The Complete Works of Robert Burns Read Online

Second Epistle to Davie

A Brother Poet

AULD NEIBOUR,
I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter;
Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter,
          Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter   5
          Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,
To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle
          O’ war’ly cares;   10
Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle
          Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit   15
          Until ye fyke;
Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit,
          Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;   20
Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
          Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think
          Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,   25
Commen’ to me the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
          O’ rhymin clink,
The devil haet, — that I sud ban —
          They ever think.   30

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,
But just the pouchie put the neive in,
          An’ while ought’s there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’,   35
          An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
          The Muse, poor hizzie!   40
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
          She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,   45
          Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie
          Frae door tae door.

Chronological List of Poems

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72.

Young Peggy Blooms (Song)

Tune— “Loch Eroch-side.”

YOUNG Peggy blooms our boniest lass,
  Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
  With early gems adorning.
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams   5
  That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
  And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
  A richer dye has graced them;   10
They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
  And sweetly tempt to taste them;
Her smile is as the evening mild,
  When feather’d pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,   15
  In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy’s foe,
  Such sweetness would relent her;
As blooming spring unbends the brow
  Of surly, savage Winter.   20
Detraction’s eye no aim can gain,
  Her winning pow’rs to lessen;
And fretful Envy grins in vain
  The poison’d tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow’rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,   25
  From ev’ry ill defend her!
Inspire the highly-favour’d youth
  The destinies intend her:
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
  Responsive in each bosom;   30
And bless the dear parental name
  With many a filial blossom.

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73.

Farewell to Ballochmyle (Song)

Tune— “Miss Forbes’s farewell to Banff.”

THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen,
  The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee,
Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green,
  But nature sicken’d on the e’e.
Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,   5
  Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood ehoes rang,
  Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
  Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair;   10
Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers,
  Again ye’ll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
  Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr,   15
  Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

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74.

Her Flwoing Locks (Fragment of a Song)

HER flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
  And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,   5
O’ what a feast her bonie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
  A crimson still diviner!

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75.

Halloween

  The following poem  will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own. — R. B.

      Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
      The simple pleasure of the lowly train;
      To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
      One native charm, than all the gloss of art. — GOLDSMITH.

UPON that night, when fairies light
  On Cassilis Downans  dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
  On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is ta’en,   5
  Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the Cove,  to stray an’ rove,
  Amang the rocks and streams
          To sport that night;

Amang the bonie winding banks,   10
  Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;
Where Bruce  ance rul’d the martial ranks,
  An’ shook his Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly, countra-folks
  Together did convene,   15
To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks,
  An’ haud their Halloween
          Fu’ blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat,
  Mair braw than when they’re fine;   20
Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
  Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs
  Weel-knotted on their garten;
Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs   25
  Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin
          Whiles fast at night.

Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail,
  Their stocks  maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, and grape an’ wale   30
  For muckle anes, an’ straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
  An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail,
An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift
  A runt was like a sow-tail   35
          Sae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
  They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;
The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin,
  Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther:   40
An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour,
  Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
  Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them
          To lie that night.   45

The lassies staw frae ‘mang them a’,
  To pou their stalks o’ corn;
But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about,
  Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard and fast:   50
  Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
  Whan kiutlin in the fause-house
          Wi’ him that night.

The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nits   55
  Are round an’ round dividend,
An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fates
  Are there that night decided:
Some kindle couthie side by side,
  And burn thegither trimly;   60
Some start awa wi’ saucy pride,
  An’ jump out owre the chimlie
          Fu’ high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e;
  Wha ‘twas, she wadna tell;   65
But this is Jock, an’ this is me,
  She says in to hersel’:
He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him,
  As they wad never mair part:
Till fuff! he started up the lum,   70
  An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart
          To see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
  Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,   75
  To be compar’d to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
  An’ her ain fit, it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and swore by jing,
  ‘Twas just the way he wanted   80
          To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,
  She pits hersel an’ Rob in;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
  Till white in ase they’re sobbin:   85
Nell’s heart was dancin at the view;
  She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’,
  Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
          Unseen that night.   90

But Merran sat behint their backs,
  Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:
She lea’es them gashin at their cracks,
  An’ slips out-by hersel’;
She thro’ the yard the nearest taks,   95
  An’ for the kiln she goes then,
An’ darklins grapit for the bauks,
  And in the blue-clue  throws then,
          Right fear’t that night.

