Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

by Robert Burns

  Your dreams and tricks

  Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin

  Straught to auld Nick's.

  Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,

  And in your wicked, drucken rants,

  Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

  An' fill them fou;

  And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,

  Are a' seen thro'.

  Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

  That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

  Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it-

  The lads in black;

  But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

  Rives't aff their back.

  Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:

  It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing

  O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething

  To ken them by

  Frae ony unregenerate heathen,

  Like you or I.

  I've sent you here some rhyming ware,

  A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;

  Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

  I will expect,

  Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,

  And no neglect.

  Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!

  My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;

  I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

  An' danc'd my fill!

  I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,

  At Bunkjer's Hill.

  'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

  I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,

  An' brought a paitrick to the grun'-

  A bonie hen;

  And, as the twilight was begun,

  Thought nane wad ken.

  The poor, wee thing was little hurt;

  I straikit it a wee for sport,

  Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;

  But, Deil-ma-care!

  Somebody tells the poacher-court

  The hale affair.

  Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,

  That sic a hen had got a shot;

  I was suspected for the plot;

  I scorn'd to lie;

  So gat the whissle o' my groat,

  An' pay't the fee.

  But by my gun, o' guns the wale,

  An' by my pouther an' my hail,

  An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

  I vow an' swear!

  The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,

  For this, niest year.

  As soon's the clockin-time is by,

  An' the wee pouts begun to cry,

  Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by

  For my gowd guinea,

  Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

  For't in Virginia.

  Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!

  'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,

  But twa-three draps about the wame,

  Scarce thro' the feathers;

  An' baith a yellow George to claim,

  An' thole their blethers!

  It pits me aye as mad's a hare;

  So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;

  But pennyworths again is fair,

  When time's expedient:

  Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

  Your most obedient.

  A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1

  [Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]

  The First Instance That Entitled Him To The Venerable Appellation Of Father

  Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,

  If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,

  Shall ever daunton me or awe me,

  My bonie lady,

  Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

  Tyta or daddie.

  Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,

  An' tease my name in kintry clatter,

  The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,

  E'en let them clash;

  An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

  To gie ane fash.

  Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,

  Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,

  And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,

  Baith kirk and queir;

  Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,

  That I shall swear!

  Wee image o' my bonie Betty,

  As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,

  As dear, and near my heart I set thee

  Wi' as gude will

  As a' the priests had seen me get thee

  That's out o' hell.

  Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,

  My funny toil is now a' tint,

  Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent,

  Which fools may scoff at;

  In my last plack thy part's be in't

  The better ha'f o't.

  Tho' I should be the waur bestead,

  Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,

  And thy young years as nicely bred

  Wi' education,

  As ony brat o' wedlock's bed,

  In a' thy station.

  Lord grant that thou may aye inherit

  Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,

  An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,

  Without his failins,

  'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,

  Than stockit mailens.

  For if thou be what I wad hae thee,

  And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

  I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee,

  The cost nor shame o't,

  But be a loving father to thee,

  And brag the name o't.

  Song - O Leave Novels^1

  [Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]

  O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,

  Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;

  Such witching books are baited hooks

  For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;

  Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,

  They make your youthful fancies reel;

  They heat your brains, and fire your veins,

  And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

  Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,

  A heart that warmly seems to feel;

  That feeling heart but acts a part-

  'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

  The frank address, the soft caress,

  Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;

  The frank address, and politesse,

  Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

  Fragment - The Mauchline Lady

  Tune - "I had a horse, I had nae mair."

  When first I came to Stewart Kyle,

  My mind it was na steady;

  Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,

  A mistress still I had aye.

  But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,

  Not dreadin anybody,

  My heart was caught, before I thought,

  And by a Mauchline lady.

  Fragment - My Girl She's Airy

  Tune - "Black Jock."

  My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay;

  Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;

  A touch of her lips it ravishes quite:

  She's always good natur'd, good humour'd, and free;

  She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;

  I never am happy when out of her sight.

  The Belles Of Mauchline

  In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,

  The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a';

  Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,

  In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'.

  Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,

  Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:

  There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,

  But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

  Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic

  Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes;

  O Death, it's my opinion,


  Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch

  Into thy dark dominion!

  Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire

  As father Adam first was fool'd,

  (A case that's still too common,)

  Here lies man a woman ruled,

  The devil ruled the woman.

  Epigram On The Said Occasion

  O Death, had'st thou but spar'd his life,

  Whom we this day lament,

  We freely wad exchanged the wife,

  And a' been weel content.

  Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,

  The swap we yet will do't;

  Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff,

  Thou'se get the saul o'boot.

  Another

  One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,

  When deprived of her husband she loved so well,

  In respect for the love and affection he show'd her,

  She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder.

  But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion,

  When called on to order the fun'ral direction,

  Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,

  Not to show her respect, but-to save the expense!

  On Tam The Chapman

  As Tam the chapman on a day,

  Wi'Death forgather'd by the way,

  Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight so famous,

  And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas,

  Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,

  And there blaws up a hearty crack:

  His social, friendly, honest heart

  Sae tickled Death, they could na part;

  Sae, after viewing knives and garters,

  Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.

