Robin Shure In Hairst.
Chorus. Robin
shure in hairst,
I shure wi’ him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I gaed up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o’
plaiden,
At his daddie’s
yett,
Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.
Was na Robin
bauld,
Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sic
a trick,
An’ me the El’er’s
dochter!
Robin shure, &c.
Robin promis’d
me
A’ my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but
three
Guse-feathers and a
whittle!
Robin shure, &c.
Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs.
Oswald Of Auchencruive.
Dweller in yon dungeon
dark,
Hangman of creation!
mark,
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour’d
years,
Noosing with care a
bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly
curse?
Strophe.
View the wither’d
Beldam’s face;
Can thy keen inspection
trace
Aught of Humanity’s
sweet, melting grace?
Note that eye, ’tis
rheum o’erflows;
Pity’s flood there
never rose,
See these hands ne’er
stretched to save,
Hands that took, but
never gave:
Keeper of Mammon’s
iron chest,
Lo, there she goes,
unpitied and unblest,
She goes, but not to
realms of everlasting rest!
Antistrophe.
Plunderer of Armies!
lift thine eyes,
(A while forbear, ye
torturing fiends;)
Seest thou whose step,
unwilling, hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurl’d
from upper skies;
’Tis thy trusty
quondam Mate,
Doom’d to share
thy fiery fate;
She, tardy, hell-ward
plies.
Epode.
And are they of no more
avail,
Ten thousand glittering
pounds a-year?
In other worlds can
Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is
here!
O, bitter mockery of
the pompous bier,
While down the wretched
Vital Part is driven!
The cave-lodged Beggar,with
a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown,
and goes to Heaven.
Pegasus At Wanlockhead.
With Pegasus upon a
day,
Apollo, weary flying,
Through frosty hills
the journey lay,
On foot the way was
plying.
Poor slipshod giddy
Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo
goes,
To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell
to work,
Threw by his coat and
bonnet,
And did Sol’s
business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a
sonnet.
Ye Vulcan’s sons
of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly
shod,
I’ll pay you like
my master.
Sappho Redivivus A Fragment.
By all I lov’d,
neglected and forgot,
No friendly face e’er
lights my squalid cot;
Shunn’d, hated,
wrong’d, unpitied, unredrest,
The mock’d quotation
of the scorner’s jest!
Ev’n the poor
support of my wretched life,
Snatched by the violence
of legal strife.
Oft grateful for my
very daily bread
To those my family’s
once large bounty fed;
A welcome inmate at
their homely fare,
My griefs, my woes,
my sighs, my tears they share:
(Their vulgar souls
unlike the souls refin’d,
The fashioned marble
of the polished mind).
In vain would Prudence,
with decorous sneer,
Point out a censuring
world, and bid me fear;
Above the world, on
wings of Love, I rise
I know its worst, and
can that worst despise;
Let Prudence’
direst bodements on me fall,
M[ontgomer]y, rich reward,
o’erpays them all!
Mild zéphyrs waft
thee to life’s farthest shore,
Nor think of me and
my distress more,
Falsehood accurst!
No! still I beg a place,
Still near thy heart
some little, little trace:
For that dear trace
the world I would resign:
O let me live, and die,
and think it mine!
“I burn, I burn,
as when thro’ ripen’d corn
By driving winds the
crackling flames are borne;”
Now raving-wild, I curse
that fatal night,
Then bless the hour
that charm’d my guilty sight:
In vain the laws their
feeble force oppose,
Chain’d at Love’s
feet, they groan, his vanquish’d foes.
In vain Religion meets
my shrinking eye,
I dare not combat, but
I turn and fly:
Conscience in vain upbraids
th’ unhallow’d fire,
Love grasps her scorpions stifled
they expire!
Reason drops headlong
from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns,
and reigns alone;
Each thought intoxicated
homage yields,
And riots wanton in
forbidden fields.
By all on high adoring
mortals know!
By all the conscious
villain fears below!
By your dear self! the
last great oath I swear,
Not life, nor soul,
were ever half so dear!
Song She’s Fair And Fause.
She’s fair and
fause that causes my smart,
I lo’ed her meikle
and lang;
She’s broken her
vow, she’s broken my heart,
And I may e’en
gae hang.
A coof cam in wi’
routh o’ gear,
And I hae tint my dearest
dear;
But Woman is but warld’s
gear,
Sae let the bonie lass
gang.
Whae’er ye be
that woman love,
To this be never blind;
Nae ferlie ‘tis
tho’ fickle she prove,
A woman has’t
by kind.
O Woman lovely, Woman
fair!
An angel form’s
faun to thy share,
’Twad been o’er
meikle to gi’en thee mair
I mean an angel mind.
Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell.
On Returning a Newspaper.
Your News and Review,
sir.
I’ve read through
and through, sir,
With little admiring
or blaming;
The Papers are barren
Of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes
worth the naming.
Our friends, the Reviewers,
Those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar
and stone, sir;
But of meet or unmeet,
In a fabric complete,
I’ll boldly pronounce
they are none, sir;
My goose-quill too rude
is
To tell all your goodness
Bestow’d on your
servant, the Poet;
Would to God I had one
Like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world,
sir, should know it!
Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig.
Sent with some of the
Author’s Poems.
O could I give thee
India’s wealth,
As I this trifle send;
Because thy joy in both
would be
To share them with a
friend.
But golden sands did
never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold
could never buy
An honest bard’s
esteem.
Rhyming Reply To A Note From Captain Riddell.
Dear, Sir, at ony time
or tide,
I’d rather sit
wi’ you than ride,
Though ‘twere
wi’ royal Geordie:
And trowth, your kindness,
soon and late,
Aft gars me to
mysel’ look blate
The Lord in Heav’n
reward ye!
R. Burns.
Ellisland.
Caledonia A Ballad.
Tune “Caledonian
Hunts’ Delight” of Mr. Gow.
There was once a day,
but old Time wasythen young,
That brave Caledonia,
the chief of her line,
From some of your northern
deities sprung,
(Who knows not that
brave Caledonia’s divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades
was her domain,
To hunt, or to pasture,
or do what she would:
Her heav’nly relations
there fixed her reign,
And pledg’d her
their godheads to warrant it good.
A lambkin in peace,
but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred,
the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin,
triumphantly swore,
“Whoe’er
shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!”
With tillage or pasture
at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks
by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods
were her fav’rite resort,
Her darling amusement,
the hounds and the horn.
