Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

by Robert Burns

To ken what French mischief was brewin;

  Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;

  That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,

  If Venus yet had got his nose off;

  Or how the collieshangie works

  Atween the Russians and the Turks,

  Or if the Swede, before he halt,

  Would play anither Charles the twalt;

  If Denmark, any body spak o't;

  Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't:

  How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;

  How libbet Italy was singin;

  If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,

  Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss;

  Or how our merry lads at hame,

  In Britain's court kept up the game;

  How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!

  Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;

  If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,

  Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;

  How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,

  If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin;

  How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd.

  Or if bare arses yet were tax'd;

  The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,

  Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;

  If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,

  Was threshing still at hizzies' tails;

  Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,

  And no a perfect kintra cooser:

  A' this and mair I never heard of;

  And, but for you, I might despair'd of.

  So, gratefu', back your news I send you,

  And pray a' gude things may attend you.

  Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

  Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare

  Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

  As ever trod on airn;

  But now she's floating down the Nith,

  And past the mouth o' Cairn.

  Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

  An' rode thro' thick and thin;

  But now she's floating down the Nith,

  And wanting even the skin.

  Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

  And ance she bore a priest;

  But now she's floating down the Nith,

  For Solway fish a feast.

  Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

  An' the priest he rode her sair;

  And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was,

  As priest-rid cattle are,-&c. &c.

  The Gowden Locks Of Anna

  Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,

  A place where body saw na;

  Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine

  The gowden locks of Anna.

  The hungry Jew in wilderness,

  Rejoicing o'er his manna,

  Was naething to my hinny bliss

  Upon the lips of Anna.

  Ye monarchs, take the East and West

  Frae Indus to Savannah;

  Gie me, within my straining grasp,

  The melting form of Anna:

  There I'll despise Imperial charms,

  An Empress or Sultana,

  While dying raptures in her arms

  I give and take wi' Anna!

  Awa, thou flaunting God of Day!

  Awa, thou pale Diana!

  Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,

  When I'm to meet my Anna!

  Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,

  (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a';)

  And bring an angel-pen to write

  My transports with my Anna!

  Postscript

  The Kirk an' State may join an' tell,

  To do sic things I maunna:

  The Kirk an' State may gae to hell,

  And I'll gae to my Anna.

  She is the sunshine o' my e'e,

  To live but her I canna;

  Had I on earth but wishes three,

  The first should be my Anna.

  Song -I Murder Hate

  I murder hate by flood or field,

  Tho' glory's name may screen us;

  In wars at home I'll spend my blood-

  Life-giving wars of Venus.

  The deities that I adore

  Are social Peace and Plenty;

  I'm better pleas'd to make one more,

  Than be the death of twenty.

  I would not die like Socrates,

  For all the fuss of Plato;

  Nor would I with Leonidas,

  Nor yet would I with Cato:

  The zealots of the Church and State

  Shall ne'er my mortal foes be;

  But let me have bold Zimri's fate,

  Within the arms of Cozbi!

  Gudewife, Count The Lawin

  Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,

  But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light;

  Gude ale and bratdy's stars and moon,

  And blue-red wine's the risin' sun.

  Chorus.-Then gudewife, count the lawin,

  The lawin, the lawin,

  Then gudewife, count the lawin,

  And bring a coggie mair.

  There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,

  And simple folk maun fecht and fen';

  But here we're a' in ae accord,

  For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.

  Then gudewife, &c.

  My coggie is a haly pool

  That heals the wounds o' care and dool;

  And Pleasure is a wanton trout,

  An ye drink it a', ye'll find him out.

  Then gudewife, &c.

  Election Ballad

  At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790.

  Addressed to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry.

  Fintry, my stay in wordly strife,

  Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,

  Are ye as idle's I am?

  Come then, wi' uncouth kintra fleg,

  O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

  And ye shall see me try him.

  But where shall I go rin a ride,

  That I may splatter nane beside?

  I wad na be uncivil:

  In manhood's various paths and ways

  There's aye some doytin' body strays,

  And I ride like the devil.

  Thus I break aff wi' a' my birr,

  And down yon dark, deep alley spur,

  Where Theologics daunder:

  Alas! curst wi' eternal fogs,

  And damn'd in everlasting bogs,

  As sure's the creed I'll blunder!

  I'll stain a band, or jaup a gown,

  Or rin my reckless, guilty crown

  Against the haly door:

  Sair do I rue my luckless fate,

  When, as the Muse an' Deil wad hae't,

  I rade that road before.

  Suppose I take a spurt, and mix

  Amang the wilds o' Politics-

  Electors and elected,

  Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)

  Septennially a madness touches,

  Till all the land's infected.

  All hail! Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,

  Discarded remnant of a race

  Once godlike-great in story;

  Thy forbears' virtues all contrasted,

  The very name of Douglas blasted,

  Thine that inverted glory!

  Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore,

  But thou hast superadded more,

  And sunk them in contempt;

  Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,

  But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,

  From aught that's good exempt!

  I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,

  Who left the all-important cares

  Of princes, and their darlings:

  And, bent on winning borough touns,

  Came shaking hands wi' wabster-loons,

  And kissing barefit carlins.

  Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,

  Whistling his roaring
pack abroad

  Of mad unmuzzled lions;

  As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl'd,

  And Westerha' and Hopetoun hurled

  To every Whig defiance.

  But cautious Queensberry left the war,

  Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star,

  Besides, he hated bleeding:

  But left behind him heroes bright,

  Heroes in Caesarean fight,

  Or Ciceronian pleading.

  O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,

  To muster o'er each ardent Whig

  Beneath Drumlanrig's banners;

  Heroes and heroines commix,

  All in the field of politics,

  To win immortal honours.