An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat — 100
  I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held within the pat,
  Good L — d! but she was quaukin!
But whether ‘twas the deil himsel,
  Or whether ‘twas a bauk-en’,   105
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
  She did na wait on talkin
          To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her graunie says,
  “Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?   110
I’ll eat the apple at the glass,
  I gat frae uncle Johnie:”
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
  In wrath she was sae vap’rin,
She notic’t na an aizle brunt   115
  Her braw, new, worset apron
          Out thro’ that night.

“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face!
  I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief ony place,   120
  For him to spae your fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
  Great cause ye hae to fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten a fright,
  An’ liv’d an’ died deleerit,   125
          On sic a night.

“Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor,
  I mind’t as weel’s yestreen —
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure
  I was na past fyfteen:   130
The simmer had been cauld an’ wat,
  An’ stuff was unco green;
An’ eye a rantin kirn we gat,
  An’ just on Halloween
          It fell that night.   135

“Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen,
  A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean,
  That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,  I mind it weel,   140
  An’he made unco light o’t;
But mony a day was by himsel’,
  He was sae sairly frighted
          That vera night.”

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,   145
  An’ he swoor by his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck;
  For it was a’ but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught down the pock,
  An’ out a handfu’ gied him;   150
Syne bad him slip frae’ mang the folk,
  Sometime when nae ane see’d him,
          An’ try’t that night.

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,
  Tho’ he was something sturtin;   155
The graip he for a harrow taks,
  An’ haurls at his curpin:
And ev’ry now an’ then, he says,
  “Hemp-seed I saw thee,
An’ her that is to be my lass   160
  Come after me, an’ draw thee
          As fast this night.”

He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ March
  To keep his courage cherry;
Altho’ his hair began to arch,   165
  He was sae fley’d an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
  An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae a keek,
  An’ tumbled wi’ a wintle   170
          Out-owre that night.

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,
  In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out,
  An’ hear the sad narration:   175
He swoor ‘twas hilchin Jean M’Craw,
  Or crouchie Merran Humphie —
Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’;
  And wha was it but grumphie
          Asteer that night!   180

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen,
  To winn three wechts o’ naething;
But for to meet the deil her lane,
  She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,   185
  An’ twa red cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
  In hopes to see Tam Kipples
          That vera night.

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,   190
  An’owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,
  Syne baudly in she enters:
A ratton rattl’d up the wa’,
  An’ she cry’d Lord preserve her!   195
An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’,
  An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour,
          Fu’ fast that night.

They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice;
  They hecht him some fine braw ane;   200
It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice
  Was timmer-propt for thrawin:
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak
  For some black, grousome carlin;
An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke,   205
  Till skin in blypes cam haurlin
          Aff’s nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,
  As cantie as a kittlen;
But och! that night, amang the shaws,   210
  She gat a fearfu’ settlin!
She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn,
  An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin;
Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn,
  To dip her left sark-sleeve in,   215
          Was bent that night.

Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays,
  As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t;
Whiles round a rocky scar it strays,
  Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t;   220
Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays,
  Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath the braes,
  Below the spreading hazel
          Unseen that night.   225

Amang the brachens, on the brae,
  Between her an’ the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
  Gat up an’ ga’e a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;   230
  Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’ in the pool
  Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
          Wi’ a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,   235
  The luggies  three are ranged;
An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en
  To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
  Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire,   240
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
  He heav’d them on the fire
          In wrath that night.

Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
  I wat they did na weary;   245
And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes —
  Their sports were cheap an’ cheery:
Till butter’d sowens,  wi’ fragrant lunt,
  Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,   250
  They parted aff careerin
          Fu’ blythe that night.

Chronological List of Poems

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76.

To a Mouse

WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
                  Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,   5
                  Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
                  Which makes thee startle   10
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
                  An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave   15
                  ‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
                  An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!   20
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
                  O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
                  Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,   25
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
                  Thou thought to dwell —
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
                  Out thro’ thy cell.   30

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
                  But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,   35
                  An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
                  Gang aft agley,   40
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
                  For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.   45
                  On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
                  I guess an’ fear!

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77.

