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Best Famous Ower Poems

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Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

132. Reply to a Trimming Epistle received from a Tailor

 WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie *****
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch,
 Your bodkin’s bauld;
I didna suffer half sae much
 Frae Daddie Auld.


What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
 Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
 An’ jag-the-flea!


King David, o’ poetic brief,
Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief
As filled his after-life wi’ grief,
 An’ bluidy rants,
An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief
 O’ lang-syne saunts.


And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants,
I’ll gie auld cloven’s Clootie’s haunts
 An unco slip yet,
An’ snugly sit amang the saunts,
 At Davie’s hip yet!


But, fegs! the session says I maun
Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan
Than garrin lasses coup the cran,
 Clean heels ower body,
An’ sairly thole their mother’s ban
 Afore the howdy.


This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi’ the Session sort;
Auld Clinkum, at the inner port,
 Cried three times, “Robin!
Come hither lad, and answer for’t,
 Ye’re blam’d for jobbin!”


Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on,
An’ snoov’d awa before the Session:
I made an open, fair confession—
 I scorn’t to lee,
An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,
 Fell foul o’ me.


A fornicator-loun he call’d me,
An’ said my faut frae bliss expell’d me;
I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me,
 “But, what the matter?
(Quo’ I) I fear unless ye geld me,
 I’ll ne’er be better!”


“Geld you! (quo’ he) an’ what for no?
If that your right hand, leg or toe
Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe,
 You should remember
To cut it aff—an’ what for no
 Your dearest member?”


“Na, na, (quo’ I,) I’m no for that,
Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t;
I’d rather suffer for my faut
 A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t,
 Tho’ I should rue it.


“Or, gin ye like to end the bother,
To please us a’—I’ve just ae ither—
When next wi’ yon lass I forgather,
 Whate’er betide it,
I’ll frankly gie her ’t a’ thegither,
 An’ let her guide it.”


But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’,
An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’,
 An’ left the Session;
I saw they were resolvèd a’
 On my oppression.


Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Henry the Seventh

 Henry the Seventh of England
Wasn't out of the Royal top drawer,
The only connection of which he could boast,
He were King's nephew's brother-in-law.

It were after the Wars of the Roses
That he came to the front, as it were,
When on strength of his having slain Richard the Third 
He put himself up as his heir.

T'were a bit of a blow to the Barons
When Henry aspired to the Throne,
And some who'd been nursing imperial hopes 
Started pushing out claims of their own.

But they didn't get far with their scheming,
For the moment the matter were pressed
A stroke of the pen took them off to the Tower,
Where a stroke of the axe did the rest.

A feller they called Perkin Warbeck
Was the one who led Henry a dance, 
To make sure that nowt awkward should happen to him
He worked from an office in France.

He claimed to be one of the Princes
As were smothered to death in the Tower. 
His tale was that only his brother was killed
And that he had escaped the seas ower.

Henry knew the appeal of the Princes
Was a strong one for Perkin to make, 
And he reckoned he'd best have a chat with the lad
And find out the least he would take.

In reply to his kind invitation 
Perkin said he'd he happy to call,
But he'd bring his own escort of ten thousand men 
And a hundred pipers an' all.

This reply put the King in a passion 
He swore as he'd stop Perkin's fun,
Then he offered a fortune per annum to him
As could tell him how his could be done.

Then up spoke the bold Lambert Simne 
The King's private scullion he were,
He said: "Just one word in thy ear 'ole, O King,
I've a plan as will stop all this 'ere."

Then he took the King up in a corner, 
Where no one could hear what they said,
He hadn't got far when King started to laff 
And he laffed till he had to he bled.

T 'were a plan to anticipate Perkin, 
By getting in first with these tales,
Start another rebellion before he arrived 
And take the wind out of his sails.

And so Lambert Simnel's rebellion 
Made its fateful debut in the North 
Experts disagree who he made out to be, 
John the Second or Richard the Fourth.

T 'was surprising how many believed him
They flocked to his flag like one man,
For in them days the folk would do owt for a change,
And their motto was, " San fairy ann."

It were quite a success this rebellion
Till t'were routed by Henry at Stoke,
And Lambert were taken and made to confess 
That his parents was working class folk.

