Written by
Robert Burns |
TO you, sir, this summons I’ve sent,
Pray, whip till the pownie is freathing;
But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer you—naething.
Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me,
For idly just living and breathing,
While people of every degree
Are busy employed about—naething.
Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,
And grumble his hurdies their claithing,
He’ll find, when the balance is cast,
He’s gane to the devil for—naething.
The courtier cringes and bows,
Ambition has likewise its plaything;
A coronet beams on his brows;
And what is a coronet—naething.
Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;
But every good fellow will own
Their quarrel is a’ about—naething.
The lover may sparkle and glow,
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:
But marriage will soon let him know
He’s gotten—a buskit up naething.
The Poet may jingle and rhyme,
In hopes of a laureate wreathing,
And when he has wasted his time,
He’s kindly rewarded wi’—naething.
The thundering bully may rage,
And swagger and swear like a heathen;
But collar him fast, I’ll engage,
You’ll find that his courage is—naething.
Last night wi’ a feminine whig—
A Poet she couldna put faith in;
But soon we grew lovingly big,
I taught her, her terrors were naething.
Her whigship was wonderful pleased,
But charmingly tickled wi’ ae thing,
Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,
And kissed her, and promised her—naething.
The priest anathèmas may threat—
Predicament, sir, that we’re baith in;
But when honour’s reveillé is beat,
The holy artillery’s naething.
And now I must mount on the wave—
My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what is a watery grave?
The drowning a Poet is naething.
And now, as grim death’s in my thought,
To you, sir, I make this bequeathing;
My service as long as ye’ve ought,
And my friendship, by God, when ye’ve naething.
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
NO churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.
The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
for sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
“Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGEThen fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.
|