Epitaph on John Dove, Innkeeper

HERE lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
  Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,   5
  For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
  A dram was memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl   10
Was the saving his soul,
  And port was celestial glory.

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78.

Epitaph for James Smith

LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a’,
  He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid hale weeks awa,
  Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press   5
  To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass, —
  Perhaps he was your father!

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79.

Adam Armour’s Prayer

GUDE pity me, because I’m little!
For though I am an elf o’ mettle,
An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,
              Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,   5
              I’m unco queer.

An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d her through the place,
              An’ hurt her spleuchan;   10
For whilk we daurna show our face
              Within the clachan.

An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows,   15
              An’ sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
              That shamefu’ death!

Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’ —
O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell!   20
There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell
              Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
              Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink,   25
An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink
              Within his yett,
An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
              Red-reekin het.   30

Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry —
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry
              Straught through the lake,
An’ gie their hides a noble curry   35
              Wi’ oil of aik!

As for the jurr-puir worthless body!
She’s got mischief enough already;
Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy
              She’s suffer’d sair;   40
But, may she wintle in a woody,
              If she wh-e mair!

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80.

The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata

A Cantata

Recitativo

WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
  Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast;
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,   5
  In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en a merry core
  O’ randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore,
  To drink their orra duddies;   10
    Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing,
    They ranted an’ they sang,
    Wi’ jumping an’ thumping,
    The vera girdle rang,

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,   15
Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
  And knapsack a’ in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm
  She blinkit on her sodger;   20
An’ aye he gies the tozie drab
  The tither skelpin’ kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
  Just like an aumous dish;
    Ilk smack still, did crack still,   25
    Just like a cadger’s whip;
    Then staggering an’ swaggering
    He roar’d this ditty up —

Air

Tune— “Soldier’s Joy.”

I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars,
  And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;   30
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
  When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
                Lal de daudle, &c.

My ‘prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last,
  When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram:   35
And I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
  And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries,
  And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,   40
  I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
  And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
  As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.   45

What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
  Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
  I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.

Recitativo

He ended; and the kebars sheuk,   50
  Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
  An’ seek the benmost bore:
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
  He skirl’d out, encore!   55
But up arose the martial chuck,
  An’ laid the loud uproar.

Air

Tune— “Sodger Laddie.”

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,   60
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie,
                      Sing, lal de lal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,   65
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church:
He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body,
‘Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.   70

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.

But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,   75
Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.

And now I have liv’d — I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song;   80
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

Recitativo

Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk,
  Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk,   85
  Between themselves they were sae busy:
  At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up an’ made a face;
  Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.   90

Air

Tune— “Auld Sir Symon.”

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou;
  Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,
  But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk,   95
  An’ I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
  But what will ye hae of a fool?

For drink I would venture my neck;
  A hizzie’s the half of my craft;   100
But what could ye other expect
  Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

I ance was tied up like a stirk,
  For civilly swearing and quaffin;
I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk,   105
  For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
  Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court
  A tumbler ca’d the Premier.   110

Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
  Mak faces to tickle the mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad, —
  It’s rivalship just i’ the job.

And now my conclusion I’ll tell,   115
  For faith I’m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
  Guid L — d! he’s far dafter than I.

Recitativo

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin;   120
For mony a pursie she had hooked,
An’ had in mony a well been douked;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!
Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began   125
To wail her braw John Highlandman.

Air

Tune— “O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”

A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.   130

Chorus

  Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
  Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
  There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
  Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,   135
An’ guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
                  Sing hey, &c.

We rangèd a’ from Tweed to Spey,   140
An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he fearèd none, —
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
                  Sing hey, &c.

They banish’d him beyond the sea.   145
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
                  Sing hey, &c.

But, och! they catch’d him at the last,   150
And bound him in a dungeon fast:
My curse upon them every one,
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman!
                  Sing hey, &c.

And now a widow, I must mourn   155
The pleasures that will ne’er return:
The comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
                  Sing hey, &c.

Recitativo

A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,   160
Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and gausy middle
                  (He reach’d nae higher)
Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,
                  An’ blawn’t on fire.   165

Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
                  The wee Apoll
Set off wi’ allegretto glee   170
                  His giga solo.

Air

Tune— “Whistle owre the lave o’t.”