The public forgave this deception,
The thing that made them proper mad
Was a twopenny increase on every one's rates 
To pay for the fun they had had.

And so when Peter Warbeck came over
Expecting his praise to be sung,
He was greeted, defeated, escheated, unseated, 
Maltreated and finally hung.

And the Baron went back to his castle, 
The Peasant went back to his herd,
Lambert Simnel went back to his scullion's job
Because Henry went back on his word.
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

The Prinkin Leddie

 The Hielan' lassies are a' for spinnin', 
The Lowlan' lassies for prinkin' and pinnin'; 
My daddie w'u'd chide me, an' so w'u'd my minnie 
If I s'u'd bring hame sic a prinkin' leddie.

Now haud your tongue, ye haverin' coward, 
For whilst I'm young I'll go flounced an' flowered, 
In lutestring striped like the strings o' a fiddle, 
Wi' gowden girdles aboot my middle.

In your Hielan' glen, where the rain pours steady, 
Ye'll be gay an' glad for a prinkin' leddie; 
Where the rocks are all bare an' the turf is all sodden, 
An' lassies gae sad in their homespun an' hodden.

My silks are stiff wi' patterns o' siller,
I've an ermine hood like the hat o' a miller, 
I've chains o' coral like rowan berries, 
An' a cramoisie mantle that cam' frae Paris.

Ye'll be glad for the glint o' its scarlet linin' 
When the larks are up an' the sun is shinin'; 
When the winds are up an' ower the heather 
Your heart'll be gay wi' my gowden feather.

When the skies are low an' the earth is frozen, 
Ye'll be gay an' glad for the leddie ye've chosen, 
When ower the snow I go prinkin' an' prancin' 
In my wee red slippers were made for dancin'.

It's better a leddie like Solomon's lily 
Than one that'll run like a Hielan' gillie 
A-linkin' it ower the leas, my laddie, 
In a raggedy kilt an' a belted pladdie!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

Duncan Gray

 Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe Yule Night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin ower a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and Chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to -France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let Doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling Pity smoored his Wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Fall of Jock Gillespie

 This fell when dinner-time was done --
 'Twixt the first an' the second rub --
That oor mon Jock cam' hame again
 To his rooms ahist the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,
 An' syne we thocht him fou,
An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
 An' garred his partner rue.

Then up and spake an elder mon,
 That held the Spade its Ace --
God save the lad! Whence comes the licht
 "That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,
 An' ower the card-brim wunk: --
"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
 "May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashils
 "An' L. L. L. forbye;
"But never liquor lit the lowe
 "That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast,
 "Aboon the heart a wee?"
"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye
 "That slobbers ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts,
 "An' terrier dogs are fair,
"But never yet was terrier born,
 "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,
 "Below the left lappel?"
"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,
 "Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,
 "For ye are short o' cash,
"An' best Havanas Couldna leave
 "Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid,
 "An' stopped it wi' a curse.
"Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel' --
 "An' capped it wi' a worse!

"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!
 "But plainly we can ken
"Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band
 "O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere,
 An' the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,
 Or Jocke gaed to the Kirk!


Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

To Charles Baxter

 OUR Johnie's deid. The mair's the pity!
He's deid, an' deid o' Aqua-vitae.
O Embro', you're a shrunken city,
Noo Johnie's deid!
Tak hands, an' sing a burial ditty
Ower Johnie's heid.
Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Create an image from this poem

To Mesdames Zassetsky And Garschine

 THE wind may blaw the lee-gang way
And aye the lift be mirk an' gray,
An deep the moss and steigh the brae
Where a' maun gang -
There's still an hoor in ilka day
For luve and sang.

And canty hearts are strangely steeled.
By some dikeside they'll find a bield,
Some couthy neuk by muir or field
They're sure to hit,
Where, frae the blatherin' wind concealed,
They'll rest a bit.

An' weel for them if kindly fate
Send ower the hills to them a mate;
They'll crack a while o' kirk an' State,
O' yowes an' rain:
An' when it's time to take the gate,
Tak' ilk his ain.

- Sic neuk beside the southern sea
I soucht - sic place o' quiet lee
Frae a' the winds o' life. To me,
Fate, rarely fair,
Had set a freendly company
To meet me there.

