Written by
Robert Burns |
THOU’S 1 welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me,
If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator,
An’ tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I’m kent the better,
E’en let them clash;
An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho’ your comin’ I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Wee image o’ my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear, and near my heart I set thee
Wi’ as gude will
As a’ the priests had seen me get thee
That’s out o’ h—ll.
Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a’ tint,
Sin’ thou came to the warl’ asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part’s be in’t
The better ha’f o’t.
Tho’ I should be the waur bestead,
Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi’ education,
As ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed,
In a’ thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,
An’ thy poor, worthless daddy’s spirit,
Without his failins,
’Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee,
The cost nor shame o’t,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o’t.
Note 1.
Burns never published this poem.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
I’ve seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,
Out-owre the lay.
Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie,
A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank;
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
Like ony bird.
It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear;
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,
An’ thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie,
Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
An’ unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.
Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an’ win’!
An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,
Far, far, behin’!
When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh
An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,
An’ ca’t thee mad.
When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,
For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
Whare’er thou gaed.
The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle
Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle,
An’ gar’t them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun,
In guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
For days thegither.
Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit;
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi’ pith an’ power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit
An’ slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep,
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;
Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
Wi’ something yet.
An’ think na’, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
To some hain’d rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi’ sma’ fatigue.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!
Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,
But take it like the unback’d filly,
Proud o’ her speed.
When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter
We’re forced to thole.
Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O’ this wild warl’.
Until you on a crummock driddle,
A grey hair’d carl.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon
A fifth or mair
The melancholious, lazy croon
O’ cankrie care.
May still your life from day to day,
Nae “lente largo” in the play,
But “allegretto forte” gay,
Harmonious flow,
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—
Encore! Bravo!
A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang
By square an’ rule,
But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang,
Are wise or fool.
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
Their tuneless hearts,
May fireside discords jar a base
To a’ their parts.
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither,
An’ that there is, I’ve little swither
About the matter;
We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I’se ne’er bid better.
We’ve faults and failings—granted clearly,
We’re frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve’s bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa’;
But still, but still, I like them dearly—
God bless them a’!
Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs’d, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi’ girnin’spite.
By by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin—
An’ every star within my hearin!
An’ by her een wha was a dear ane!
I’ll ne’er forget;
I hope to gie the jads a clearin
In fair play yet.
My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour
By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted;
Then vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,
To sentimental sister Susie,
And honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye,
To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure,
An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure,
Be’t light, be’t dark,
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.
ROBERT BURNS.
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
HERE lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O KEN ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten,
An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?
She gotten a coof wi’ a claut o’ siller,
And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller.
The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady;
The laird was a widdifu’, bleerit knurl;
She’s left the gude fellow, and taen the churl.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving,
The lair did address her wi’ matter mair moving,
A fine pacing-horse wi’ a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailin’,
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl’!
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Written by
Robert Burns |
AE day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl’
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad—
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
“By G—d I’ll not be seen behint them,
Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this d—d infernal clan!”
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
“L—d G—d!” quoth he, “I have it now;
There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”
And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
Chor.
—Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
THERE’S nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The war’ly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a cannie hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
AULD NEIBOUR,I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter;
Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,
To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle
O’ war’ly cares;
Till barins’ barins kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An, gif it’s sae, ye sud by lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic haun’s as you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha like.
For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;
Whiles dazed wi’ love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whiles, but aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man,
Commen’ to me the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan
O’ rhymin clink,
The devil haet,—that I sud ban—
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,
But just the pouchie put the neive in,
An’ while ought’s there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie:
The warl’ may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie
Frae door tae door.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
YOUR billet, Sir, I grant receipt;
Wi’ you I’ll canter ony gate,
Tho’ ’twere a trip to yon blue warl’,
Whare birkies march on burning marl:
Then, Sir, God willing, I’ll attend ye,
And to his goodness I commend ye.
R.
BURNS
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Written by
Robert Burns |
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on every han'
In every hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O?
The warl'ly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O,
An' warl'ly cares an' warl'ly men
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
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