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear;
An’ then your every care an’ fear
  May whistle owre the lave o’t.   175

Chorus

  I am a fiddler to my trade,
  An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played,
  The sweetest still to wife or maid,
    Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

At kirns an’ weddins we’se be there,   180
An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare!
We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care
  Sing whistle owre the lave o’t.
                  I am, &c.

Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,   185
An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure, when ye like,
  We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.
                  I am, &c.

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,   190
An’ while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms,
  May whistle owre the lave o’t.
                  I am, &c.

Recitativo

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,   195
  As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
  An’ draws a roosty rapier —
He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
  To speet him like a pliver,   200
Unless he would from that time forth
  Relinquish her for ever.

Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee
  Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,   205
  An’ so the quarrel ended.
But tho’ his little heart did grieve
  When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,
  When thus the caird address’d her:   210

Air

Tune— “Clout the Cauldron.”

My bonie lass, I work in brass,
  A tinkler is my station:
I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground
  In this my occupation;
I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolled   215
  In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d when off I march’d
  To go an’ clout the cauldron.
                I’ve taen the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,   220
  With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin;
An’ take a share with those that bear
  The budget and the apron!
And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp,
  And by that dear Kilbaigie,   225
If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,
  May I ne’er weet my craigie.
                And by that stowp, &c.

Recitativo

The caird prevail’d — th’ unblushing fair
  In his embraces sunk;   230
Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair,
  An’ partly she was drunk:
Sir Violino, with an air
  That show’d a man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison between the pair,   235
  An’ made the bottle clunk
              To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
  That play’d a dame a shavie —
The fiddler rak’d her, fore and aft,   240
  Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,
  Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie,
He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft,
  An’ shor’d them Dainty Davie   245
              O’ boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade
  As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,
  His heart, she ever miss’d it.   250
He had no wish but — to be glad,
  Nor want but — when he thirsted;
He hated nought but — to be sad,
  An’ thus the muse suggested
              His sang that night.   255

Air

Tune— “For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”

I am a Bard of no regard,
  Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
  Frae town to town I draw that.

Chorus

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,   260
    An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
  I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
    I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

I never drank the Muses’ stank,
  Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;   265
But there it streams an’ richly reams,
  My Helicon I ca’ that.
            For a’ that, &c.

Great love Idbear to a’ the fair,
  Their humble slave an’ a’ that;   270
But lordly will, I hold it still
  A mortal sin to thraw that.
            For a’ that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
  Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that;   275
But for how lang the flie may stang,
  Let inclination law that.
            For a’ that, &c.

Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft,
  They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that;   280
But clear your decks, and here’s— “The Sex!”
  I like the jads for a’ that.

Chorus

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
    An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
  My dearest bluid, to do them guid,   285
    They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.

Recitativo

So sang the bard — and Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
    Re-echo’d from each mouth!
They toom’d their pocks, they pawn’d their duds,   290
They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,
    To quench their lowin drouth:
Then owre again, the jovial thrang
    The poet did request
To lowse his pack an’ wale a sang,   295
    A ballad o’ the best;
    He rising, rejoicing,
      Between his twa Deborahs,
    Looks round him, an’ found them
      Impatient for the chorus.   300

Air

Tune— “Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”

See the smoking bowl before us,
  Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
  And in raptures let us sing —

Chorus

  A fig for those by law protected!   305
    Liberty’s a glorious feast!
  Courts for cowards were erected,
    Churches built to please the priest.

What is title, what is treasure,
  What is reputation’s care?   310
If we lead a life of pleasure,
  ‘Tis no matter how or where!
              A fig for, &c.

With the ready trick and fable,
  Round we wander all the day;   315
And at night in barn or stable,
  Hug our doxies on the hay.
              A fig for, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage
  Thro’ the country lighter rove?   320
Does the sober bed of marriage
  Witness brighter scenes of love?
              A fig for, &c.

Life is al a variorum,
  We regard not how it goes;   325
Let them cant about decorum,
  Who have character to lose.
              A fig for, &c.

Here’s to budgets, bags and wallets!
  Here’s to all the wandering train.   330
Here’s our ragged brats and callets,
  One and all cry out, Amen!

