Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (18 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
Amang the brachens, on the brae,
Between her an’ the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up an’ ga’e a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool;
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Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’ in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that night.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
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The luggies
three are ranged;
An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire,
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Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav’d them on the fire
In wrath that night.
Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
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And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes —
Their sports were cheap an’ cheery:
Till butter’d sowens,
wi’ fragrant lunt,
Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
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They parted aff careerin
Fu’ blythe that night.
76.
WEE, sleekit, cow’rin, 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,
5
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
10
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
15
‘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!
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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’ waste,
25
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.
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That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
35
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,
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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.
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On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
77.
Epitaph on John Dove, Innkeeper
HERE lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
5
For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
A dram was
memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl
10
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.
78.
LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a’,
He aften did assist ye;
For had ye staid hale weeks awa,
Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
5
To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass, —
Perhaps he was your father!
79.
GUDE pity me, because I’m little!
For though I am an elf o’ mettle,
An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,
5
I’m unco queer.
An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d her through the place,
An’ hurt her spleuchan;
10
For whilk we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows,
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An’ sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu’ death!
Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’ —
O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell!
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There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in.
When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink,
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An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink
Within his yett,
An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
Red-reekin het.
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Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry —
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
An’ gie their hides a noble curry
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Wi’ oil of aik!
As for the jurr-puir worthless body!
She’s got mischief enough already;
Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy
She’s suffer’d sair;
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But, may she wintle in a woody,
If she wh-e mair!
80.
A Cantata
Recitativo
WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast;
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
5
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en a merry core
O’ randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies;
10
Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing,
They ranted an’ they sang,
Wi’ jumping an’ thumping,
The vera girdle rang,
First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,
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Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’ in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm
She blinkit on her sodger;
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An’ aye he gies the tozie drab
The tither skelpin’ kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
Just like an aumous dish;
Ilk smack still, did crack still,
25
Just like a cadger’s whip;
Then staggering an’ swaggering
He roar’d this ditty up —
Air
Tune
— “Soldier’s Joy.”
I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
30
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My ‘prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram:
35
And I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
40
I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
45
What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo
He ended; and the kebars sheuk,
50
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
An’ seek the benmost bore:
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl’d out, encore!
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But up arose the martial chuck,
An’ laid the loud uproar.
Air
Tune
— “Sodger Laddie.”
I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
60
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie,
Sing, lal de lal, &c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
65
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church:
He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body,
‘Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.
70
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I askèd no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,
75
Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d — I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song;
80
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.
Recitativo
Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk,
85
Between themselves they were sae busy:
At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up an’ made a face;
Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.
90
Air
Tune
— “Auld Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk,
95
An’ I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie’s the half of my craft;
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But what could ye other expect
Of ane that’s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffin;
I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk,
105
For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court
A tumbler ca’d the Premier.
110
Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad, —
It’s rivalship just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion I’ll tell,
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For faith I’m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
Guid L — d! he’s far dafter than I.
Recitativo
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin;
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For mony a pursie she had hooked,
An’ had in mony a well been douked;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!
Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began
125
To wail her braw John Highlandman.
Air
Tune
— “O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
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Chorus
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,
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An’ guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We rangèd a’ from Tweed to Spey,
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An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he fearèd none, —
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d him beyond the sea.
145
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But, och! they catch’d him at the last,
150
And bound him in a dungeon fast:
My curse upon them every one,
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman!
Sing hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must mourn
155
The pleasures that will ne’er return:
The comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
Recitativo
A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,
160
Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and gausy middle
(He reach’d nae higher)
Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,
An’ blawn’t on fire.
165
Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The wee Apoll
Set off wi’ allegretto glee
170
His giga solo.
Air
Tune
— “Whistle owre the lave o’t.”
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear;
An’ then your every care an’ fear
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
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Chorus
I am a fiddler to my trade,
An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.
At kirns an’ weddins we’se be there,
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An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare!
We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care
Sing whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,
185
An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure, when ye like,
We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
190
An’ while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Recitativo
Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,
195
As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
An’ draws a roosty rapier —
He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
To speet him like a pliver,
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Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
205
An’ so the quarrel ended.
But tho’ his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird address’d her:
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