by Robert Burns
Act Sederunt of the Session – A Scots Ballad
Tune: O’er the Muir amang the heather
In Edinburgh town they’ve made a law,
In Edinburgh at the Court o’ Session,
That standing pricks are fauteors a’, defaulters
And guilty of a high transgression. —
Chorus
5 Act Sederunt o’ the Session,
Decreet o’ the Court o’ Session,
That standing pricks are fauteors a’, defaulters
And guilty of a high transgression. —
And they’ve provided dungeons deep,
10 Ilk lass has ane in her possession;
Untill the wretches wail and weep,
They there shall lie for their transgression. —
Act Sederunt o’ the Session, &c.
This was sent with the above lyric to Robert Cleghorn on 25th October, 1793. The poet commented wryly:
Well! the Lawis good for Something, since we can make a B[aw]dy song out of it. – (N.B. I never made anything of it in any other way –). There is, there must be, some truth in original sin. My violent propensity to B[aw]dy convinces me of it (Letter 592).
The poet may have been partly motivated to write this lyric to exorcise his own deep embarrassment when he was delivered with a legal writ in meditatione fugie by May Cameron in mid-August 1787, regarding a child she was carrying to him. The Chambers–Wallace edition mentions this affair, remarking ‘Burns had to make a personal appearance in Edinburgh on the 15th August, on account of certain legal proceedings against him’ (Chambers–Wallace, Vol. II, fn., p. 187). It is, of course, unlikely that the poet’s paternity problems with May Cameron went as far as the Court of Session, but the Edinburgh legal profession, under the Dundas dynasty, would have been keenly interested in the tittle-tattle regarding the poet’s paternity problem.
Why Should Na Poor Folk Mowe
Tune: The Campbells are Coming
When Princes and Prelates and het-headed zealots hot-
All Europe hae set in a lowe, have, aflame
The poor man lies down, nor envies a crown,
And comforts himself with a mowe. — sex/copulate
Chorus
5 And why shouldna poor folk mowe, mowe, mowe, should not
And why shouldna poor folk mowe:
The great folk hae siller, and houses and lands, have money
Poor bodies hae naething but mowe. — have nothing
When Brunswick’s great Prince1 cam a cruising to France,
10 Republican billies to cowe,
Bauld Brunswick’s great Prince wad hae shawn better sense, bold, would have shown
At hame with his Princess to mowe. —
And why shouldna &c.
Out over the Rhine proud Prussia wad shine, would
To spend his best blood did he vow;
15 But Fredric2 had better ne’er forded the water, crossed
But spent as he docht in a mowe. — should
And why shouldna &c.
By sea by shore! the Emperor3 swore,
In Paris he’d kick up a row;
But Paris sae ready just leugh at the laddie so, laughed
20 And bade him gae tak him a mowe. — go
And why shouldna &c.
Auld Kate4 laid her claws on poor Stanislaus,
And Poland has bent like a bow:
May the deil in her ass ram a huge prick o’ brass! Devil, arse
And damm her to hell with a mowe!
And why shouldna &c.
25 But truce with commotions and new-fangled notions,
A bumper I trust you’ll allow:
Here’s George our gude king and Charlotte his queen, good
And lang may they tak a gude mowe. — long, good
And why shouldna &c.
This song was finished and sent to Robert Cleghorn on 12th December, 1792 (Letter 527), on the day the Convention of the Friends of the People met in Edinburgh. As a bawdy-political song with a panoramic picture of events across Europe at the end of 1792, when European royal families, afraid for their own power base and position in the after-shock of the French Revolution, engulfed their respective countries in war against France. The Duke of Brunswick, who promised to starve France into defeat and march victorious into Paris, was the brother-in-law of King George III. Leading the Prussian and Austrian army in late 1792, before Britain went to war with France, he was beaten by the revolutionary army at Valmy. The second partition of Poland (l. 22) is also referred to in the recently discovered song A Wet Day at Walmer Castle. A cocktail of revolutionary politics and sexual levelling, the audience for this type of lyric was more the poet’s fellow Crochallan cronies than a general public.
A copy was printed by Clement Shorter in March 1916 in a clandestine pamphlet titled ‘A Suppressed Ballad’. Shorter did not wish women or children to read the song and restricted the print run to only 25 copies. His treatment of it as a taboo subject is a classic example of the sexual and erotic censorship of Burns.
No apology is needed at this time of day for printing for private circulation this unpublishable set of verses by Robert Burns. The twenty-five copies to which this issue is restricted will not fall into the hands of young people or be circulated among the pruriently minded. They will go to collectors who already have on their shelves much more lurid literature than poor Burns’s wildest amatory efforts…. If, however, I had had a son I would long since have burnt books of this character rather than they should have fallen prematurely into his hands …
And thus we leave Burns’s Tippling Ballad for the consideration of twenty-five of the elect, although it has rightly been suppressed in all ‘complete’ editions of the poet’s works. Two verses are given in the Chambers-Wallace edition and three verses in the Scott-Douglas edition, while Cunningham, Pickering, and [Hogg and] Motherwell give one verse apiece. (Clement Shorter, A Suppressed Ballad by Robert Burns, Glasgow, March 1st 1916, Mitchell Library pamphlet).
The text in the Merry Muses contains two extra verses from the accepted version. Editors agree that the additional verses were added by another hand.
1 The Duke of Brunswick was brother in law to George III and led the Austrian and Prussian army against the French in 1792, publicly declaring he would march victorious into Paris and break the revolutionaries by starving them. He was defeated by General Dumouriez.
