Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (55 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
302.
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,
5
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;
10
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,
15
As priest-rid cattle are, — &c. &c.
303.
The Gowden Locks of Anna (Song)
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,
5
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;
10
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
15
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!
20
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(Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a’;)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,
25
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;
30
Had I on earth but wishes three,
The first should be my Anna.
304.
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
5
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;
10
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,
15
Within the arms of Cozbi!
305.
Gudewife, count the lawin (Song)
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,
5
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’;
10
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;
15
And Pleasure is a wanton trout,
An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out.
Then gudewife, &c.
306.
Election Ballad at close of Contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790
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,
5
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
10
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:
15
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
20
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
25
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.
30
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,
35
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,
40
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:
45
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
50
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,
55
Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated
bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in C&æsarean fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.
60
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,
65
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,
70
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:
75
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
80
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,
85
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.
90
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,
95
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,
100
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;
105
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
110
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,
115
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.
120
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,
125
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,
130
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!
135
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,
140
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,
145
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!”
150
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,
155
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
160
O’er a’ wad Scotland buy or sell,
To grind them in the mire!