Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

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Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 9

by Robert Burns


  But shortly they will cowe the louns!

  Some auld-light herds in neebor touns 170

  Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons,

  To tak a flight;

  An’ stay ae month amang the moons

  An’ see them right.

  Guid observation they will gie them; 175

  An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,

  The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them

  Just i’ their pouch;

  An’ when the new-light billies see them,

  I think they’ll crouch! 180

  Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter

  Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;

  But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter

  In logic tulyie,

  I hope we bardies ken some better 185

  Than mind sic brulyie.

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  63.

  One Night as I did Wander

  Tune— “John Anderson, my jo.”

  ONE night as I did wander,

  When corn begins to shoot,

  I sat me down to ponder

  Upon an auld tree root;

  Auld Ayr ran by before me, 5

  And bicker’d to the seas;

  A cushat crooded o’er me,

  That echoed through the braes

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  64.

  My Jean! (Fragment of a Song)

  Tune— “The Northern Lass.”

  THO’ cruel fate should bid us part,

  Far as the pole and line,

  Her dear idea round my heart,

  Should tenderly entwine.

  Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl, 5

  And oceans roar between;

  Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

  I still would love my Jean.

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  65.

  Rantin, Rovin Robin (Song)

  Tune— “Daintie Davie.”

  THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,

  But whatna day o’ whatna style,

  I doubt it’s hardly worth the while

  To be sae nice wi’ Robin.

  Chor. — Robin was a rovin’ boy, 5

  Rantin’, rovin’, rantin’, rovin’,

  Robin was a rovin’ boy,

  Rantin’, rovin’, Robin!

  Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane

  Was five-and-twenty days begun, 10

  ‘Twas then a blast o’ Janwar’ win’

  Blew hansel in on Robin.

  Robin was, &c.

  The gossip keekit in his loof,

  Quo’ scho, “Wha lives will see the proof, 15

  This waly boy will be nae coof:

  I think we’ll ca’ him Robin.”

  Robin was, &c.

  “He’ll hae misfortunes great an’ sma’,

  But aye a heart aboon them a’, 20

  He’ll be a credit till us a’ —

  We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”

  Robin was, &c.

  “But sure as three times three mak nine,

  I see by ilka score and line, 25

  This chap will dearly like our kin’,

  So leeze me on thee! Robin.”

  Robin was, &c.

  “Guid faith,” quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar

  The bonie lasses lie aspar; 30

  But twenty fauts ye may hae waur

  So blessins on thee! Robin.”

  Robin was, &c.

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  66.

  Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux

  NOW Robin lies in his last lair,

  He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;

  Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,

  Nae mair shall fear him;

  Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 5

  E’er mair come near him.

  To tell the truth, they seldom fash’d him,

  Except the moment that they crush’d him;

  For sune as chance or fate had hush’d ‘em

  Tho’ e’er sae short. 10

  Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lash’d ‘em,

  And thought it sport.

  Tho’he was bred to kintra-wark,

  And counted was baith wight and stark,

  Yet that was never Robin’s mark 15

  To mak a man;

  But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,

  Ye roos’d him then!

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  67.

  Epistle to John Goldie, in Kilmarnock

  Author of the Gospel Recovered. — August, 1785

  O GOWDIE, terror o’ the whigs,

  Dread o’ blackcoats and rev’rend wigs!

  Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

  Girns an’ looks back,

  Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues 5

  May seize you quick.

  Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition!

  Wae’s me, she’s in a sad condition:

  Fye: bring Black Jock, her state physician,

  To see her water; 10

  Alas, there’s ground for great suspicion

  She’ll ne’er get better.

  Enthusiasm’s past redemption,

  Gane in a gallopin’ consumption:

  Not a’ her quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption, 15

  Can ever mend her;

  Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,

  She’ll soon surrender.

  Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,

  For every hole to get a stapple; 20

  But now she fetches at the thrapple,

  An’ fights for breath;

  Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,

  Near unto death.

