Part 6

_Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid, That’s prest wi’ grief an’ 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 (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).

Let other Poets raise a fracas ’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drucken Bacchus, An’ crabbèd names an’ stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug; I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, 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, 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 an’ beans at een 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 livin’; 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 the heart o’ drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, At’s weary toil: Thou 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 wee 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 inspir’d, 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’ luggèd caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At ev’ry chaup.

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 skirlin’ weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright How fumblin’ cuifs 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-bree 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 weasan’ Wi’ liquors nice, An’ hardly, in a winter’s season, E’er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning 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, Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch O’ sour disdain, Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch Wi’ honest men!...

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’ th’ Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize— Haud up thy hand, 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 bannock, and a gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak’ a’ the rest, An’ deal’d about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME

Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines rich-clust’ring rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies, But, blythe an’ frisky, She eyes her free-born martial boys Tak aff their whisky.

What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms an’ 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’ throu’ther, To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 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; 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.

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, I’ll tell the reason.

A BOUSING CATCH

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 where ye will, But here I never miss’d it yet. We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t, We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t; The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife, An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t.

THE MALTWORM’S RUNE

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, Guid ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon; Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

I had sax owsen in a pleugh, And they drew a’ weel eneugh, I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane; Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.

Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, Stand i’ the stool when I hae done; Guid ale keeps the heart aboon.

POETS FOR EVER!

(SECOND EPISTLE TO THE OLD SCOTTISH BARD)

While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake, An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e’enin’s edge I take, To own I’m debtor, To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, For his kind letter.

Forjeskit sair, with weary legs, Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs Their ten-hours’ bite, My awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs I would na write.

The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, She’s saft at best, and something lazy, Quo’ she ‘Ye ken we’ve been sae busy, This month an’ mair, That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie, An’ something sair.’

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; ‘Conscience,’ says I, ‘ye thowless jad! I’ll write, an’ that a hearty blaud, This very night; So dinna ye affront your trade, But rhyme it right.

‘Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts, Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts, In terms sae friendly, Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts, An’ thank him kindly?’

Sae I gat paper in a blink, An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I ‘Before I sleep a wink, I vow I’ll close it; An’ if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove, I’ll prose it!’

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp, Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland harp Wi’ gleesome touch! Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp; She’s but a bitch.

She’s gien me mony a jirt an’ fleg, Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg Wi’ lyart pow, I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg, As lang’s I dow!

Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth simmer I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer, Frae year to year: But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent, Behind a kist to lie an’ sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent An’ muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie’s name?

Or is’t the paughty feudal thane, Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks?

‘O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro’ Scotland wide; Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a’ their pride!’

Were this the charter of our state, ‘On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,’ Damnation then would be our fate, Beyond remead; But, thanks to Heaven! that’s no the gate We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, ‘The social, friendly, honest man, Whate’er he be, ’Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan, And none but he!’

O mandate glorious and divine! The followers of the ragged Nine, Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine, In glorious light, While sordid sons of Mammon’s line Are dark as night.

Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl, Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul May in some future carcase howl, The forest’s fright; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native kindred skies, And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship’s ties Each passing year!

THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWA

O how can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best Is o’er the hills and far awa?

It’s no the frosty winter wind, It’s no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my e’e, To think on him that’s far awa.

My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown’d me a’: But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonnie lad that’s far awa.

A pair o’ gloves he bought to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that’s far awa.

O weary winter soon will pass, And spring will cleed the birken shaw: And my young babie will be born, And he’ll be hame that’s far awa.

OF A’ THE AIRTS

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo’e best: There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy’s flight Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, I hear her charm the air: There’s not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o’ my Jean.

[Illustration:

There’s wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy’s flight Is ever wi’ my Jean.]

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Although thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awake desire.

Something, in ilka part o’ thee, To praise, to love, I find; But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than if I canna mak thee sae, At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if Heaven shall give But happiness to thee: And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live, For thee I’d bear to die.