  Epitaph On John Rankine

  Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl,

  Was driving to the tither warl'

  A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,

  And mony a guilt-bespotted lad-

  Black gowns of each denomination,

  And thieves of every rank and station,

  From him that wears the star and garter,

  To him that wintles in a halter:

  Ashamed himself to see the wretches,

  He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,

  "By God I'll not be seen behint them,

  Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,

  Without, at least, ae honest man,

  To grace this damn'd infernal clan!"

  By Adamhill a glance he threw,

  "Lord God!" quoth he, "I have it now;

  There's just the man I want, i' faith!"

  And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

  Lines On The Author's Death

  Written With The Supposed View Of Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet's

  Interment

  He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,

  And a green grassy hillock hides his head;

  Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

  Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge

  When chill November's surly blast

  Made fields and forests bare,

  One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth

  Along the banks of Ayr,

  I spied a man, whose aged step

  Seem'd weary, worn with care;

  His face furrow'd o'er with years,

  And hoary was his hair.

  "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"

  Began the rev'rend sage;

  "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

  Or youthful pleasure's rage?

  Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

  Too soon thou hast began

  To wander forth, with me to mourn

  The miseries of man.

  "The sun that overhangs yon moors,

  Out-spreading far and wide,

  Where hundreds labour to support

  A haughty lordling's pride;-

  I've seen yon weary winter-sun

  Twice forty times return;

  And ev'ry time has added proofs,

  That man was made to mourn.

  "O man! while in thy early years,

  How prodigal of time!

  Mis-spending all thy precious hours-

  Thy glorious, youthful prime!

  Alternate follies take the sway;

  Licentious passions burn;

  Which tenfold force gives Nature's law.

  That man was made to mourn.

  "Look not alone on youthful prime,

  Or manhood's active might;

  Man then is useful to his kind,

  Supported in his right:

  But see him on the edge of life,

  With cares and sorrows worn;

  Then Age and Want-oh! ill-match'd pair-

  Shew man was made to mourn.

  "A few seem favourites of fate,

  In pleasure's lap carest;

  Yet, think not all the rich and great

  Are likewise truly blest:

  But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,

  All wretched and forlorn,

  Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

  That man was made to mourn.

  "Many and sharp the num'rous ills

  Inwoven with our frame!

  More pointed still we make ourselves,

  Regret, remorse, and shame!

  And man, whose heav'n-erected face

  The smiles of love adorn, -

  Man's inhumanity to man

  Makes countless thousands mourn!

  "See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

  So abject, mean, and vile,

  Who begs a brother of the earth

  To give him leave to toil;

  And see his lordly fellow-worm

  The poor petition spurn,

  Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife

  And helpless offspring mourn.

  "If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,

  By Nature's law design'd,

  Why was an independent wish

  E'er planted in my mind?

  If not, why am I subject to

  His cruelty, or scorn?

  Or why has man the will and pow'r

  To make his fellow mourn?

  "Yet, let not this too much, my son,

  Disturb thy youthful breast:

  This partial view of human-kind

  Is surely not the last!

  The poor, oppressed, honest man

  Had never, sure, been born,

  Had there not been some recompense

  To comfort those that mourn!

  "O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

  The kindest and the best!

  Welcome the hour my aged limbs

  Are laid with thee at rest!

  The great, the wealthy fear thy blow

  From pomp and pleasure torn;

  But, oh! a blest relief for those

  That weary-laden mourn!"

  The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie

  An Unco Mournfu' Tale

  "Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,

  But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,"-Pope.

  O a' ye pious godly flocks,

  Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

  Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

  Or worrying tykes?

  Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,

  About the dykes?

  The twa best herds in a' the wast,

  The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast

  These five an' twenty simmers past-

  Oh, dool to tell!

  Hae had a bitter black out-cast

  Atween themsel'.

  O, Moddie,^1 man, an' wordy Russell,^2

  How could you raise so vile a bustle;

  Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,

  An' think it fine!

  The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,

  Sin' I hae min'.

  O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit

  Your duty ye wad sae negle
ckit,

  Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit

  To wear the plaid;

  But by the brutes themselves eleckit,

  To be their guide.

  What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?-

  Sae hale and hearty every shank!

  Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank

  He let them taste;

  Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank, -

  O, sic a feast!

  [Footnote 1: Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton.]

  [Footnote 2: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]

  The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,

  Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,

  He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,

  Baith out an in;

  An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

  An' sell their skin.

  What herd like Russell tell'd his tale;

  His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,

  He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,

  Owre a' the height;

  An' saw gin they were sick or hale,

  At the first sight.

  He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,

  Or nobly fling the gospel club,

  And New-Light herds could nicely drub

  Or pay their skin;

  Could shake them o'er the burning dub,

  Or heave them in.

  Sic twa-O! do I live to see't?-

  Sic famous twa should disagree't,

  And names, like "villain," "hypocrite,"

  Ilk ither gi'en,

  While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,

  Say neither's liein!

  A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

  There's Duncan^3 deep, an' Peebles^4 shaul,

  But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5

  We trust in thee,

  That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,

  Till they agree.

  Consider, sirs, how we're beset;

  There's scarce a new herd that we get,