Kindly by them they gart me sit,
An' blythe was I to bide a bit.
Licht as o' some hame fireside lit
My life for me.
- Ower early maun I rise an' quit
This happy lee.
Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Whether or Not

I

Dunna thee tell me its his'n, mother,
      Dunna thee, dunna thee.
--Oh ay! he'll be comin' to tell thee his-sèn
      Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
      He's gone wi that--
--My gel, owt'll do for a man i' the dark,
      Tha's got it flat.

But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year
      Older nor him--
--Ay, an' yaller as a crowflower, an' yet i' the dark
      Er'd do for Tim.

Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
      It's somebody's lies.
--Ax him thy-sèn wench--a widder's lodger;
      It's no surprise.


II

A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha' 'ticed a lad o' twenty-five
An' 'im to have been took in!

A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till 'er's tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an' 'is wife!

A widow of forty-five.
A tough old otchel wi' long
Witch teeth, an' 'er black hawk-eyes as I've
Mistrusted all along!

An' me as 'as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an' new an' nice, so's when
He wed he'd ha'e summat good!

An' 'im as nice an' fresh
As any man i' the force,
To ha'e gone an' given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!


III

You're stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
    Are you makin' Brinsley way?
--I'm off up th' line to Underwood
    Wi' a dress as is wanted to-day.

Oh are you goin' to Underwood?
    'Appen then you've 'eered?
--What's that as 'appen I've 'eered-on, Missis,
    Speak up, you nedna be feared.

Why, your young man an' Widow Naylor,
    Her as he lodges wi',
They say he's got her wi' childt; but there,
    It's nothing to do wi' me.

Though if it's true they'll turn him out
    O' th' p'lice force, without fail;
An' if it's not true, I'd back my life
    They'll listen to _her_ tale.

Well, I'm believin' no tale, Missis,
    I'm seein' for my-sen;
An' when I know for sure, Missis,
    I'll talk _then_.


IV

Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
    Sit noddin' thy head at me;
My breast's as red as thine, I reckon,
    Flayed red, if tha could but see.

Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
    You nedna screet at me!
I'm screetin' my-sen, but are-na goin'
    To let iv'rybody see.

Tha _art_ smock-ravelled, bunny,
    Larropin' neck an' crop
I' th' snow: but I's warrant thee, bunny,
    _I'm_ further ower th' top.


V

Now sithee theer at th' railroad crossin'
Warmin' his-sen at the stool o' fire
Under the tank as fills the ingines,
If there isn't my dearly-beloved liar!

My constable wi' 'is buttoned breast
As stout as the truth, my sirs!--An' 'is face
As bold as a robin! It's much he cares
For this nice old shame and disgrace.

Oh but he drops his flag when 'e sees me,
Yes, an' 'is face goes white ... oh yes
Tha can stare at me wi' thy fierce blue eyes,
But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!


VI

Whativer brings thee out so far
    In a' this depth o' snow?
--I'm takin' 'ome a weddin' dress
    If tha maun know.

Why, is there a weddin' at Underwood,
    As tha ne'd trudge up here?
--It's Widow Naylor's weddin'-dress,
    An' 'er's wantin it, I hear.

_'Er_ doesna want no weddin-dress ...
    What--but what dost mean?
--Doesn't ter know what I mean, Tim?--Yi,
    Tha must' a' been hard to wean!

Tha'rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;
    But tell me, isn't it true
As 'er'll be wantin' _my_ weddin' dress
    In a week or two?

Tha's no occasions ter ha'e me on
    Lizzie--what's done is done!
--_Done_, I should think so--Done! But might
    I ask when tha begun?

It's thee as 'as done it as much as me,
    Lizzie, I tell thee that.
--"Me gotten a childt to thy landlady--!"
    Tha's gotten thy answer pat,

As tha allers hast--but let me tell thee
    Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I
Was a'most burstin' mad o' my-sen
    An' walkin' in agony;

After thy kisses, Lizzie, after
    Tha's lain right up to me Lizzie, an' melted
Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,
    Till I was verily swelted.

An' if my landlady seed me like it,
    An' if 'er clawkin', tiger's eyes
Went through me just as the light went out
    Is it any cause for surprise?