Long quiet she reigned;
till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles
from Adria’s strand:
Repeated, successive,
for many long years,
They darken’d
the air, and they plunder’d the land:
Their pounces were murder,
and terror their cry,
They’d conquer’d
and ruin’d a world beside;
She took to her hills,
and her arrows let fly,
The daring invaders
they fled or they died.
The Caméléon-Savage
disturb’d her repose,
With tumult, disquiet,
rebellion, and strife;
Provok’d beyond
bearing, at last she arose,
And robb’d him
at once of his hopes and his life:
The Anglian lion, the
terror of France,
Oft prowling, ensanguin’d
the Tweed’s silver flood;
But, taught by the bright
Caledonian lance,
He learned to fear in
his own native wood.
The fell Harpy-raven
took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas,
and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian
boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage
and wallow in gore:
O’er countries
and kingdoms their fury prevail’d,
No arts could appease
them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia
in vain they assail’d,
As Largs well can witness,
and Loncartie tell.
Thus bold, independent,
unconquer’d, and free,
Her bright course of
glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia
immortal must be;
I’ll prove it
from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle triangle,
the figure we’ll chuse:
The upright is Chance,
and old Time is the base;
But brave Caledonia’s
the hypothenuse;
Then, ergo, she’ll
match them, and match them always.
To Miss Cruickshank.
A very Young Lady.
Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book,
presented to her by the Author.
Beauteous Rosebud, young
and gay,
Blooming in thy early
May,
Never may’st thou,
lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety
shower!
Never Boreas’
hoary path,
Never Eurus’ pois’nous
breath,
Never baleful stellar
lights,
Taint thee with untimely
blights!
Never, never reptile
thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely
view
Thy bosom blushing still
with dew!
May’st thou long,
sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native
stem;
Till some ev’ning,
sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing
balm,
While all around the
woodland rings,
And ev’ry bird
thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful
sound,
Shed thy dying honours
round,
And resign to parent
Earth
The loveliest form she
e’er gave birth.
Beware O’ Bonie Ann.
Ye gallants bright,
I rede you right,
Beware o’ bonie
Ann;
Her comely face sae
fu’ o’ grace,
Your heart she will
trepan:
Her een sae bright,
like stars by night,
Her skin sae like the
swan;
Sae jimply lac’d
her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might
span.
Youth, Grace, and Love
attendant move,
And pleasure leads the
van:
In a’ their charms,
and conquering arms,
They wait on bonie Ann.
The captive bands may
chain the hands,
But love enslaves the
man:
Ye gallants braw, I
rede you a’,
Beware o’ bonie
Ann!
Ode On The Departed Regency Bill.
(March, 1789)
Daughter of Chaos’
doting years,
Nurse of ten thousand
hopes and fears,
Whether thy airy, insubstantial
shade
(The rights of sepulture
now duly paid)
Spread abroad its hideous
form
On the roaring civil
storm,
Deafening din and warring
rage
Factions wild with factions
wage;
Or under-ground, deep-sunk,
profound,
Among the demons of
the earth,
With groans that make
the mountains shake,
Thou mourn thy ill-starr’d,
blighted birth;
Or in the uncreated
Void,
Where seeds of future
being fight,
With lessen’d
step thou wander wide,
To greet thy Mother Ancient
Night.
And as each jarring,
monster-mass is past,
Fond recollect what
once thou wast:
In manner due, beneath
this sacred oak,
Hear, Spirit, hear!
thy presence I invoke!
By a Monarch’s
heaven-struck fate,
By a disunited State,
By a generous Prince’s
wrongs.
By a Senate’s
strife of tongues,
By a Premier’s
sullen pride,
Louring on the changing
tide;
By dread Thurlow’s
powers to awe
Rhetoric, blasphemy
and law;
By the turbulent ocean
A Nation’s commotion,
By the harlot-caresses
Of borough addresses,
By days few and evil,
(Thy portion, poor devil!)
By Power, Wealth, and
Show,
(The Gods by men adored,)
By nameless Poverty,
(Their hell abhorred,)
By all they hope, by
all they fear,
Hear! and appear!
Stare not on me, thou
ghastly Power!
Nor, grim with chained
defiance, lour:
No Babel-structure would
I build
Where, order exil’d
from his native sway,
Confusion may the regent-sceptre
wield,
While all would rule
and none obey:
Go, to the world of
man relate
The story of thy sad,
eventful fate;
And call presumptuous
Hope to hear
And bid him check his
blind career;
And tell the sore-prest
sons of Care,
Never, never to despair!
Paint Charles’
speed on wings of fire,
The object of his fond
desire,
Beyond his boldest hopes,
at hand:
Paint all the triumph
of the Portland Band;
Hark how they lift the
joy-elated voice!
And who are these that
equally rejoice?
Jews, Gentiles, what
a motley crew!
The iron tears their
flinty cheeks bedew;
See how unfurled the
parchment ensigns fly,
And Principal and Interest
all the cry!
And how their num’rous
creditors rejoice;
But just as hopes to
warm enjoyment rise,
Cry Convalescence! and
the vision flies.
Then next pourtray a
dark’ning twilight gloom,
Eclipsing sad a gay,
rejoicing morn,
While proud Ambition
to th’ untimely tomb
By gnashing, grim, despairing
fiends is borne:
Paint ruin, in the shape
of high D[undas]
Gaping with giddy terror
o’er the brow;
In vain he struggles,
the fates behind him press,
And clam’rous
hell yawns for her prey below:
How fallen That, whose
pride late scaled the skies!
And This, like Lucifer,
no more to rise!
Again pronounce the
powerful word;
See Day, triumphant
from the night, restored.
Then know this truth,
ye Sons of Men!
(Thus ends thy moral
tale,)
Your darkest terrors
may be vain,
Your brightest hopes
may fail.
Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner.
Auld comrade dear, and
brither sinner,
How’s a’
the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae
eastlin wind,
That’s like to
blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties
are frozen,
My dearest member nearly
dozen’d.
I’ve sent you
here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers
to glimpse on;
Smith, wi’ his
sympathetic feeling,
An’ Reid, to common
sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought
and wrangled,
An’ meikle Greek
an’ Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their
logic-jargon tir’d,
And in the depth of
science mir’d,
To common sense they
now appeal,
What wives and wabsters
see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend!
I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an’
return them quickly:
For now I’m grown
sae cursed douce
I pray and ponder butt
the house;
My shins, my lane, I
there sit roastin’,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown,
an’ Boston,
Till by an’ by,
if I haud on,
I’ll grunt a real
gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try
it,
To cast my e’en
up like a pyet,
When by the gun she
tumbles o’er
Flutt’ring an’
gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall
see me bright,
A burning an’
a shining light.
