleecy charge attend. Farewell, Philander, I am still thy friend. The maid whose real charms the heart can hold, Must not be deem’d one whit the worse for gold.

Now from before Aurora’s rays, Stern darkness with its horror flies; The mountain tops begin to blaze, And Phœbus gilds the eastern skies.

See glist’ning dew drops on the bush, Reviving odours cheer the morn; The warbling blackbird and the thrush, Make vocal ev’ry blooming thorn.

Alexis join the rural lay, Give welcome to the op’ning spring. Why sigh’st thou thus thy hours away? Come take thy pipe, and softly sing.

Beneath these ivy mantled trees, Allow me, Colin, to complain. No murm’ring brook, nor whisp’ring breeze Can in the least divert my pain.

The maid, whose charms I oft have sung, Has left the plain, ’twas what I fear’d, And o’er her shoulders, careless hung, A Caledonian plaid appear’d.

Of ancient note on Scotia’s plain, And by her grandam often wore, Its crimson hue was free from stain, Which made Calista shine the more.

Yea still she shines; her radient eyes Add lustre to the brightest day; Each feature strikes with new surprise, And various beauties still display.

But why should I recount them still? ’Tis only to increase my pain. She bids these verdant fields farewell, And goes to seek a richer swain.

Calista, with thy rapid flight, Is vanish’d each delightful gleam. Can Drife’s fair banks give more delight, Than Eckles’ gently winding stream?

Do sweeter scents perfume the grove, Or fairer flow’rs adorn the vale? Do comelier swains now talk of love, And cheer thee with their am’rous tale?

More sprightly youths may feel the smart, And court thee with assiduous care; But none of all who seek thy heart Avows a passion more sincere.

Then haste Calista, save the swain, Who in thy absence ever sighs; Add fresher beauties to the plain, And bid more pleasing prospects rise.

Give to the flowers a livelier hue; Thy presence makes all nature gay. O lovely maid! when blest with you, Each season seems the month of May.

The warblers now, with plaintive note, Seem to accord with ev’ry sigh; The shepherds have their songs forgot, And laid their pipes in silence by.

Since thy retreat, O charming fair! Day after day my hopes destroy. O save Alexis from despair, And crown succeeding scenes with joy.

While dusky shades eclipse the solar ray, And fanning zephyrs ’mong the branches play, Where varied beauties deck the verdant groves, Let us recount the story of our loves. Say, dear Almeda, why this pensive mood, Which does thy wonted cheerfulness exclude?

The cause of this to Flavia I’ll reveal: It is a youth whose power I can’t conceal. ’Tis Strephon, who long since obtain’d my heart, When artful Cupid gave the killing dart. When Strephon’s near, no anxious cares molest, Nor access find to my enraptur’d breast; But when he’s gone, his absence still I mourn, And spend my hours in sighs till he return.

You kindle into rapture at his name; Be wise in time, and guard against a flame, Which cherish’d, hopeless, will your charms efface, And rob your features of each blooming grace. The dear Castalia taught my heart to prove The soft’ning charms and pleasing art of love. Witness ye rural walks and verdant vales, How charm’d I’ve listen’d to his melting tales; While he, unskill’d in flatt’ry, did impart, In flowing strains, the dictates of his heart. Blind was my passion, long it bore the sway, Suppress’d at last by the enliv’ning ray Of Reason wak’d, by some celestial pow’r, To my relief, in an auspicious hour, With open’d eyes I did the charmer view; Deaf to his accents, from his presence flew. Observe, my precepts are with prudence fraught, What heart so stubborn would remain untaught?

Command the briny waves no more to flow, Bid southern breezes ever cease to blow; Say to the flowers, no more your fragrance yield, Nor Ceres crown with joy the fertile field; Bid Phœbus cease to gild the op’ning morn, And Cynthia be of all her beauty shorn: Would these obedient as thy vassals prove? No more can I, dear Flavia, cease to love. A youth possess’d of ev’ry moving art, Quick access gains to the securest heart. When he appears, to cheer the drooping plain, Each nymph enamour’d spends her sighs in vain: And when in softest strains he tunes his lay, Each shepherd, envious, throws his lute away. In him all radiant virtues are combin’d, True greatness centers in a humble mind; Truth, candour, justice, in his gen’rous breast, Firm fortitude and soft compassion rest. Nor can the gods on mortals more bestow, A bright example of their works below. Young Strephon’s charms, no tongue could e’er express; I may be silent, but can’t love him less.

Enough is said, Almeda dear, to prove No fault is seen in those we truly love. The son of Venus, by a magic art, Deceives the sight, soon as he wounds the heart. Blind as himself does all his vot’ries make, Extremely happy in their own mistake. In all his charms I have young Strephon seen, Yet never by the youth have wounded been. Yet were he, as you paint him, thus complete, And fond to lay his garlands at your feet, Sure young men’s minds still subject are to change, Though from our plains he were not doom’d to range. A change of scenes may, with distorted brows, Pour swift contempt on all your former vows. But let indiff’rence lodge within your breast, Nor Strephon’s absence e’er your mind molest; The more his charms, the surer he’ll succeed ’Mong pow’rful rivals, whom you now may dread.