  M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,

  (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)

  Led on the Loves and Graces:

  She won each gaping burgess' heart,

  While he, sub rosa, played his part

  Amang their wives and lasses.

  Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd core,

  Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,

  Like Hecla streaming thunder:

  Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,

  Blew up each Tory's dark designs,

  And bared the treason under.

  In either wing two champions fought;

  Redoubted Staig, who set at nought

  The wildest savage Tory;

  And Welsh who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,

  High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round

  With Cyclopeian fury.

  Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,

  The many-pounders of the Banks,

  Resistless desolation!

  While Maxwelton, that baron bold,

  'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,

  And threaten'd worse damnation.

  To these what Tory hosts oppos'd

  With these what Tory warriors clos'd

  Surpasses my descriving;

  Squadrons, extended long and large,

  With furious speed rush to the charge,

  Like furious devils driving.

  What verse can sing, what prose narrate,

  The butcher deeds of bloody Fate,

  Amid this mighty tulyie!

  Grim Horror girn'd, pale Terror roar'd,

  As Murder at his thrapple shor'd,

  And Hell mix'd in the brulyie.

  As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,

  When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

  Hurl down with crashing rattle;

  As flames among a hundred woods,

  As headlong foam from a hundred floods,

  Such is the rage of Battle.

  The stubborn Tories dare to die;

  As soon the rooted oaks would fly

  Before th' approaching fellers:

  The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,

  When all his wintry billows pour

  Against the Buchan Bullers.

  Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,

  Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

  And think on former daring:

  The muffled murtherer of Charles

  The Magna Charter flag unfurls,

  All deadly gules its bearing.

  Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;

  Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;

  Auld Covenanters shiver-

  Forgive! forgive! much-wrong'd Montrose!

  Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,

  Thou liv'st on high for ever.

  Still o'er the field the combat burns,

  The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;

  But Fate the word has spoken:

  For woman's wit and strength o'man,

  Alas! can do but what they can;

  The Tory ranks are broken.

  O that my een were flowing burns!

  My voice, a lioness that mourns

  Her darling cubs' undoing!

  That I might greet, that I might cry,

  While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

  And furious Whigs pursuing!

  What Whig but melts for good Sir James,

  Dear to his country, by the names,

  Friend, Patron, Benefactor!

  Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;

  And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave;

  And Stewart, bold as Hector.

  Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,

  And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,

  And Melville melt in wailing:

  Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,

  And Burke shall sing, "O Prince, arise!

  Thy power is all-prevailing!"

  For your poor friend, the Bard, afar

  He only hears and sees the war,

  A cool spectator purely!

  So, when the storm the forest rends,

  The robin in the hedge descends,

  And sober chirps securely.

  Now, for my friends' and brethren's sakes,

  And for my dear-lov'd Land o' Cakes,

  I pray with holy fire:

  Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' Hell

  O'er a' wad Scotland buy or sell,

  To grind them in the mire!

  Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson

  A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from

  Almighty God.

  Should the poor be flattered?-Shakespeare.

  O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!

  The meikle devil wi' a woodie

  Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

  O'er hurcheon hides,

  And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie

  Wi' thy auld sides!

  He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,

  The ae best fellow e'er was born!

  Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn,

  By wood and wild,

  Where haply, Pity strays forlorn,

  Frae man exil'd.

  Ye hills, near neighbours o' the starns,

  That proudly cock your cresting cairns!

  Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,

  Where Echo slumbers!

  Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,

  My wailing numbers!

  Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!

  Ye haz'ly shaws and briery dens!

  Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,

  Wi' toddlin din,

  Or foaming, strang, wi' hasty stens,

  Frae lin to lin.

  Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;

  Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see;

  Ye woodbines hanging bonilie,

  In scented bow'rs;

  Ye roses on your thorny tree,

  The first o' flow'rs.

  At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade

  Droops with a diamond at his head,

  At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,

  I' th' rustling gale,

  Ye maukins, whiddin thro' the glade,

  Come join my wail.

  Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;

  Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;

  Ye curlews, calling thro' a clud;

  Ye whistling plover;

  And mourn, we whirring paitrick brood;

  He's gane for ever!

  Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;

  Ye fisher herons, watching eels;

  Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels

  Circling the lake;

  Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

  Rair for his sake.

  Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day,

  'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay;

  And when ye wing your annual way

  Frae our claud shore,

  Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,

  Wham we deplore.

  Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r

  In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,

  What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,

  Sets up her horn,<
br />
  Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour,

  Till waukrife morn!

  O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!

  Oft have ye heard my canty strains;

  But now, what else for me remains

  But tales of woe;

  And frae my een the drapping rains

  Maun ever flow.

  Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!

  Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:

  Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear

  Shoots up its head,

  Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear,

  For him that's dead!

  Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,

  In grief thy sallow mantle tear!

  Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air

  The roaring blast,

  Wide o'er the naked world declare

  The worth we've lost!

  Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!

  Mourn, Empress of the silent night!

  And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,

  My Matthew mourn!

  For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,

  Ne'er to return.

  O Henderson! the man! the brother!

  And art thou gone, and gone for ever!

  And hast thou crost that unknown river,

  Life's dreary bound!

  Like thee, where shall I find another,

  The world around!

  Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great,

  In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

  But by thy honest turf I'll wait,

  Thou man of worth!

  And weep the ae best fellow's fate

  E'er lay in earth.

  The Epitaph

  Stop, passenger! my story's brief,

  And truth I shall relate, man;

  I tell nae common tale o' grief,

  For Matthew was a great man.

  If thou uncommon merit hast,

  Yet spurn'd at Fortune's door, man;

  A look of pity hither cast,

  For Matthew was a poor man.