Part 9

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An’ aits set up their awnie horn, An’ pease and beans, at e’en or morn, 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! 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; 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.

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 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; 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, 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! 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, 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.

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, 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! 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 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! 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! 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.

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, 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, 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 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! 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, 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 damn’d drinkers.

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 Directs thee best.

1786

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, 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: 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, 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; 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, 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.

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 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’! 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 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: At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, For pith an’ speed; But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollowm Whare’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle 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.

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’, 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; 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 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; 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’, 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.

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, 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, 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 To some hain’d rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

The Twa Dogs^1

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, 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; 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, 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, 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, And in freak had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland Sang,^2 Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 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, Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.

[Footnote 1: Luath was Burns’ own dog.]

[Footnote 2: Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—R. B.]

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; 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. About the “lords o’ the creation.”

Caesar

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.

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; 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; 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, 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.

Luath

Trowth, Caesar, 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, 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, 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, Are bred in sic a way as this is.

Caesar

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; 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, 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!

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, 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.

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 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, 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, 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; 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, 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; 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 In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, For Britain’s guid his saul indentin—

Caesar

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. 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, 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; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles,

Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, 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.

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, 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; 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 Caesar, 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.

Caesar

Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them!

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, 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.

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, 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.

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, 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; 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 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.

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, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer

To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.^1

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 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, And scriechinhout prosaic verse, An like to brust!

[Footnote 1: This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R.B.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7 True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8

[Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.]

[Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.]

[Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.]

[Footnote 5: The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose.]

[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.]

[Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.]

[Footnote 8: Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session.]

An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9 An’ mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.]

[Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.]

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

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

Could he some commutation broach, I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie, 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 To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert.

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

God bless your Honours, a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,

[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]

[Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R.B.]

In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie’s! Your humble poet sings an’ prays, While Rab his name is.

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 Tak aff their whisky.

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

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