by Robert Burns
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 145
In favour wi’ some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin —
CÆSAR
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. 150
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
An’ saying ay or no’s they bid him:
At operas an’ plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 155
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father’s auld entails; 160
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water, 165
To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction. 170
LUATH
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O would they stay aback frae courts, 175
An’ please themsels wi’ country sports,
It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; 180
Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk,
But will ye tell me, Master C&æsar, 185
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The very thought o’t need na fear them.
CÆSAR
L — d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! 190
It’s true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat:
They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:
But human bodies are sic fools, 195
For a’ their colleges an’ schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel’s to vex them;
An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 200
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, 205
Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless. 210
An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping through public places,
There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches, 215
Then sowther a’ in deep debauches.
Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; 220
But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks 225
Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
But this is gentry’s life in common. 230
By this, the sun was out of sight,
An’ darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;
When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, 235
Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs;
An’ each took aff his several way,
Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
88.
The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer
To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.
Dearest of distillation! last and best ——
—— How art thou lost! ——
PARODY ON MILTON.
YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,
An’ doucely manage our affairs
In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s pray’rs 5
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ‘twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
Low i’ the dust, 10
And scriechinh out prosaic verse,
An like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction 15
On aqua-vit&æ;
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
An’ move their pity.
Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth: 20
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? 25
Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!
Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom
Wi’ them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
Far better want them. 30
In gath’rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,
An’ hum an’ haw;
But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack 35
Before them a’.
Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;
An’ d — mn’d excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell, 40
Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,
Or limpet shell!
Then, on the tither hand present her —
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner 45
Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a’ kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, 50
To see his poor auld mither’s pot
Thus dung in staves,
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?
Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, 55
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Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
Or gab like Boswell,
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An’ tie some hose well. 60
God bless your Honours! can ye see’t —
The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,
An’ no get warmly to your feet,
An’ gar them hear it,
An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat 65
Ye winna bear it?
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues; 70
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s
Auld Scotland’s wrangs.
Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;
An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, 75
The Laird o’ Graham;
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
Dundas his name:
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 80
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;
An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 85
If poets e’er are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
Ye’d lend a hand;
But when there’s ought to say anent it,
Ye’re at a stand. 90
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
Ye’ll see’t or lang,
She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, 95
Anither sang.
This while she’s been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
Play’d her that pliskie!) 100
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud
About her whisky.
An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t,
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,
An’durk an’ pistol at her belt, 105
She’ll tak the streets,
An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,
I’ the first she meets!
For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, 110
An’ to the muckle house repair,
Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear,
To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, 115
May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;
But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!
E’en cowe the cadie!
An’ send him to his dicing box
An’ sportin’ lady. 120
Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s,
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s
Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, 125
Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach
Nor erudition, 130
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;
An’ if she promise auld or young 135
To tak their part,
Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,
She’ll no desert.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither’s heart support ye; 140
Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,
An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honours, a’ your days, 145
Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings an’ prays,
While Rab his name is. 150
POSTSCRIPT
LET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys 155
Tak aff their whisky.
What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,
The scented groves; 160
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves!
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither 165
To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp — a shot — they’re aff, a’throw’ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 170
Say, such is royal George’s will,
An’ there’s the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; 175
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
In faint huzzas. 180
Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek,
In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s name in Greek 185
I’ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,
Ye tine your dam; 190
Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
Chronological List of Poems
Alphabetical List of Poems
89.
The Ordination
“For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n —
To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n.”
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’ 5
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, 10
Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
An’ Russell sair misca’d her:
This day Mackinlay taks the flail,
An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! 15
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; 20
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, 25
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 leugh at his dad, 30
Which made Canaan a nigger;
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade,
Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour;
Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger 35
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; 40
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. 45
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 50
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, 55
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; 60
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; 65
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin;
An’ like a godly, elect bairn, 70
He’s waled us out a true ane,
And sound, this day.
Now Robertson harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 75
For there they’ll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
Ye may commence a shaver;
