Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (25 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
96.
In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes
SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu’ list,
O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith,
To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith.
Imprimis,
then, for carriage cattle,
5
I hae four brutes o’ gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.
My
hand-afore
‘s a guid auld has-been,
An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days been:
My
hand-ahin
‘s a weel gaun fillie,
10
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.
An’ your auld borough mony a time
In days when riding was nae crime.
But ance, when in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
15
The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to,
(L — d pardon a’ my sins, an’ that too!)
I play’d my fillie sic a shavie,
She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie.
My
furr-ahin
‘s a wordy beast,
20
As e’er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastle,
A d — n’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby a cowt, o’ cowts the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail:
25
Gin he be spar’d to be a beast,
He’ll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel-carriages I ha’e but few,
Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
30
Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o’ the spin’le,
An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le.
For men, I’ve three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for ranting an’ for noise;
35
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’ other:
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.
I rule them as I ought, discreetly,
An’ aften labour them completely;
An’ aye on Sundays duly, nightly,
40
I on the Questions targe them tightly;
Till, faith! wee Davock’s grown sae gleg,
Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg,
He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
45
I’ve nane in female servant station,
(L — d keep me aye frae a’ temptation!)
I hae nae wife-and thay my bliss is,
An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses;
An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
50
I ken the deevils darena touch me.
Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented,
Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted!
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddy in her face,
55
Enough of ought ye like but grace;
But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,
I’ve paid enough for her already;
An’ gin ye tax her or her mither,
By the L — d, ye’se get them a’ thegither!
60
And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I’m takin:
Frae this time forth, I do declare
I’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle,
65
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a’ on foot I’ll shank it,
I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude the thankit!
The kirk and you may tak you that,
It puts but little in your pat;
70
Sae dinna put me in your beuk,
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.
This list, wi’ my ain hand I wrote it,
The day and date as under noted;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
75
Subscripsi huic,
ROBERT BURNS.
MOSSGIEL,
February
22, 1786.
97.
To John Kennedy, Dumfries House
NOW, Kennedy, if foot or horse
E’er bring you in by Mauchlin corse,
(Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad force
A hermit’s fancy;
An’ down the gate in faith they’re worse,
5
An’ mair unchancy).
But as I’m sayin, please step to Dow’s,
An’ taste sic gear as Johnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news
That ye are there;
10
An’ if we dinna hae a bouze,
I’se ne’er drink mair.
It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an’ wallow;
But gie me just a true good fallow,
15
Wi’ right ingine,
And spunkie ance to mak us mellow,
An’ then we’ll shine.
Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
20
An’ sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi’ bitter sneer,
Wi’ you nae friendship I will troke,
Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I’m informèd weel,
25
Ye hate as ill’s the very deil
The flinty heart that canna feel —
Come, sir, here’s to you!
Hae, there’s my haun’, I wiss you weel,
An’ gude be wi’ you.
ROBT. BURNESS.
MOSSGIEL, 3
rd March,
1786.
30
98.
To Mr. M’Adam, of Craigen-Gillan
In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the commencement of my poetic career.
SIR, o’er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
“See wha taks notice o’ the bard!”
I lap and cried fu’ loud.
Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
5
The senseless, gawky million;
I’ll cock my nose abune them a’,
I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan!
‘Twas noble, sir; ‘twas like yourself’,
To grant your high protection:
10
A great man’s smile ye ken fu’ well
Is aye a blest infection.
Tho’, by his banes wha in a tub
Match’d Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub,
15
I independent stand aye, —
And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
Wi’ welcome canna bear me,
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
An’ barley-scone shall cheer me.
20
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O’ mony flow’ry simmers!
An’ bless your bonie lasses baith,
I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!
An’ God bless young Dunaskin’s laird,
25
The blossom of our gentry!
An’ may he wear and auld man’s beard,
A credit to his country.
99.
HA! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
5
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her —
Sae fine a lady?
10
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,
15
In shoals and nations;
Whaur 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;
20
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it —
The verra tapmost, tow’rin height
O’ Miss’ bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
25
As plump an’ grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum.
30
I wad na been surpris’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
On’s wyliecoat;
But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye!
35
How daur ye do’t?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin:
40
Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
45
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!
100.
Inscribed on a Work of Hannah More’s
Presented to the Author by a Lady.
THOU flatt’ring mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor;
Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart
5
Does both the sexes honour:
She show’d her taste refin’d and just,
When she selected thee;
Yet deviating, own I must,
For sae approving me:
10
But kind still I’ll mind still
The giver in the gift;
I’ll bless her, an’ wiss her
A Friend aboon the lift.
101.
Tune
— “Jockey’s Grey Breeks.”
AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.
Chorus.
— And maun I still on Menie doat,
5
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi’lets spring;
10
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still, &c.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
15
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
20
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev’ry thing is blest but I.
And maun I still, &c.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And o’er the moorlands whistles shill:
25
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And maun I still, &c.
And when the lark, ‘tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
30
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.
Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
35
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still, &c.