My heart-warm love to
guid auld Glen,
The ace an’ wale
of honest men:
When bending down wi’
auld grey hairs
Beneath the load of
years and cares,
May He who made him
still support him,
An’ views beyond
the grave comfort him;
His worthy fam’ly
far and near,
God bless them a’
wi’ grace and gear!
My auld schoolfellow,
Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish
him joy,
If he’s a parent,
lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg
the mither,
Just five-and-forty
years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster
Charlie,
I’m tauld he offers
very fairly.
An’ Lord, remember
singing Sannock,
Wi’ hale breeks,
saxpence, an’ a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance,
Nancy,
Since she is fitted
to her fancy,
An’ her kind stars
hae airted till her
gA guid chiel wi’
a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects,
I sen’ it,
To cousin Kate, an’
sister Janet:
Tell them, frae me,
wi’ chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they’ll
aiblins fin’ them fashious;
To grant a heart is
fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenhead’s
the devil.
An’ lastly, Jamie,
for yoursel,
May guardian angels
tak a spell,
An’ steer you
seven miles south o’ hell:
But first, before you
see heaven’s glory,
May ye get mony a merry
story,
Mony a laugh, and mony
a drink,
And aye eneugh o’
needfu’ clink.
Now fare ye weel, an’
joy be wi’ you:
For my sake, this I
beg it o’ you,
Assist poor Simson a’
ye can,
Ye’ll fin; him
just an honest man;
Sae I conclude, and
quat my chanter,
Your’s, saint
or sinner,
Rob the Ranter.
A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock.
On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery.
O sing a new song to
the Lord,
Make, all and every
one,
A joyful noise, even
for the King
His restoration.
The sons of Belial in
the land
Did set their heads
together;
Come, let us sweep them
off, said they,
Like an o’erflowing
river.
They set their heads
together, I say,
They set their heads
together;
On right, on left, on
every hand,
We saw none to deliver.
Thou madest strong two
chosen ones
To quell the Wicked’s
pride;
That Young Man, great
in Issachar,
The burden-bearing tribe.
And him, among the Princes
chief
In our Jerusalem,
The judge that’s
mighty in thy law,
The man that fears thy
name.
Yet they, even they,
with all their strength,
Began to faint and fail:
Even as two howling,
ravenous wolves
To dogs do turn their
tail.
Th’ ungodly o’er
the just prevail’d,
For so thou hadst appointed;
That thou might’st
greater glory give
Unto thine own anointed.
And now thou hast restored
our State,
Pity our Kirk also;
For she by tribulations
Is now brought very
low.
Consume that high-place,
Patronage,
From off thy holy hill;
And in thy fury burn
the book
Even of that man M’Gill.^1
Now hear our prayer,
accept our song,
And fight thy chosen’s
battle:
We seek but little,
Lord, from thee,
Thou kens we get as
little.
Sketch In Verse.
Inscribed to the Right
Hon. C. J. Fox.
How wisdom and Folly
meet, mix, and unite,
How Virtue and Vice
blend their black and their white,
How Genius, th’
illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law,
reconciles contradiction,
I sing: If these
mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I let
the Critics go whistle!
But now for a Patron
whose name and whose glory,
At once may illustrate
and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators,
first of our wits;
Yet whose parts and
acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast,
and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half
of ’em e’er could go wrong;
With passions so potent,
and fancies so bright,
No man with the half
of ’em e’er could go right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot
son of the Muses,
For using thy name,
offers fifty excuses.
Good Lord, what is Man!
for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop
his hooks and his crooks;
With his depths and
his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all he’s
a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion
Sir Pope hugely labours,
That, like th’
old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:
Mankind are his show-box a
friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, Ruling
Passion the picture will show him,
What pity, in rearing
so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular,
Truth, should have miss’d him;
For, spite of his fine
theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science
defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities
each to its tribe,
And think human nature
they truly describe;
Have you found this,
or t’other? There’s more in the wind;
As by one drunken fellow
his comrades you’ll find.
But such is the flaw,
or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that
wonderful creature called Man,
No two virtues, whatever
relation they claim.
Nor even two different
shades of the same,
Though like as was ever
twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall
imply you’ve the other.
But truce with abstraction,
and truce with a Muse
Whose rhymes you’ll
perhaps, Sir, ne’er deign to peruse:
Will you leave your
justings, your jars, and your quarrels,
Contending with Billy
for proud-nodding laurels?
My much-honour’d
Patron, believe your poor poet,
Your courage, much more
than your prudence, you show it:
In vain with Squire
Billy for laurels you struggle:
He’ll have them
by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle:
Not cabinets even of
kings would conceal ’em,
He’d up the back
stairs, and by God, he would steal ’em,
Then feats like Squire
Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ’em;
It is not, out-do him the
task is, out-thieve him!
The Wounded Hare.
Inhuman man! curse on
thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming
eye;
May never pity soothe
thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad
thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wand’rer
of the wood and field!
The bitter little that
of life remains:
No more the thickening
brakes and verdant plains
To thee a home, or food,
or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch,
some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but
now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes
whistling o’er thy head,
The cold earth with
thy bloody bosom prest.
Perhaps a mother’s
anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd
fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings,
who will now provide
That life a mother only
can bestow!
Oft as by winding Nith
I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail
the cheerful dawn,
I’ll miss thee
sporting o’er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian’s
aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
Delia, An Ode.
“To the Editor of The Star. Mr.
Printer If the productions of a simple
ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with
Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses
who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius,
your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded
by future communications from Yours, &c.,
R. Burns.
Ellisland,
near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”
Fair the face of orient
day,
Fair the tints of op’ning
rose;
But fairer still my
Delia dawns,
More lovely far her
beauty shows.
Sweet the lark’s
wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill
to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful
still,
Steal thine accents
on mine ear.
The flower-enamour’d
busy bee
The rosy banquet loves
to sip;
Sweet the streamlet’s
limpid lapse
To the sun-brown’d
Arab’s lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy
lips
Let me, no vagrant insect,
rove;
O let me steal one liquid
kiss,
For Oh! my soul is parch’d
with love.
The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle.
Tune “The
Gardener’s March.”
When rosy May comes
in wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading
bowers,
Then busy, busy are
his hours,
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
The crystal waters gently
fa’,
The merry bards are
lovers a’,
The scented breezes
round him blaw
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
When purple morning
starts the hare
To steal upon her early
fare;
Then thro’ the
dews he maun repair
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
When day, expiring in
the west,
The curtain draws o’
Nature’s rest,
He flies to her arms
he lo’es the best,
The Gard’ner wi’
his paidle.