Chorus

  A fig for those by law protected!
    Liberty’s a glorious feast!
  Courts for cowards were erected,   335
    Churches built to please the priest.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

81.

For a’ that (Song)

Tune— “For a’ that.”

THO’  women’s minds, like winter winds,
  May shift, and turn, an’ a’ that,
The noblest breast adores them maist —
  A consequence I draw that.

Chorus

    For a’ that, an’ a’ that,   5
    And twice as meikle’s a’ that;
    The bonie lass that I loe best
    She’ll be my ain for a’ that.

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,
  Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;   10
But lordly will, I hold it still
  A mortal sin to thraw that.
            For a’ that, &c.

But there is ane aboon the lave,
  Has wit, and sense, an’ a’ that;   15
A bonie lass, I like her best,
  And wha a crime dare ca’ that?
            For a’ that, &c.

In rapture sweet this hour we meet,
  Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that,   20
But for how lang the flie may stang,
  Let inclination law that.
            For a’ that, &c.

Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft.
  They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that;   25
But clear your decks, and here’s— “The Sex!”
  I like the jads for a’ that.
            For a’ that, &c.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

82.

Kissing my Katie (Song)

Tune— “The bob o’ Dumblane.”

O MERRY hae I been teethin’ a heckle,
  An’ merry hae I been shapin’ a spoon;
O merry hae I been cloutin’ a kettle,
  An’ kissin’ my Katie when a’ was done.
O a’ the lang day I ca’ at my hammer,   5
  An’ a’ the lang day I whistle and sing;
O a’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,
  An’ a’ the lang night as happy’s a king.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins
  O’ marrying Bess, to gie her a slave:   10
Blest be the hour she cool’d in her linnens,
  And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave!
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie;
  O come to my arms and kiss me again!
Drucken or sober, here’s to thee, Katie!   15
  An’ blest be the day I did it again.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

83.

The Cotter’s Saturday Night

Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq.
“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 honour’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:
  To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,   5
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!

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;   10
  The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
  The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
  The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, —
This night his weekly moil is at an end,   15
  Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
  Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;   20
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
  To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
  His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
  The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,   25
Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
  At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin   30
  A cannie errand to a neibor town:
  Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e —
  Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,   35
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 speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet:
  Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.   40
  The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
  The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.   45

Their master’s and their mistress’ command,
  The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
  And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play;
  “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,   50
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
  Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.”

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;   55
  Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor,
  To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
  The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;   60
  With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
  A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye;   65
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;
  The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
  The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
  The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy   70
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave,
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found:
  O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,   75
  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
In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale,   80
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 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,
  Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?   85
  Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
  Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o’er their child?
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?   90

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
  The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
  That, ‘yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
  The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,   95
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell;
  And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,   100
  They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
  The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride:
  His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;   105
  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,
  They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;   110
Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise;
  Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
  Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
  Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;   115
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
  How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage   120
  With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
  Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
  Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;   125
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,
  Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:   130
  How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
  How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.   135

Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
  The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
  That thus they all shall meet in future days,
  There, ever bask in uncreated rays,   140
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

Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,   145
  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,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;   150
  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;
  The youngling cottagers retire to rest:   155
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,
  Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,   160
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:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,   165
  “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;”
  And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
  What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,   170
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
  For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
  Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!   175
  And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
  Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.   180

O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide,
  That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
  Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
  (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,   185
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
  O never, never Scotia’s realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

84.

Address to the Deil

“O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow’rs
That led th’ embattl’d Seraphim to war— “
MILTON.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee —
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
                  Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,   5
                  To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damned bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
                  Ev’n to a deil,   10
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
                  An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,   15
                  Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
                  Nor blate, nor scaur.

Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin;   20
Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin,
                  Tirlin the kirks;
Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,
                  Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say,   25
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin’d castles grey
                  Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
                  Wi’ eldritch croon.   30

When twilight did my graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman!
Aft’yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,
                  Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortrees comin,   35
                  Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you, mysel’ I gat a fright,
                  Ayont the lough;   40
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
                  Wi’ wavin’ sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,”   45
                  Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
                  On whistlin’ wings.

Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags,
Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags,   50
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
                  Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
                  Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain,   55
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en
                  By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane
                  As yell’s the bill.   60

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen an’ crouse,
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
                  By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,   65
                  Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin’ icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
                  By your direction,   70
And ‘nighted trav’llers are allur’d
                  To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies   75
                  Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
                  Ne’er mair to rise.