  It’s you an’ Taylor are the chief 25

  To blame for a’ this black mischief;

  But, could the L — d’s ain folk get leave,

  A toom tar barrel

  An’ twa red peats wad bring relief,

  And end the quarrel. 30

  For me, my skill’s but very sma’,

  An’ skill in prose I’ve nane ava’;

  But quietlins-wise, between us twa,

  Weel may you speed!

  And tho’ they sud your sair misca’, 35

  Ne’er fash your head.

  E’en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!

  The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;

  And still ‘mang hands a hearty bicker

  O’ something stout; 40

  It gars an owthor’s pulse beat quicker,

  And helps his wit.

  There’s naething like the honest nappy;

  Whare’ll ye e’er see men sae happy,

  Or women sonsie, saft an’ sappy, 45

  ‘Tween morn and morn,

  As them wha like to taste the drappie,

  In glass or horn?

  I’ve seen me dazed upon a time,

  I scarce could wink or see a styme; 50

  Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, —

  Ought less is little —

  Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

  As gleg’s a whittle.

  Chronological List of Poems

  Alphabetical List of Poems

  68.

  The Holy Fair

  A robe of seeming truth and trust

  Hid crafty Observation;

  And secret hung, with poison’d crust,

  The dirk of Defamation:

  A mask that like the gorget show’d,

  Dye-varying on the pigeon;

  And for a mantle large and broad,

  He wrapt him in Religion.

  HYPOCRISY-A-LA-MODE

  UPON a simmer Sunday morn

  When Nature’s face is
fair,

  I walked forth to view the corn,

  An’ snuff the caller air.

  The rising sun owre Galston muirs 5

  Wi’ glorious light was glintin;

  The hares were hirplin down the furrs,

  The lav’rocks they were chantin

  Fu’ sweet that day.

  As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad, 10

  To see a scene sae gay,

  Three hizzies, early at the road,

  Cam skelpin up the way.

  Twa had manteeles o” dolefu’ black,

  But ane wi’ lyart lining; 15

  The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

  Was in the fashion shining

  Fu’ gay that day.

  The twa appear’d like sisters twin,

  In feature, form, an’ claes; 20

  Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,

  An’ sour as only slaes:

  The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,

  As light as ony lambie,

  An’ wi’a curchie low did stoop, 25

  As soon as e’er she saw me,

  Fu’ kind that day.

  Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,

  I think ye seem to ken me;

  I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face 30

  But yet I canna name ye.”

  Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,

  An’ taks me by the han’s,

  “Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

  Of a’ the ten comman’s 35

  A screed some day.”

  “My name is Fun — your cronie dear,

  The nearest friend ye hae;

  An’ this is Superstitution here,

  An’ that’s Hypocrisy. 40

  I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

  To spend an hour in daffin:

  Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair,

  We will get famous laughin

  At them this day.” 45

  Quoth I, “Wi’ a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;

  I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,

  An’ meet you on the holy spot;

  Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”

  Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 50

  An’ soon I made me ready;

  For roads were clad, frae side to side,

  Wi’ mony a weary body

  In droves that day.

  Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 55

  Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

  There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

  Are springing owre the gutters.

  The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

  In silks an’ scarlets glitter; 60

  Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

  An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,

  Fu’ crump that day.

  When by the plate we set our nose,

  Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, 65

  A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,

  An’ we maun draw our tippence.

  Then in we go to see the show:

  On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin;

  Some carrying dails, some chairs an’ stools, 70

  An’ some are busy bleth’rin

  Right loud that day.

  Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,

  An’ screen our countra gentry;

  There “Racer Jess, an’ twa-three whores, 75

  Are blinkin at the entry.

  Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jads,

  Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck;

  An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads,

  Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock, 80

  For fun this day.

  Here, some are thinkin on their sins,

  An’ some upo’ their claes;

  Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,

  Anither sighs an’ prays: 85

  On this hand sits a chosen swatch,

  Wi’ screwed-up, grace-proud faces;

  On that a set o’ chaps, at watch,

  Thrang winkin on the lasses

  To chairs that day. 90

  O happy is that man, an’ blest!