On A Bank Of Flowers.
On a bank of flowers,
in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful, blooming
Nelly lay,
With love and sleep
opprest;
When Willie, wand’ring
thro’ the wood,
Who for her favour oft
had sued;
He gaz’d, he wish’d
He fear’d, he
blush’d,
And trembled where he
stood.
Her closed eyes, like
weapons sheath’d,
Were seal’d in
soft repose;
Her lip, still as she
fragrant breath’d,
It richer dyed the rose;
The springing lilies,
sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kissed her
rival breast;
He gaz’d, he wish’d,
He mear’d, he
blush’d,
His bosom ill at rest.
Her robes, light-waving
in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her
native ease,
All harmony and grace;
Tumultuous tides his
pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent
kiss he stole;
He gaz’d, he wish’d,
He fear’d, he
blush’d,
And sigh’d his
very soul.
As flies the partridge
from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting,
half-awake,
Away affrighted springs;
But Willie follow’d as
he should,
He overtook her in the
wood;
He vow’d, he pray’d,
He found the maid
Forgiving all, and good.
Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad.
Young Jockie was the
blythest lad,
In a’ our town
or here awa;
Fu’ blythe he
whistled at the gaud,
Fu’ lightly danc’d
he in the ha’.
He roos’d my een
sae bonie blue,
He roos’d my waist
sae genty sma’;
An’ aye my heart
cam to my mou’,
When ne’er a body
heard or saw.
My Jockie toils upon
the plain,
Thro’ wind and
weet, thro’ frost and snaw:
And o’er the lea
I leuk fu’ fain,
When Jockie’s
owsen hameward ca’.
An’ aye the night
comes round again,
When in his arms he
taks me a’;
An’ aye he vows
he’ll be my ain,
As lang’s he has
a breath to draw.
The Banks Of Nith.
The Thames flows proudly
to the sea,
Where royal cities stately
stand;
But sweeter flows the
Nith to me,
Where Comyns ance
had high command.
When shall I see that
honour’d land,
That winding stream
I love so dear!
Must wayward Fortune’s
adverse hand
For ever, ever keep
me here!
How lovely, Nith, thy
fruitful vales,
Where bounding hawthorns
gaily bloom;
And sweetly spread thy
sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton
through the broom.
Tho’ wandering
now must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks
and braes,
May there my latest
hours consume,
Amang the friends of
early days!
Jamie, Come Try Me.
Chorus. Jamie,
come try me,
Jamie, come try me,
If thou would win my
love,
Jamie, come try me.
If thou should ask my
love,
Could I deny thee?
If thou would win my
love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me,
&c.
If thou should kiss
me, love,
Wha could espy thee?
If thou wad be my love,
Jamie, come try me!
Jamie, come try me,
&c.
I Love My Love In Secret.
My Sandy gied to me
a ring,
Was a’ beset wi’
diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far
better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge
o’ his ring.
Chorus. My
Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bonie, bonie Sandy
O;
Tho’ the love
that I owe
To thee I dare
na show,
Yet I love my love in
secret, my Sandy O.
My Sandy brak a piece
o’ gowd,
While down his cheeks
the saut tears row’d;
He took a hauf, and
gied it to me,
And I’ll keep
it till the hour I die.
My Sand O, &c.
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar.
O wilt thou go wi’
me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi’
me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a
horse, or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
I care na thy daddie,
his lands and his money,
I care na thy kin,
sae high and sae lordly;
But sae that thou’lt
hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie,
sweet Tibbie Dunbar.
The Captain’s Lady.
Chorus. O
mount and go, mount and make you ready,
O mount and go, and
be the Captain’s lady.
When the drums do beat,
and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state,
and see thy love in battle:
When the drums do beat,
and the cannons rattle,
Thou shalt sit in state,
and see thy love in battle.
O mount and go, &c.
When the vanquish’d
foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we’ll
go, and in love enjoy it:
When the vanquish’d
foe sues for peace and quiet,
To the shades we’ll
go, and in love enjoy it.
O mount and go, &c.
John Anderson, My Jo.
John Anderson, my jo,
John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like
the raven,
Your bonie brow was
brent;
But now your brow is
beld, John,
Your locks are like
the snaw;
But blessings on your
frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo,
John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day,
John,
We’ve had wi’
ane anither:
Now we maun totter down,
John,
And hand in hand we’ll
go,
And sleep thegither
at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
My Love, She’s But A Lassie Yet.
My love, she’s
but a lassie yet,
My love, she’s
but a lassie yet;
We’ll let her
stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half
sae saucy yet;
I rue the day I sought
her, O!
I rue the day I sought
her, O!
Wha gets her needs na
say she’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s
bought her, O.
Come, draw a drap
o’ the best o’t yet,
Come, draw a drap
o’ the best o’t yet,
Gae seek for pleasure
whare you will,
But here I never miss’d
it yet,
We’re a’
dry wi’ drinkin o’t,
We’re a’
dry wi’ drinkin o’t;
The minister kiss’d
the fiddler’s wife;
He could na preach
for thinkin o’t.
Song Tam Glen.
My heart is a-breaking,
dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me
come len’,
To anger them a’
is a pity,
But what will I do wi’
Tam Glen?
I’m thinking,
wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might
mak a fen;
What care I in riches
to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam
Glen!
There’s Lowrie
the Laird o’ Dumeller
“Gude day to you,
brute!” he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws
o’ his siller,
But when will he dance
like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly
deave me,
And bids me beware o’
young men;
They flatter, she says,
to deceive me,
But wha can think sae
o’ Tam Glen!
My daddie says, gin
I’ll forsake him,
He’d gie me gude
hunder marks ten;
But, if it’s ordain’d
I maun take him,
O wha will I get but
Tam Glen!
Yestreen at the Valentine’s
dealing,
My heart to my mou’
gied a sten’;
For thrice I drew ane
without failing,
And thrice it was written
“Tam Glen”!
The last Halloween I
was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve,
as ye ken,
His likeness came up
the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks
o’ Tam Glen!
Come, counsel, dear
Tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie ye my
bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me
to marry
The lad I lo’e
dearly, Tam Glen.
Carle, An The King Come.
Chorus. Carle,
an the King come,
Carle, an the King come,
Thou shalt dance and
I will sing,
Carle, an the King come.