When masons’ mystic word an’ grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,   80
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
                  Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
                  Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,   85
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,
                  The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
                  In shady bower;   90

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on man a cursèd brogue,
                  (Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,   95
                  ‘Maist rui’d a’.

D’ye mind that day when in a bizz
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
                  ‘Mang better folk,   100
An’ sklented on the man of Uzz
                  Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an hal’,
While scabs and botches did him gall,   105
                  Wi’ bitter claw;
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’,
                  Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,   110
Sin’ that day Michael  did you pierce,
                  Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse,
                  In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,   115
A certain bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin
                  To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,
                  An’ cheat you yet.   120

But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken —
                  Stil hae a stake
I’m wae to think up’ yon den,   125
                  Ev’n for your sake!

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

85.

Scotch Drink

Gie him strong drink until he wink,
  That’s sinking in despair;
An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,
  That’s prest wi’ grief and care:
There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,
  Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
  An’ minds his griefs no more.
SOLOMON’S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a fracas
“Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbit names an’stories wrack us,
                  An’ grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,   5
                  In glass or jug.

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
                  In glorious faem,   10
Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink,
                  To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up their awnie horn,
An’ pease and beans, at e’en or morn,   15
                  Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
                  Thou king o’ grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o’food!   20
Or tumblin in the boiling flood
                  Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
                  There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us leevin;   25
Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin;
                  But, oil’d by thee,
The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin,
                  Wi’ rattlin glee.   30

Thou clears the head o’doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,
                  At’s weary toil;
Though even brightens dark Despair   35
                  Wi’ gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in time o’ need,
                  The poor man’s wine;   40
His weep drap parritch, or his bread,
                  Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o’ public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,   45
                  By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
                  Are doubly fir’d.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!   50
Or reekin on a New-year mornin
                  In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
                  An’ gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,   55
An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
                  I’ th’ luggit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
                  At every chap.   60

Nae mercy then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,
                  The strong forehammer,
Till block an’ studdie ring an reel,   65
                  Wi’ dinsome clamour.

When skirling weanies see the light,
Though maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin’ cuiffs their dearies slight;
                  Wae worth the name!   70
Nae howdie gets a social night,
                  Or plack frae them.

When neibors anger at a plea,
An’ just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley brie   75
                  Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,
                  To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e’er my muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason!   80
But mony daily weet their weason
                  Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in a winter season,
                  E’er Spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!   85
Fell source o’ mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
                  O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
                  To her warst faes.   90

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils like mysel’!
                  It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,   95
                  Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch,
What twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
                  O’ sour disdain,   100
Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch
                  Wi’ honest men!

O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie’s gratfu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks   105
                  Are my poor verses!
Thou comes — they rattle in their ranks,
                  At ither’s a — s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!   110
Now colic grips, an’ barkin hoast
                  May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
                  Is ta’en awa?

Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise,   115
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
                  There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies
                  For poor d — n’d drinkers.   120

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whisky gill,
An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will,
                  Tak a’ the rest,
An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill   125
                  Directs thee best.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

1786

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

86.

The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie

On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.

A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
                I’ve seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,   5
                Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie,
                A bonie gray:   10
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
                Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank;
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,   15
                As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
                Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear;   20
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
                An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ‘twas weel-won gear,
                An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,   25
Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
                Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
                An’ unco sonsie.   30

That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
                Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide   35
                For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
                For heels an’ win’!   40
An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,
                Far, far, behin’!

When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh   45
                An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,
                An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:   50
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,
                For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
                Whare’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle   55
Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle,
                An’ gar’t them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
                O’ saugh or hazel.   60

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun,
                In guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,   65
                For days thegither.

Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
                Wi’ pith an’ power;   70
Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit
                An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap   75
                Aboon the timmer:
I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep,
                For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;   80
Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit,
                Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
                Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,   85
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa,
                That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
                The vera warst.   90

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day, I thought
                We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,   95
                Wi’ something yet.

An’ think na’, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin;
                For my last fow,   100
A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane
                Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether   105
                To some hain’d rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
                Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

87.