  Nae wonder that it pride him!

  Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

  Comes clinkin down beside him!

  Wi’ arms repos’d on the chair back, 95

  He sweetly does compose him;

  Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,

  An’s loof upon her bosom,

  Unkend that day.

  Now a’ the congregation o’er 100

  Is silent expectation;

  For Moodie speels the holy door,

  Wi’ tidings o’ damnation:

  Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

  ‘Mang sons o’ God present him, 105

  The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,

  To ‘s ain het hame had sent him

  Wi’ fright that day.

  Hear how he clears the point o’ faith

  Wi’ rattlin and wi’ thumpin! 110

  Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

  He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!

  His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout,

  His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,

  O how they fire the heart devout, 115

  Like cantharidian plaisters

  On sic a day!

  But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice,

  There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;

  For a’ the real judges rise, 120

  They canna sit for anger,

  Smith opens out his cauld harangues,

  On practice and on morals;

  An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,

  To gie the jars an’ barrels 125

  A lift that day.

  What signifies his barren shine,

  Of moral powers an’ reason?

  His English style, an’ gesture fine

  Are a’ clean out o’ season. 130

  Like Socrates or Antonine,

  Or some auld pagan heathen,

  The moral man he does define,

  But ne’er a word o’ faith in

  That’s right that day. 135

  In guid time comes an antidote

  Against sic poison’d nostrum;

  For Peebles, frae the water-fit,

  Ascends the holy rostrum:

  See, up he’s got, the word o’ God, 140

  An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,

  While Common-sense has taen the road,

  An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate

  Fast, fast that day.

  Wee Miller neist the guard relieves, 145

  An’ Orthodoxy raibles,

  Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,

  An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:

  But faith! the birkie wants a manse,

  So, cannilie he hums them; 150

  Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense

  Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him

  At times that day.

  Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,

  Wi’ yill-caup commentators; 155

  Here ‘s cryin out for bakes and gills,

  An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;

  While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,

  Wi’ logic an’ wi’ scripture,

  They raise a din, that in the end 160

  Is like to breed a rupture

  O’ wrath that day.

  Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair

  Than either school or college;

  It kindles wit, it waukens lear, 165

  It pangs us fou o’ knowledge:

  Be’t whisky-gill or penny wheep,

  Or ony stronger potion,

  It never fails, or drinkin deep,

  To kittle up our notion, 170

  By night or day.

  The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent

  To mind baith saul an’ body,

  Sit round the table, weel content,

  An’ steer about
the toddy: 175

  On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,

  They’re makin observations;

  While some are cozie i’ the neuk,

  An’ forming assignations

  To meet some day. 180

  But now the L—’s ain trumpet touts,

  Till a’ the hills are rairin,

  And echoes back return the shouts;

  Black Russell is na sparin:

  His piercin words, like Highlan’ swords, 185

  Divide the joints an’ marrow;

  His talk o’ Hell, whare devils dwell,

  Our vera “sauls does harrow”

  Wi’ fright that day!

  A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit, 190

  Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,

  Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,

  Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

  The half-asleep start up wi’ fear,

  An’ think they hear it roarin; 195

  When presently it does appear,

  ‘Twas but some neibor snorin

  Asleep that day.

  ‘Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

  How mony stories past; 200

  An’ how they crouded to the yill,

  When they were a’ dismist;

  How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,

  Amang the furms an’ benches;

  An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, 205

  Was dealt about in lunches

  An’ dawds that day.

  In comes a gawsie, gash guidwife,

  An’ sits down by the fire,

  Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife; 210

  The lasses they are shyer:

  The auld guidmen, about the grace

  Frae side to side they bother;

  Till some ane by his bonnet lays,

  An’ gies them’t like a tether, 215

  Fu’ lang that day.

 

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