No cause for surprise at all, my lad,
    After lickin' and snuffin' at me, tha could
Turn thy mouth on a woman like her--
    Did ter find her good?

Ay, I did, but afterwards
    I should like to ha' killed her!
--Afterwards!--an' after how long
    Wor it tha'd liked to 'a killed her?

Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,
    I might lose my-sen.
--I'll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,
    An' gi'e her thee back again.

I'll ta'e thy word 'Good-bye,' Liz,
    But I shonna marry her,
I shonna for nobody.--It is
    Very nice on you, Sir.

The childt maun ta'e its luck, it maun,
    An' she maun ta'e _her_ luck,
For I tell ye I shonna marry her--
    What her's got, her took.

That's spoken like a man, Timmy,
    That's spoken like a man ...
"He up an' fired off his pistol
    An' then away he ran."

I damn well shanna marry 'er,
    So chew at it no more,
Or I'll chuck the flamin' lot of you--
    --You nedn't have swore.


VII

That's his collar round the candle-stick
An' that's the dark blue tie I bought 'im,
An' these is the woman's kids he's so fond on,
An' 'ere comes the cat that caught 'im.

I dunno where his eyes was--a gret
Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think
Of him stoopin' to her! You'd wonder he could
Throw hisself in that sink.

I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!
    --Who yer are?--yis, you're Lizzie Stainwright.
'An 'appen you might guess what I've come for?
    --'Appen I mightn't, 'appen I might.

You knowed as I was courtin' Tim Merfin.
    --Yis, I knowed 'e wor courtin' thee.
An' yet you've been carryin' on wi' him.
    --Ay, an' 'im wi' me.

Well, now you've got to pay for it,
    --An' if I han, what's that to thee?
For 'e isn't goin' to marry you.
    --Is it a toss-up 'twixt thee an' me?

It's no toss-up 'twixt thee an' me.
    --Then what art colleyfoglin' for?
I'm not havin' your orts an' slarts.
    --Which on us said you wor?

I want you to know 'e's non _marryin'_ you.
    --Tha wants 'im thy-sen too bad.
Though I'll see as 'e pays you, an' comes to the scratch.
    --Tha'rt for doin' a lot wi' th' lad.


VIII

To think I should ha'e to haffle an' caffle
    Wi' a woman, an' pay 'er a price
For lettin' me marry the lad as I thought
    To marry wi' cabs an' rice.

But we'll go unbeknown to the registrar,
    An' give _'er_ what money there is,
For I won't be beholden to such as her
    For anythink of his.


IX

Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,
    An' come wi' me in here,
Ta'e off thy p'lice-man's helmet
    An' look me clear.

I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,
    I do, an' that I do!
For whenever I look thee i' th' face, I s'll see
    Her face too.

I wish tha could wesh 'er off'n thee,
    For I used to think that thy
Face was the finest thing that iver
    Met my eye....


X

Twenty pound o' thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha'e I,
Thine shall go to pay the woman, an' wi' my bit we'll buy
All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,
An' we'll be married at th' registrar--now lift thy face.

Lift thy face an' look at me, man, up an' look at me:
Sorry I am for this business, an' sorry if I ha'e driven thee
To such a thing: but it's a poor tale, that I'm bound to say,
Before I can ta'e thee I've got a widow of forty-five to pay.

Dunnat thee think but what I love thee--I love thee well,
But 'deed an' I wish as this tale o' thine wor niver my tale to tell;
Deed an' I wish as I could stood at the altar wi' thee an' been proud
o' thee,
That I could ha' been first woman to thee, as thou'rt first man to me.

But we maun ma'e the best on't--I'll rear thy childt if 'er'll yield
it to me,
An' then wi' that twenty pound we gi'e 'er I s'd think 'er wunna be
So very much worser off than 'er wor before--An' now look up
An' answer me--for I've said my say, an' there's no more sorrow to sup.

Yi, tha'rt a man, tha'rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes
As sulky an' ormin' as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise
From what I've arranged wi' thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou
art,
Kiss me then--there!--ne'er mind if I scraight--I wor fond o' thee,
Sweetheart.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things