The Twa Dogs

A TALE

‘TWAS  in that place o’ Scotland’s isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,   5
Forgather’d ance upon a time.
  The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;   10
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
  His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar
Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;
But though he was o’ high degree,   15
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie,   20
But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
  The tither was a ploughman’s collie —
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,   25
And in freak had Luath ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland Sang,
Was made lang syne, — Lord knows how lang.
  He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.   30
His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,   35
Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
  Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
And unco pack an’ thick thegither;
Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit;
Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit;   40
Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion,
An’ worry’d ither in diversion;
Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An’ there began a lang digression.   45
About the “lords o’ the creation.”

CÆSAR

  I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv’d ava.   50
  Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel’;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;   55
He draws a bonie silken purse,
As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks,
The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
  Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;   60
An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan
Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie,
That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,   65
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honour has in a’ the lan’:
An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it’s past my comprehension.   70

LUATH

  Trowth, C&æsar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an’ sic like;
Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains,   75
A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,
An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep
Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
  An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters,   80
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,   85
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR

  But then to see how ye’re negleckit,
How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;   90
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
  I’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day, —
An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae, —
Poor tenant bodies, scant o’cash,   95
How they maun thole a factor’s snash;
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear
He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,
An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!   100
  I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!

LUATH

  They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think.
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,
They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,   105
The view o’t gives them little fright.
  Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They’re aye in less or mair provided:
An’ tho’ fatigued wi’ close employment,
A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.   110
  The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
  An’ whiles twalpennie worth o’ nappy   115
Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,   120
Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
  As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of ev’ry station,   125
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
  That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win’s;   130
The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi’ right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,   135
The young anes rantin thro’ the house —
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
  Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d;   140
There’s mony a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an’ branch,
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster   145
In favour wi’ some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin —

CÆSAR

  Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.   150
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him:
At operas an’ plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,   155
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
  There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father’s auld entails;   160
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
  Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,   165
To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
  For Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.   170

LUATH

  Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last?
  O would they stay aback frae courts,   175
An’ please themsels wi’ country sports,
It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;   180
Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk,
  But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar,   185
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The very thought o’t need na fear them.

CÆSAR

  L — d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them!   190
  It’s true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat:
They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,   195
For a’ their colleges an’ schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel’s to vex them;
An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.   200
  A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst,   205
Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless.   210
  An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping through public places,
There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
  The men cast out in party-matches,   215
Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
  The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;   220
But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks   225
Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
  There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
But this is gentry’s life in common.   230
  By this, the sun was out of sight,
An’ darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;
When up they gat an’ shook their lugs,   235
Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs;
An’ each took aff his several way,
Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

88.

The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer

To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.
Dearest of distillation! last and best ——
 —— How art thou lost! ——
PARODY ON MILTON.

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   5
                  Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ‘twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
                  Low i’ the dust,   10
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   15
                  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:   20
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?   25
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.   30

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   35
                  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,   40
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   45
                  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,   50
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,   55
Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
                  Or gab like Boswell,
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
                  An’ tie some hose well.   60

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   65
                  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;   70
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s
                  Auld Scotland’s wrangs.

Dempster,  a true blue Scot I’se warran’;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;
An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,   75
                  The Laird o’ Graham;
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
                  Dundas his name:

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;   80
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;
                  An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
                  Might own for brithers.

See sodger Hugh,  my watchman stented,   85
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.   90

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,   95
                  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!)   100
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,   105
                  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,   110
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,   115
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.   120

Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s,
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s
                  Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,   125
                  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,   130
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer 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   135
                  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;   140
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,   145
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.   150

POSTSCRIPT

LET 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   155
                  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;   160
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   165
                  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,   170
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;   175
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.   180

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   185
                  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;   190
Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!
                  Take aff your dram!

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

89.

The Ordination

“For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n —
To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n.”

KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw,
  An’ pour your creeshie nations;
An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,
  Of a’ denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’   5
  An’ there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
  An’ pour divine libations
                    For joy this day.

Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell,   10
  Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;
But Oliphant  aft made her yell,
  An’ Russell  sair misca’d her:
This day Mackinlay  taks the flail,
  An’ he’s the boy will blaud her!   15
He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,
  An’ set the bairns to daud her
                    Wi’ dirt this day.

Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,
  And lilt wi’ holy clangor;   20
O’ double verse come gie us four,
  An’ skirl up the Bangor:
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
  Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her pow’r,   25
  And gloriously she’ll whang her
                    Wi’ pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read,
  An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,
How graceless Ham  leugh at his dad,   30
  Which made Canaan a nigger;
Or Phineas  drove the murdering blade,
  Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour;
Or Zipporah,  the scauldin jad,
  Was like a bluidy tiger   35
                    I’ th’ inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed,
  An’ bind him down wi’ caution,
That stipend is a carnal weed
  He taks by for the fashion;   40
And gie him o’er the flock, to feed,
  And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
  Gie them sufficient threshin;
                    Spare them nae day.   45

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
  An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty;
Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale,
  Because thy pasture’s scanty;
For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail   50
  Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale,
  No gi’en by way o’ dainty,
                    But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,   55
  To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,
  Like baby-clouts a-dryin!
Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep,
  And o’er the thairms be tryin;   60
Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,
  And a’ like lamb-tails flyin
                    Fu’ fast this day.

Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn,
  Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin;   65
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
  Has proven to its ruin:
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
  He saw mischief was brewin;
An’ like a godly, elect bairn,   70
  He’s waled us out a true ane,
                    And sound, this day.

Now Robertson  harangue nae mair,
  But steek your gab for ever;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,   75
  For there they’ll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
  Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton  repair,
  An’ turn a carpet weaver   80
                    Aff-hand this day.

Mu’trie  and you were just a match,
  We never had sic twa drones;
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
  Just like a winkin baudrons,   85
And aye he catch’d the tither wretch,
  To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his Honour maun detach,
  Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons,
                    Fast, fast this day.   90

See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes
  She’s swingein thro’ the city!
Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!
  I vow it’s unco pretty:
There, Learning, with his Greekish face,   95
  Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common-sense is gaun, she says,
  To mak to Jamie Beattie
                    Her plaint this day.

But there’s Morality himsel’,   100
  Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
  Between his twa companions!
See, how she peels the skin an’ fell,
  As ane were peelin onions!   105
Now there, they’re packed aff to hell,
  An’ banish’d our dominions,
                    Henceforth this day.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
  Come bouse about the porter!   110
Morality’s demure decoys
  Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys
  That heresy can torture;
They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,   115
  And cowe her measure shorter
                    By th’ head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
  And here’s — for a conclusion —
To ev’ry New Light  mother’s son,   120
  From this time forth, Confusion!
If mair they deave us wi’ their din,
  Or Patronage intrusion,
We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin,
  We’ll rin them aff in fusion   125
                    Like oil, some day.

Chronological List of Poems

Alphabetical List of Poems

90.

Epistle to James Smith

“Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet’ner of Life, and solder of Society!
I owe thee much — — “  BLAIR.

DEAR SMITH, the slee’st, pawkie thief,
That e’er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
                    Owre human hearts;
For ne’er a bosom yet was prief   5
                    Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,
An’ ev’ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon,
                    Just gaun to see you;   10
An’ ev’ry ither pair that’s done,
                    Mair taen I’m wi’ you.

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She’s turn’d you off, a human creature   15
                    On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature
                    She’s wrote the Man.

Just now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme,
My barmie noddle’s working prime.   20
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
                    Wi’ hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time
                    To hear what’s comin?

Some rhyme a neibor’s name to lash;   25
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
                    An’ raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash;
                    I rhyme for fun.   30

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat;
                    But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot   35
                    O’countra wit.

This while my notion’s taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I’m that way bent,
                    Something cries “Hooklie!”   40
I red you, honest man, tak tent?
                    Ye’ll shaw your folly;

“There’s ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters,
Hae thought they had ensur’d their debtors,   45
                    A’ future ages;
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
                    Their unknown pages.”

Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!   50
Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs
                    Are whistlin’ thrang,
An’ teach the lanely heights an’ howes
                    My rustic sang.

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed   55
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
                    Then, all unknown,
I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead
                    Forgot and gone!   60

But why o’ death being a tale?
Just now we’re living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
                    Heave Care o’er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment’s gale,   65
                    Let’s tak the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand,
Is a’ enchanted fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,
                    That, wielded right,   70
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
                    Dance by fu’ light.