An somebody were come
again,
Then somebody maun cross
the main,
And every man shall
hae his ain,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come,
&c.
I trow we swapped for
the worse,
We gae the boot and
better horse;
And that we’ll
tell them at the cross,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come,
&c.
Coggie, an the King
come,
Coggie, an the King
come,
I’se be fou, and
thou’se be toom
Coggie, an the King
come.
Coggie, an the King
come, &c.
The Laddie’s Dear Sel’.
There’s a youth
in this city, it were a great pity
That he from our lassies
should wander awa’;
For he’s bonie
and braw, weel-favor’d witha’,
An’ his hair has
a natural buckle an’ a’.
His coat is the hue
o’ his bonnet sae blue,
His fecket is white
as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,
and his shoon like the slae,
And his clear siller
buckles, they dazzle us a’.
For beauty and fortune
the laddie’s been courtin;
Weel-featur’d,
weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted an’ braw;
But chiefly the siller
that gars him gang till her,
The penny’s the
jewel that beautifies a’.
There’s Meg wi’
the mailen that fain wad a haen him,
And Susie, wha’s
daddie was laird o’ the Ha’;
There’s lang-tocher’d
Nancy maist fetters his fancy,
But the
laddie’s dear sel’, he loes dearest
of a’.
Whistle O’er The Lave O’t.
First when Maggie was
my care,
Heav’n, I thought,
was in her air,
Now we’re married speir
nae mair,
But whistle o’er
the lave o’t!
Meg was meek, and Meg
was mild,
Sweet and harmless as
a child
Wiser men than me’s
beguil’d;
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
How we live, my Meg
and me,
How we love, and how
we gree,
I care na by how
few may see
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
Wha I wish were maggot’s
meat,
Dish’d up in her
winding-sheet,
I could write but
Meg maun see’t
Whistle o’er the
lave o’t!
My Eppie Adair.
Chorus. An’
O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie,
Wha wad na be happy
wi’ Eppie Adair?
By love, and by beauty,
by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
my Eppie Adair!
By love, and by beauty,
by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
A’ pleasure exile
me, dishonour defile me,
If e’er I beguile
ye, my Eppie Adair!
A’ pleasure exile
me, dishonour defile me,
If e’er I beguile
thee, my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
On The Late Captain Grose’s
Peregrinations Thro’ Scotland.
Collecting The Antiquities
Of That Kingdom.
Hear, Land o’
Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie
Groat’s;
If there’s a hole
in a’ your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chield’s amang
you takin notes,
And, faith, he’ll
prent it:
If in your bounds ye
chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel
wight,
O’ stature short,
but genius bright,
That’s he, mark
weel;
And wow! he has an unco
sleight
O’ cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted
biggin,
Or kirk deserted by
its riggin,
It’s ten to ane
ye’ll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi’ deils, they
say, Lord save’s! colleaguin
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts
auld ha’ or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal
in glamour,
And you, deep-read in
hell’s black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,
Ye’ll quake at
his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bitches.
It’s tauld he
was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa’n
than fled;
But now he’s quat
the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the Antiquarian
trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o’
auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and
jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians
three in tackets,
A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and
auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve’s first
fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain’s
fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished
the gender
O’ Balaam’s
ass:
A broomstick o’
the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi’
brass.
Forbye, he’ll
shape you aff fu’ gleg
The cut of Adam’s
philibeg;
The knife that nickit
Abel’s craig
He’ll prove you
fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in
his glee,
For meikle glee and
fun has he,
Then set him down, and
twa or three
Gude fellows wi’
him:
And port, O port! shine
thou a wee,
And Then ye’ll
see him!
Now, by the Pow’rs
o’ verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield,
O Grose!
Whae’er o’
thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca’
thee;
I’d take the rascal
by the nose,
Wad say, “Shame
fa’ thee!”
Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary.
The Devil got notice
that Grose was a-dying
So whip! at the summons,
old Satan came flying;
But when he approached
where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post
with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish’d, confounded,
cries Satan “By God,
I’ll want him,
ere I take such a damnable load!”
The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm.
A Ballad.
Tune “Come
rouse, Brother Sportsman!”
Orthodox! orthodox,
who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm
to your conscience:
A heretic blast has
been blown in the West,
“That what is
no sense must be nonsense,”
Orthodox! That
what is no sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac! Doctor
Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers
wi’ terror:
To join Faith and Sense,
upon any pretence,
Was heretic, damnable
error,
Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas
heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr! town of
Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi’
mischief a-brewing,^
Provost John^3 is still
deaf to the Church’s relief,
And Orator Bob^4 is
its ruin,
Town of Ayr! Yes,
Orator Bob is its ruin.
D’rymple mild!
D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s
like a child,
And your life like the
new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save
you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three’s
ane an’ twa,
D’rymple mild!^5
For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.
Rumble John! rumble
John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with
heresy cramm’d;
Then out wi’ your
ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev’ry
note of the damn’d.
Rumble John!^6 And roar
ev’ry note of the damn’d.
Simper James! simper
James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There’s a holier
chase in your view:
I’ll lay on your
head, that the pack you’ll soon lead,
For puppies like you
there’s but few,
Simper James!^7 For
puppies like you there’s but few.
Singet Sawnie! singet
Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what evils
await?
With a jump, yell, and
howl, alarm ev’ry soul,
For the foul thief is
just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie!^8 For
the foul thief is just at your gate.
Poet Willie! poet Willie,
gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi’ your “Liberty’s
Chain” and your wit;
O’er Pegasus’
side ye ne’er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the
place where he sh t.
Poet Willie!^9 Ye but
smelt man, the place where he sh t.
Barr Steenie! Barr
Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair
wi’ the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
to havins and sense,
Wi’ people that
ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie!^10 Wi’people
that ken ye nae better.
Jamie Goose! Jamie
Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked
Lieutenant;
But the Doctor’s
your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark,
He has cooper’d
an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t,
Jamie Goose!^11 He has
cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin
in’t.
Davie Bluster!
Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice
o’ recruits;
Yet to worth let’s
be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the
king o’ the brutes,
Davie Bluster!^12 If
the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.
Irvine Side! Irvine
Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma’
is your share:
Ye’ve the figure,
’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow,
And your friends they
dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side!^13 And
your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock! muirland
Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
To crush common-sense
for her sins;
If ill-manners were
wit, there’s no mortal so fit
To confound the poor
Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock!^14 To
confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andrò Gowk!
