Written by
Robert Burns |
A’ YE wha live by sowps o’ drink,
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A’ ye wha live and never think,
Come, mourn wi’ me!
Our billie ’s gien us a’ a jink,
An’ owre the sea!
Lament him a’ ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random splore;
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar;
In social key;
For now he’s taen anither shore.
An’ owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him
Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;
For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him
That’s owre the sea!
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble,
’Twad been nae plea;
But he was gleg as ony wumble,
That’s owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;
’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee:
He was her Laureat mony a year,
That’s owre the sea!
He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!
So, took a berth afore the mast,
An’ owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune’s cummock,
On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,
Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;
So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,
An’ owre the sea.
He ne’er was gien to great misguidin,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
That’s owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An’ hap him in cozie biel:
Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel,
An’ fou o’ glee:
He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,
That’s owre the sea.
Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!
I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie,
Tho’ owre the sea!
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Written by
Badger Clark |
At a roundup on the Gily,
One sweet mornin' long ago,
Ten of us was throwed right freely
By a hawse from Idaho.
And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
For a man to break his pride
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--
"_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
_I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
_I kin ride the highest liver_
_'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
_And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"
So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
And they mangled up the air
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned his brag was fair.
Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
And the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hawse's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert
"_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
_Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
_If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
_W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
_And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"
Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hawse's back in two.
Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
Skyward man and saddle flew.
Up he mounted, never laggin',
While we watched him through our tears,
And his last thin bit of braggin'
Came a-droppin' to our ears.
"_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
_You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
_I have kep' my talent hidin';_
_I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
_And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"
Years have gone since that ascension.
Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
Some celestial outlaw's bit.
When the night rain beats our slickers
And the wind is swift and stout
And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
We kin sometimes hear him shout--
"_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
_I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
_Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
_While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
_If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"
Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
Scornful still of jar and jolt,
He'll come back some day, astraddle
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
And the thin-skinned generation
Of that dim and distant day
Sure will stare with admiration
When they hear old Boastful say--
"_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
_Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
_Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
_With your a'roplanes and motors--_
_Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"
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