I HAE A WIFE

I hae a wife o’ my ain, I’ll partake wi’ naebody; I’ll tak cuckold frae nane, I’ll gie cuckold to naebody.

I hae a penny to spend, There—thanks to naebody; I hae naething to lend, I’ll borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody’s lord, I’ll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid braid sword, I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.

I’ll be merry and free, I’ll be sad for naebody; Naebody cares for me, I care for naebody.

UP IN THE MORNING

Up in the morning’s no’ for me, Up in the morning early; When a’ the hills are covered wi’ snaw, I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to wast, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast, I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A’ day they fare but sparely; And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn, I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL

O were I on Parnassus hill, Or had o’ Helicon my fill, That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee! But Nith maun be my Muse’s well, My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel’, On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell, And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day I couldna sing, I couldna say, How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o’er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e’en— By Heaven and Earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o’ thee my breast inflame: And aye I muse and sing thy name— I only live to love thee. Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on, Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run, Till then—and then—I’d love thee!

MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo’ed a dearer, And neist my heart I’ll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o’ mine.

The warld’s wrack, we share o’t, The warstle and the care o’t; Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE

As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An’ owre she warsled in the ditch; There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc he cam doytin by. Wi’ glowrin’ een, an’ lifted han’s, Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it! He gapèd wide, but naething spak; At length poor Mailie silence brak:—

‘O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear. ‘Tell him, if e’er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep,— O bid him never tie them mair Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! But ca’ them out to park or hill, An’ let them wander at their will; So may his flock increase, an’ grow To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’! ‘Tell him he was a Master kin’, An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; An’ now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him. ‘O bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel: An tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, Wi’ teats o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn. ‘An’ may they never learn the gates Of ither vile wanrestfu’ pets— To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal, At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For mony a year come thro’ the shears; So wives will gie them bits o’ bread, An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead. ‘My poor tup-lamb, my son an’ heir, O bid him breed him up wi’ care! An’, if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! An’ warn him, what I winna name, To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, Like ither menseless graceless brutes. ‘An’ neist my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O may thou ne’er forgather up Wi’ ony blastit moorland tup; But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel! ‘And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith; An’ when you think upo’ your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither. ‘Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a’ my tale; An’ bid him burn this cursed tether; An’, for thy pains, thou’se get my blether.’

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, An’ closed her een amang the dead!

POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears tricklin’ down your nose; Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes— Poor Mailie’s dead!

It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He’s lost a friend and neibor dear In Mailie dead.

Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi’ speed: A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o’ sense, An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense; I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence Thro’ thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin’ Mailie’s dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o’ bread, An’ down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o’ moorland tups, Wi’ tawted ket, an’ hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie’s, dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile wanchancie thing—a rape! It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape, Wi’ chokin’ dread; An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape For Mailie dead.

O a’ ye bards on bonnie Doon! An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O’ Robin’s reed; His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead!

THE BARDS OF AYR

TO W. SIMPSON, 1785

I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, An’ unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, Your flatterin’ strain.

My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name.

Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain, She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur’d style; She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle, Beside New Holland, Or where wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon; Yarrow an’ Tweed, to mony a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon, Naebody sings.

Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line; But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An’ cock your crest, We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine Up wi’ the best.

We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace’ side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, Or glorious died.

O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro’ the braes the cushat croods Wi’ wailfu’ cry!

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro’ the naked tree; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark’ning the day!

O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi’ life an’ light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himsel he learn’d to wander Adown some trottin’ burn’s meander, An’ no think lang; O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge an’ drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive; Let me fair Nature’s face descrive, And I, wi’ pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, ‘my rhyme-composing brither!’ We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal; May Envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend infernal!

While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes; While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies; While Terra Firma, on her axis, Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, In Robert Burns.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: I said there was naething I hated like men— The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow’d for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean: The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stockèd mailen, himsel’ for the laird, And marriage aff-hand were his proffers: I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.