Andrò Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An’ the Book nought
the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho’ ye’re
rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’
wig,
An’ ye’ll
hae a calf’s had o’ sma’
value,
Andrò Gowk!^15
Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.
Daddy Auld! daddy Auld,
there’a a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than
the clerk;
Tho’ ye do little
skaith, ye’ll be in at the death,
For gif ye canna bite,
ye may bark,
Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye
canna bite, ye may bark.
Holy Will! holy Will,
there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer’d
the alms o’ the poor;
The timmer is scant
when ye’re taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in
a rape for an hour,
Holy Will!^17 Ye should
swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin’s sons!
Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never
can need;
Your hearts are the
stuff will be powder enough,
And your skulls are
a storehouse o’ lead,
Calvin’s sons!
Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.
Poet Burns! poet Burns,
wi’ your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld
native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy,
yet were she e’en tipsy,
She could ca’us
nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She
could ca’us nae waur than we are.
Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents.
Factor John! Factor
John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne’er made
anither, thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the
Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this
token sincere,
Factor John! He
presents thee this token sincere.
Afton’s Laird!
Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared,
A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
as I mention’d before,
To that trusty auld
worthy, Clackleith,
Afton’s Laird!
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.
Sonnet On Receiving A Favour.
10 Aug., 1979.
Addressed to Robert
Graham, Esq. of Fintry.
I call no Goddess to
inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit
a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my
ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute
of my heart returns,
For boons accorded,
goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer,
as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou
other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling
stars of night!
If aught that giver
from my mind efface,
If I that giver’s
bounty e’er disgrace,
Then roll to me along
your wand’rig spheres,
Only to number out a
villain’s years!
I lay my hand upon my
swelling breast,
And grateful would,
but cannot speak the rest.
Extemporaneous Effusion.
On being appointed to
an Excise division.
Searching auld wives’
barrels,
Ochon the day!
That clarty barm should
stain my laurels:
But what’ll
ye say?
These movin’ things
ca’d wives an’ weans,
Wad move the very hearts
o’ stanes!
Song Willie Brew’d A Peck O’
Maut^1.
O Willie brew’d
a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allen cam
to see;
Three blyther hearts,
that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.
Chorus. We
are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
But just a drappie in
our ee;
The cock may craw, the
day may daw
And aye we’ll
taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three
merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow
are we;
And mony a night we’ve
merry been,
And mony mae we hope
to be!
We are na fou,
&c.
It is the moon, I ken
her horn,
That’s blinkin’
in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright
to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she’ll
wait a wee!
We are na fou,
&c.
Wha first shall rise
to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun
is he!
Wha first beside his
chair shall fa’,
He is the King amang
us three.
We are na fou,
&c.
Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes.
Chorus. Ca’
the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them
where the heather grows,
Ca’ them
where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd
lad:
He row’d me sweetly
in his plaid,
And he ca’d me
his dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Will ye gang down the
water-side,
And see the waves sae
sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading
wide,
The moon it shines fu’
clearly.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
Ye sall get gowns and
ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon
your feet,
And in my arms ye’se
lie and sleep,
An’ ye sall be
my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
If ye’ll but stand
to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’
thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in
your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
While waters wimple
to the sea,
While day blinks in
the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death
sall blin’ my e’e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes,
&c.
I Gaed A Waefu’ Gate Yestreen.
I gaed a waefu’
gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I’ll
dearly rue;
I gat my death frae
twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o’bonie
blue.
’Twas not her
golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses
wat wi’ dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white
It was her een sae bonie
blue.
She talk’d, she
smil’d, my heart she wyl’d;
She charm’d my
soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound,
the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een so
bonie blue.
But “spare to
speak, and spare to speed;”
She’ll aiblins
listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I’ll
lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie
blue.
Highland Harry Back Again.
My Harry was a gallant
gay,
Fu’ stately strade
he on the plain;
But now he’s banish’d
far away,
I’ll never see
him back again.
Chorus. O
for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s
land
For Highland Harry back
again.
When a’ the lave
gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the
glen;
I set me down and greet
my fill,
And aye I wish him back
again.
O for him, &c.
O were some villains
hangit high,
And ilka body had their
ain!
Then I might see the
joyfu’ sight,
My Highland Harry back
again.
O for him, &c.
The Battle Of Sherramuir.
Tune “The
Cameronian Rant.”
“O cam ye here
the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi’
me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see,
man?”
I saw the battle, sair
and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony
a sheugh;
My heart, for fear,
gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and
see the cluds
O’ clans frae
woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum’d at
kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The red-coat lads, wi’
black cockauds,
To meet them were na
slaw, man;
They rush’d and
push’d, and blude outgush’d
And mony a bouk did
fa’, man:
The great Argyle led
on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty
miles;
They hough’d the
clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack’d and
hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d,
And thro’ they
dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d,
Till fey men died awa,
man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
But had ye seen the
philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews,
man;
When in the teeth they
dar’d our Whigs,
And covenant True-blues,
man:
In lines extended lang
and large,
When baiginets o’erpower’d
the targe,
And thousands hasten’d
to the charge;
Wi’ Highland wrath
they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’
death, till, out o’ breath,
They fled like frighted
dows, man!
La, la, la, la, &c.
“O how deil, Tam,
can that be true?
The chase gaed frae
the north, man;
I saw mysel, they did
pursue,
The horsemen back to
Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in
my ain sight,
They took the brig wi’
a’ their might,
And straught to Stirling
wing’d their flight;
But, cursed lot! the
gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor
red-coat,
For fear amaist did
swarf, man!”
La, la, la, la, &c.
My sister Kate cam up
the gate
Wi’ crowdie unto
me, man;
She swoor she saw some
rebels run
To Perth unto Dundee,
man;
Their left-hand general
had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae
gude will
That day their neibors’
blude to spill;
For fear, for foes,
that they should lose
Their cogs o’
brose; they scar’d at blows,
And hameward fast did
flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
They’ve lost some
gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans,
man!
I fear my Lord Panmure
is slain,
Or fallen in Whiggish
hands, man,
Now wad ye sing this
double fight,
Some fell for wrang,
and some for right;
But mony bade the world
gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how
pell and mell,
By red claymores,
and muskets knell,
Wi’ dying yell,
the Tories fell,
And Whigs to hell did
flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The Braes O’ Killiecrankie.
Where hae ye been sae
braw, lad?
Whare hae ye been sae
brankie, O?
Whare hae ye been sae
braw, lad?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie,
O?