I know his charms the gentlest dame might move, But he’ll admit no rival in his love: My image still remains within his breast, True to that hour I first my love confest. This pleasing hope will soothe my anxious soul, Nor let stern care its peaceful sway controul, Diffuse into my heart its soft relief, Dispel my fears and dissipate my grief. I’ll say the youth, for me by heaven design’d, Is good, as lovely, constant, as he’s kind; So smoothly shall the seasons glide along, Till Strephon’s presence animate my song, Then shall my pleasure as my love abound, ’Till Hymen’s rites with purest joys be crown’d.

So may you sing, and sigh your years away, With flatt’ring hope, perch’d on the feeble spray Of Strephon’s faith, the efforts rend’ring vain Of such as would essay your love to gain, Till his own choice, or some disaster show, Your promis’d pleasures vanish’d like the snow. Your charms are fled, no lover then in view, The paths of discontent you will pursue. That you despis’d Philander then you’ll mourn, Nor gave Lothario’s suit a just return; Or for Alonzo sigh when ’tis too late, And with reluctance meet your destin’d fate. This will your slighted lovers laugh to see Almeda then a maiden old will be.

The paths you paint I will not tread alone, While Flavia lives I shall be sure of one. Then hand in hand we’ll smooth the rugged way, And sigh for sigh shall bear our griefs away.

Why should we sigh? In smiles we will contend, And laugh at what we have no power to mend. Should fate deprive me of my darling swain, Some braver youth perhaps may grace the plain, And make me happy by the nuptial band, When cheerfully he gives his heart and hand. Or if despis’d and unadmir’d I rest, I’ll call my own sad destiny the best. I’ll bliss the fate I oft have sought to shun, And scorn the fool who would to wedlock run. See Nature now in contrast with thy grief; The warbling songsters seem to chant relief; Their notes are cheerful, nor with sighs depress’d; In concert join and soothe your cares to rest.

No warblers can give me delight, How mournful and pensive their strain; Nought sweet can appear to my sight, Since Strephon’s forsaken the plain.

With joy I these banks did survey, With pleasure I’ve por’d on the stream: Young Strephon then with me did stray, And of nought but delight I could dream.

While he by my side did recline, The flowers seem’d to brighten their bloom; The sun with more lustre did shine, And fragrance the fields did perfume.

Still pleas’d with his whispers of love, Still charm’d with his amorous tale; Now beauty’s forsaken the grove, And his absence I’ll ever bewail.

How gloomy and dismal the shade, Where Strephon was wont to appear, Where oft his addresses he made, And his accents delighted my ear.

Those paths I revisit in pain; Yet love them without knowing why, When fortune no favour will deign, I deem it a pleasure to sigh.

In vain have my visitants strove My woes to divert by a smile; Though I seem’d of their jest to approve, My heart was with Strephon the while.

Society, spoil’d of each charm, Without him no pleasure can give; In solitude cares will alarm, In his absence ’tis painful to live.

When Sol, from the watery main, Ascends to illumine the sky, My thoughts to the loveliest swain, More swift than the lightning can fly.

I muse on his charms all the day; The theme seems enchantingly sweet, Nor ends with bright Phœbus’s ray; In dreams I my wishes repeat.

Ye angels that succour the brave, Prove guardians to the sweet youth; Still may he with honour behave, Integrity, wisdom and truth.

While through distant climes he may rove, His image is fix’d in my view; Let Strephon be constant in love, And Almeda will ever be true.

Now winter, reluctant, the sway Resigns to the genial spring; Sol sheds an enlivening ray, And warblers delightfully sing.

Fresh verdure adorns the gay plains, So lately o’er-mantl’d with snow; The rivers, releas’d from their chains, Do now with soft murmuring flow.

The lark and the linnet unite, The Cuckow too joins in the lay; All nature’s profuse of delight, And soft fanning zephyrs now play.

How charming the garden appears? Sweet primroses paint the gay vale: Its head now the daffodil rears, The sweetest of seasons to hail,

His team now the hind drives along; Quite cheerful he ploughs the rude plain. He hums his love’s praise in a song, Or whistling forgets her disdain.

The seed in the furrow he throws, Indulg’d by bright Phœbus’s rays; Rich Ceres vast increase bestows, When Autumn her bounty displays.

The lambkins now sport on the mead; They skip round the heath-cover’d hill; Their dams how securely they feed By the side of yon murm’ring rill?

Near Damon appears with his lute, And wakes the melodious lay; The songsters, attentive and mute, Are perch’d on the wav’ring spray.

As Phillis traverses the grove, All nature more charming appears: Leander’s soft stories of love, Still touchingly sound in her ears.

They hand in hand trip o’er the plain; No couple more cheerful and gay: She counts him the loveliest swain; He calls her the Queen of the May.