Written by
Robert Burns |
KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw,
An’ pour your creeshie nations;
An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,
Of a’ denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’
An’ there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
An’ pour divine libations
For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell,
Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder; 1
But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell,
An’ Russell 3 sair misca’d her:
This day Mackinlay 4 taks the flail,
An’ he’s the boy will blaud her!
He’ll clap a shangan on her tail,
An’ set the bairns to daud her
Wi’ dirt this day.
Mak haste an’ turn King David owre,
And lilt wi’ holy clangor;
O’ double verse come gie us four,
An’ skirl up the Bangor:
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her pow’r,
And gloriously she’ll whang her
Wi’ pith this day.
Come, let a proper text be read,
An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour,
How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a ******;
Or Phineas 6 drove the murdering blade,
Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour;
Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger
I’ th’ inn that day.
There, try his mettle on the creed,
An’ bind him down wi’ caution,
That stipend is a carnal weed
He taks by for the fashion;
And gie him o’er the flock, to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin;
Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty;
Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture’s scanty;
For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale,
No gi’en by way o’ dainty,
But ilka day.
Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin!
Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep,
And o’er the thairms be tryin;
Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,
And a’ like lamb-tails flyin
Fu’ fast this day.
Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn,
Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin;
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin: 8
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin;
An’ like a godly, elect bairn,
He’s waled us out a true ane,
And sound, this day.
Now Robertson 9 harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they’ll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton 10 repair,
An’ turn a carpet weaver
Aff-hand this day.
Mu’trie 11 and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones;
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin baudrons,
And aye he catch’d the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his Honour maun detach,
Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes
She’s swingein thro’ the city!
Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!
I vow it’s unco pretty:
There, Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common-sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.
But there’s Morality himsel’,
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions!
See, how she peels the skin an’ fell,
As ane were peelin onions!
Now there, they’re packed aff to hell,
An’ banish’d our dominions,
Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality’s demure decoys
Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys
That heresy can torture;
They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cowe her measure shorter
By th’ head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here’s—for a conclusion—
To ev’ry New Light 12 mother’s son,
From this time forth, Confusion!
If mair they deave us wi’ their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We’ll light a *****, and ev’ry skin,
We’ll rin them aff in fusion
Like oil, some day.
Note 1.
Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr.
Lihdsay to the “Laigh Kirk.
”—R.
B.
[back]
Note 2.
Rev.
James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.
[back]
Note 3.
Rev.
John Russell of Kilmarnock.
[back]
Note 4.
Rev.
James Mackinlay.
[back]
Note 5.
Genesis ix.
22.
—R.
B.
[back]
Note 6.
Numbers xxv.
8.
—R.
B.
[back]
Note 7.
Exodus iv.
52.
—R.
B.
[back]
Note 8.
Rev.
Wm.
Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.
[back]
Note 9.
Rev.
John Robertson.
[back]
Note 10.
A district of Kilmarnock.
[back]
Note 11.
The Rev.
John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.
[back]
Note 12.
“New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr.
Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.
—R.
B.
[back]
|
Written by
Antonio Machado |
Palacio, good friend,
is spring there
showing itself on branches of black poplars
by the roads and river? On the steeps
of the high Duero, spring is late,
but so soft and lovely when it comes!
Are there a few new leaves
on the old elms?
The acacias must still be bare,
and the mountain peaks snow-filled.
Oh the massed pinks and whites
of Moncayo, massed up there,
beauty, in the sky of Aragon!
Are there brambles flowering,
among the grey stones,
and white daisies,
in the thin grass?
On the belltowers
the storks will be landing now.
The wheat must be green
and the brown mules working sown furrows,
the people seeding late crops,
in April rain.
There’ll be bees,
drunk on rosemary and thyme.
Are the plum trees in flower? Violets still?
There must be hunters about, stealthy,
their decoys under long capes.
Palacio, good friend,
are there nightingales by the river?
When the first lilies,
and the first roses, open,
on a blue evening, climb to Espino,
high Espino, where she is in the earth.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXXIII.
Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena.
ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.
Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries;
Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed;
Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed
Of Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes;
Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs;
Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread;
Hill of delight—though now delight is fled—
To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys;
[Pg 261]Well I retain your old unchanging face!
Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng,
Infinite woes their constant mansion find!
Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace,
To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung,
Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!
Wrangham.
Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay;
Ye streams, embitter'd with the tears of love;
Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove;
Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play;
Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs convey
A softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that move
Reflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove,
Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray;—
You, you are still the same! How changed, alas,
Am I! who, from a state of life so blest,
Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe!
'Twas here I saw my love: here still I trace
Her parting steps, when she her mortal vest
Cast to the earth, and left these scenes below.
Anon.
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