Chorus. An
ye had been whare I hae been,
Ye wad na been
sae cantie, O;
An ye had seen what
I hae seen,
I’ the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
I faught at land, I
faught at sea,
At hame I faught my
Auntie, O;
But I met the devil
an’ Dundee,
On the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
The bauld Pitcur fell
in a furr,
An’ Clavers gat
a clankie, O;
Or I had fed an Athole
gled,
On the Braes o’
Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
Awa’ Whigs, Awa’
Chorus. Awa’
Whigs, awa’!
Awa’ Whigs, awa’!
Ye’re but a pack
o’ traitor louns,
Ye’ll do nae gude
at a’.
Our thrissles flourish’d
fresh and fair,
And bonie bloom’d
our roses;
But Whigs cam’
like a frost in June,
An’ wither’d
a’ our posies.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our ancient crown’s
fa’en in the dust
Deil blin’ them
wi’ the stoure o’t!
An’ write their
names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the
power o’t.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our sad decay in church
and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whigs cam’
o’er us for a curse,
An’ we hae done
wi’ thriving.
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Grim vengeance lang
has taen a nap,
But we may see him wauken:
Gude help the day when
royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!
Awa’ Whigs, &c.
A Waukrife Minnie.
Whare are you gaun,
my bonie lass,
Whare are you gaun,
my hinnie?
She answered me right
saucilie,
“An errand for
my minnie.”
O whare live ye, my
bonie lass,
O whare live ye, my
hinnie?
“By yon burnside,
gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi’
my minnie.”
But I foor up the glen
at e’en.
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before
the grey morn cam,
She was na hauf
sae saucie.
O weary fa’
the waukrife cock,
And the foumart lay
his crawin!
He wauken’d the
auld wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat
she raise,
And o’er the bed
she brocht her;
And wi’ a meikle
hazel rung
She made her a weel-pay’d
dochter.
O fare thee weel, my
bonie lass,
O fare thee well, my
hinnie!
Thou art a gay an’
a bonnie lass,
But thou has a waukrife
minnie.
The Captive Ribband.
Tune “Robaidh
dona gorach.”
Dear Myra, the captive
ribband’s mine,
’Twas all my faithful
love could gain;
And would you ask me
to resign
The sole reward that
crowns my pain?
Go, bid the hero who
has run
Thro’ fields of
death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his
laurels down,
And all his well-earn’d
praise disclaim.
The ribband shall its
freedom lose
Lose all the bliss it
had with you,
And share the fate I
would impose
On thee, wert thou my
captive too.
It shall upon my bosom
live,
Or clasp me in a close
embrace;
And at its fortune if
you grieve,
Retrieve its doom, and
take its place.
My Heart’s In The Highlands.
Tune “Failte
na Miosg.”
Farewell to the Highlands,
farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour,
the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever
I rove,
The hills of the Highlands
for ever I love.
Chorus. My
heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in
the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer,
and following the roe,
My heart’s in
the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains,
high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths
and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests
and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents
and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in
the Highlands, &c.
The Whistle A Ballad.
I sing of a Whistle,
a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle,
the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court
of our good Scottish King,
And long with this Whistle
all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda, still rueing
the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle
sends down from his hall
“The Whistle’s
your challenge, to Scotland get o’er,
And drink them to hell,
Sir! or ne’er see me more!”
Old poets have sung,
and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur’d,
what champions fell:
The son of great Loda
was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle
their requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord
of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch’d at the
bottle, unconquer’d in war,
He drank his poor god-ship
as deep as the sea;
No tide of the Baltic
e’er drunker than he.
Thus Robert, victorious,
the trophy has gain’d;
Which now in his house
has for ages remain’d;
Till three noble chieftains,
and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again
have renew’d.
Three joyous good fellows,
with hearts clear of flaw
Craigdarroch, so famous
for with, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel,
so skill’d in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert,
deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began,
with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Downrightly
to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster
the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret,
try which was the man.
“By the gods of
the ancients!” Downrightly replies,
“Before I surrender
so glorious a prize,
I’ll conjure the
ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn
with him twenty times o’er.”
Sir Robert, a soldier,
no speech would pretend,
But he ne’er turn’d
his back on his foe, or his friend;
Said, “Toss down
the Whistle, the prize of the field,”
And, knee-deep in claret,
he’d die ere he’d yield.
To the board of Glenriddel
our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning
of sorrow and care;
But, for wine and for
welcome, not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit,
and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.
A bard was selected
to witness the fray,
And tell future ages
the feats of the day;
A Bard who detested
all sadness and spleen,
And wish’d that
Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over,
the claret they ply,
And ev’ry new
cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old
friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the
tighter the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot
as bumpers ran o’er:
Bright Phoebus ne’er
witness’d so joyous a core,
And vow’d that
to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted
he’d see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece
had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert,
to finish the fight,
Turn’d o’er
in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore ’twas
the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy Glenriddel,
so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare
ungodly would wage;
A high Ruling Elder
to wallow in wine;
He left the foul business
to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert
fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate
and quart bumpers contend!
Though Fate said, a
hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus and
down fell the knight.
Next uprose our Bard,
like a prophet in drink:
“Craigdarroch,
thou’lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish
immortal in rhyme,
Come one
bottle more and have at the sublime!
“Thy line, that
have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots
ever produce:
So thine be the laurel,
and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast
won, by yon bright god of day!”
To Mary In Heaven.
Thou ling’ring
star, with lessening ray,
That lov’st to
greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st
in the day
My Mary from my soul
was torn.
O Mary! dear departed
shade!
Where is thy place of
blissful rest?
See’st thou thy
lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the
groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can
I forget,
Can I forget the hallow’d
grove,
Where, by the winding
Ayr, we met,
To live one day of parting
love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of
transports past,
Thy image at our last
embrace,
Ah! little thought we
’twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d
his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with
wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and
hawthorn hoar,
’Twin’d
amorous round the raptur’d scene:
The flowers sprang wanton
to be prest,
The birds sang love
on every spray;
Till too, too soon,
the glowing west,
Proclaim’d the
speed of winged day.
Still o’er these
scenes my mem’ry wakes,
And fondly broods with
miser-care;
Time but th’ impression
stronger makes,
As streams their channels
deeper wear,
My Mary! dear departed
shade!
Where is thy blissful
place of rest?
See’st thou thy
lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the
groans that rend his breast?
Epistle To Dr. Blacklock.
Ellisland, 21st Oct.,
1789.
Wow, but your letter
made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and
weel and cantie?
I ken’d it still,
your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you aye as
weel’s I want ye!
