by Robert Burns
An’ forming assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills are rairan,
An’ echos back return the shouts;
Black Russel is na spairan:
His piercin words, like Highlan swords,
Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,
Our vera ∗‘sauls does harrow’
Wi’ fright that day!
A vast, unbottom’d, boundless Pit,
Fill’d fou o’ lowan 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 roaran,
When presently it does appear,
’Twas but some neebor snoran
Asleep that day.
’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
How monie stories past,
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,
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;
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld Guidmen, about the grace
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
And gies them’t, like a tether,
Fu’ lang that day.
Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O Wives be mindfu’, ance yourself,
How bonie lads ye wanted,
An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlan tow,
Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
They’re a’ in famous tune
For crack that day.
How monie hearts this day converts,
O’ sinners and o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night are gane,
As saft as ony flesh is.
There’s some are fou o’ love divine;
There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie
Some ither day.
To a Mouse On Turning Her up in Her Nest with the Plough, November 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
To a Louse On Seeing One on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,
Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera tapmost, towrin height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surpriz’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On’s wylecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!
How daur ye do’t?
O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin,
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!
The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer,∗ to the Right
Honorable and Honorable, the Scotch
Representatives in the House of Commons
Dearest of Distillations last and best! –
How art thou lost! –
Parody on Milton
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our Brughs an’ Shires
An’ dousely manage our affairs
In Parliament,
To you a simple Bardie’s pray’rs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupet Muse is haerse!
Your Honor’s hearts wi’ grief ‘twad pierce,
To see her sittan on her arse
Low i’ the dust,
An’ scriechan out prosaic verse,
An’ like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction
On Aquavitae;
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
An’ move their pity.
Stand forth and tell yon Premier Youth,
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,
His servants humble: The muckle devil 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 swoom
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 greetan owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;
An’ damn’d Excise-men in a bussle,
Seizan a Stell,
Triumphant crushan’t like a muscle
Or laimpet 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,
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An’ tye some hose well.
God bless your Honors, 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, with a patriot-heat,
Ye winna bear it?
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an’ pause,
And with rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephens wa’s
Auld Scotland’s wrangs.
Dempster, a true-blue Scot I’se warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;
An’ that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,
The Laird o’ Graham;
And ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarran,
Dundas his name.
Erskine, a spunkie norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick an’ Ilay;
An’ Liviston, the bauld Sir Willie;
An’ monie ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
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 reekan 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’ th’ 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.
You ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ 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 yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s,
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld ∗ Nanse Tinnock’s
Nine times a week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,
You 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 your Mither’s heart support ye;
Then, tho’ a Minister grow dorty,
An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honors, a’ your days,
Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes
That haunt St Jamie’s !
Your humble Bardie 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’er envies,
But blythe an’ frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,
Tak aff their Whisky.
What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,
While Fragrance blooms an’ Beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonor 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.
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,