And then ye’ll
do.
The ill-thief blaw the
Heron south!
And never drink be near
his drouth!
He tauld myself by word
o’ mouth,
He’d tak my letter;
I lippen’d to
the chiel in trouth,
And bade nae better.
But aiblins, honest
Master Heron
Had, at the time, some
dainty fair one
To ware this theologic
care on,
And holy study;
And tired o’ sauls
to waste his lear on,
E’en tried the
body.
But what d’ye
think, my trusty fere,
I’m turned a gauger Peace
be here!
Parnassian queans, I
fear, I fear,
Ye’ll now disdain
me!
And then my fifty pounds
a year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaikit, gleesome,
dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia’s
wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave
your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity
supreme is
‘Mang sons o’
men.
I hae a wife and twa
wee laddies;
They maun hae brose
and brats o’ duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart
right proud is
I need na vaunt
But I’ll sned
besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord help me thro’
this warld o’ care!
I’m weary sick
o’t late and air!
Not but I hae a richer
share
Than mony ithers;
But why should ae man
better fare,
And a’ men brithers?
Come, Firm Resolve,
take thou the van,
Thou stalk o’
carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint
heart ne’er wan
A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost
that he can,
Will whiles do mair.
But to conclude my silly
rhyme
(I’m scant o’
verse and scant o’ time),
To make a happy fireside
clime
To weans and wife,
That’s the true
pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister
Beckie,
And eke the same to
honest Lucky;
I wat she is a daintie
chuckie,
As e’er tread
clay;
And gratefully, my gude
auld cockie,
I’m yours for
aye.
Robert Burns.
The Five Carlins.
An Election Ballad.
Tune “Chevy
Chase.”
There was five Carlins
in the South,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London
town,
To bring them tidings
hame.
Nor only bring them
tidings hame,
But do their errands
there,
And aiblins gowd and
honor baith
Might be that laddie’s
share.
There was Maggy by the
banks o’ Nith,
A dame wi’ pride
eneugh;
And Marjory o’
the mony Lochs,
A Carlin auld and teugh.
And blinkin Bess of
Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whisky Jean, that
took her gill,
In Galloway sae wide.
And auld black Joan
frae Crichton Peel,^
O’ gipsy kith
an’ kin;
Five wighter Carlins
were na found
The South countrie within.
To send a lad to London
town,
They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and
mony a laird,
This errand fain wad
gae.
O mony a knight, and
mony a laird,
This errand fain wad
gae;
But nae ane could their
fancy please,
O ne’er a ane
but twae.
The first ane was a
belted Knight,
Bred of a Border band;^
And he wad gae to London
town,
Might nae man him withstand.
And he wad do their
errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the
court
Wad bid to him gude-day.
The neist cam in a Soger
youth,^
Who spak wi’ modest
grace,
And he wad gae to London
town,
If sae their pleasure
was.
He wad na hecht
them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an
honest heart,
Wad ne’er desert
his friend.
Now, wham to chuse,
and wham refuse,
At strife thir Carlins
fell;
For some had Gentlefolks
to please,
And some wad please
themsel’.
Then out spak mim-mou’d
Meg o’ Nith,
And she spak up wi’
pride,
And she wad send the
Soger youth,
Whatever might betide.
For the auld Gudeman
o’ London court^
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the
Soger youth,
To greet his eldest
son.^5
Then up sprang Bess
o’ Annandale,
And a deadly aith she’s
ta’en,
That she wad vote the
Border Knight,
Though she should vote
her lane.
“For far-off fowls
hae feathers fair,
And fools o’ change
are fain;
But I hae tried the
Border Knight,
And I’ll try him
yet again.”
Says black Joan frae
Crichton Peel,
A Carlin stoor and grim.
“The auld Gudeman
or young Gudeman,
For me may sink or swim;
For fools will prate
o’ right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them
to scorn;
But the Soger’s
friends hae blawn the best,
So he shall bear the
horn.”
Then whisky Jean spak
owre her drink,
“Ye weel ken,
kimmers a’,
The auld gudeman o’
London court,
His back’s been
at the wa’;
“And mony a friend
that kiss’d his caup
Is now a fremit wight;
But it’s ne’er
be said o’ whisky Jean
We’ll send the
Border Knight.”
Then slow raise Marjory
o’ the Lochs,
And wrinkled was her
brow,
Her ancient weed was
russet gray,
Her auld Scots bluid
was true;
“There’s
some great folk set light by me,
I set as light by them;
But I will send to London
town
Wham I like best at
hame.”
Sae how this mighty
plea may end,
Nae mortal wight can
tell;
God grant the King and
ilka man
May look weel to himsel.
Election Ballad For Westerha’.
Tune “Up
and waur them a’, Willie.”
The Laddies by the banks
o’ Nith
Wad trust his Grace^1
wi a’, Jamie;
But he’ll sair
them, as he sair’d the King
Turn tail and rin awa’,
Jamie.
Chorus. Up
and waur them a’, Jamie,
Up and waur them a’;
The Johnstones hae the
guidin o’t,
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa’!
The day he stude his
country’s friend,
Or gied her faes a claw,
Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin
wan,
That day the Duke ne’er
saw, Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
But wha is he, his country’s
boast?
Like him there is na
twa, Jamie;
There’s no a callent
tents the kye,
But kens o’ Westerha’,
Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
To end the wark, here’s
Whistlebirk,
Lang may his whistle
blaw, Jamie;
And Maxwell true, o’
sterling blue;
And we’ll be Johnstones
a’, Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries.
On New Year’s
Day Evening, 1790.
No song nor dance I
bring from yon great city,
That queens it o’er
our taste the more’s the pity:
Tho’ by the bye,
abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste
are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric
I appear,
I come to wish you all
a good New Year!
Old Father Time deputes
me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but
tell his simple story:
The sage, grave Ancient
cough’d, and bade me say,
“You’re
one year older this important day,”
If wiser too he
hinted some suggestion,
But ’twould be
rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be
roguish leer and wink,
Said “Sutherland,
in one word, bid them Think!”
Ye sprightly youths,
quite flush with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the
world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has
a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious,
proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid
your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow
is ever half the battle;
That tho’ some
by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the foreclock
is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing,
suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles
by persevering.
Last, tho’ not
least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high
Heaven’s peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate
smoothes his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you’ll
mind the important Now!
To crown your happiness
he asks your leave,
And offers, bliss to
give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho’
haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride
we own your many favours;
And howsoe’er
our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing
bosoms truly feel it.