2 Frederick William II (1744–97).
3 Leopold II (1747–92).
4 Empress Catherine of Russia (1729–96).
A Good Mowe
Tune: The Campbells are comin’
While Prose-work and rhymes
Are hunted for crimes,
And things are — the devil knows how;
Aware o my rhymes,
5 In these kittle times, ticklish
The subject I chuse is a mowe. copulation
Some cry, Constitution!
Some cry, Revolution!
And Politicks kick up a rowe;
10 But Prince and Republic,
Agree on the Subject,
No treason is in a good mowe.
Th’ Episcopal lawn,
And Presbyter band,
15 Hae lang been to ither a cowe; long, terror
But still the proud Prelate,
And Presbyter zealot
Agree in an orthodox mowe.
Poor Justice,’ tis hinted —
20 Ill natur’dly squinted,
The Process — but mum — we’ll allow
Poor Justice has ever
For Cunt had a favour,
While Justice could tak a gude mowe. good
25 Now fill to the brim —
To her, and to him,
Wha willing do what they dow; who, can
And ne’er a poor wench
Want a friend at a pinch,
30 Whase failing is only a mowe. whose
Like its sister piece Why Should Na Poor Folk Mowe, this bawdy song is a burlesque effort to belittl
e, mock and laugh away the magnitude of political events occurring in Britain during 1792 when the Sedition Laws were imposed, as hinted in ll. 1–6.
Nine Inch Will Please a Lady
Tune: Come Rede Me, Dame
‘Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,
‘My dame come tell me truly,
‘What length o’ graith, when weel ca’d hame, tool, hammered home
‘Will sair a woman duly?’ serve
5 The carlin clew her wanton tail, wench, clutched, vulva
Her wanton tail sae ready — so
I learn’d a sang in Annandale, song
Nine inch will please a lady. —
But for a koontrie cunt like mine, country
10 In sooth, we’re nae sae gentle; truth, not so
We’ll tak tway thumb-bread to the nine, two thumb-breadth
And that’s a sonsy pintle: plump penis
O Leeze me on my Charlie lad, blessings on
I’ll ne’er forget my Charlie!
15 Tway roarin handfu’s and a daud, testicles, penis
He nidge’t it in fu’ rarely. — pressed forcibly
But weary fa’ the laithron doup lazy buttocks
And may it ne’er be thrivin!
It’s no the length that makes me loup, jump
20 But it’s the double drivin. —
Come nidge me, Tam, come nudge me, Tam, bang
Come nidge me o’er the nyvel! navel
Come lowse and lug your battering ram, release, throw
And thrash him at my gyvel. vagina
The title of this and the first few lines are traditional. Letter 304 has only lines 5–7, the remainder is cut away, probably censored. Burns may have heard a bawdy song somewhere in Annandale (as suggested at l. 7) and composed this from it. The bawdy effect is enhanced by his use of the feminine voice, here employed to maximum raunchiness to express the woman’s desire for sexual satisfaction from either Charlie or Tam, two extremely well-endowed men, who can ‘nidge’, ‘nudge’, ‘lowse’, ‘lug’ and ‘thrash’ a nine-inch penis in her vagina.
Ode to Spring
Tune: The Tither Morn
When maukin bucks, at early fucks, buck hares
In dewy glens are seen, Sir,
And birds, on boughs, take off their mowes, copulation
Amang the leaves sae green, Sir; among, so
5 Latona’s sun looks liquorish on
Dame Nature’s grand impè tus,
Till his pego rise, then westward flies penis
To roger Madam Thetis. have sex with
Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,
10 And glances o’er the brae, Sir, a ridge on a hill
Slides by a bower where many a flower
Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,
To love they thought no crime, Sir;
15 The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,
While Damon’s arse beat time, Sir. —
First wi the thrush, his thrust & push
Had compass large & long, Sir;
The blackbird next, his tuneful text,
20 Was bolder, clear & strong, Sir:
The linnet’s lay came then in play,
And the lark that soar’d aboon, Sir; above
Till Damon, fierce, mistim’d his arse,
And fuck’d quite out of tune, Sir. —
Burns informed George Thomson in January 1795, in the letter which contained A Man’s a Man:
… give me leave to squeeze in a clever anecdote of my Spring originality.
Some years ago, when I was young, and by no means the saint I am now, I was looking over, in company with a belle lettre friend, a Magazine Ode to Spring, when my friend fell foul of the recurrence of the same thoughts, and offered me a bet that it was impossible to produce an Ode to Spring on an original plan. — I accepted it, and pledged myself to bring in verdant fields, — the budding flowers, — the chrystal streams, — the melody of the groves, — and a love-story into the bargain, and yet be original. Here follows the piece, and wrote for music too! (Letter 651).
O Saw Ye My Maggie
Tune: As title
Saw ye my Maggie?
Saw ye my Maggie?
Saw ye my Maggie?
Comin o’er the lea?
5 What mark has your Maggie?
What mark has your Maggie?
What mark has your Maggie?
That ane may ken her be? one, know, by
My Maggie has a mark,
10 Ye’ll find it in the dark,
It’s in below her sark, shirt
A little aboon her knee. above
What wealth has your Maggie,
What wealth has your Maggie,
15 What wealth has your Maggie,
In tocher, gear, or fee? dowry, goods
My Maggie has a treasure,
A hidden mine o’ pleasure,
I’ll howk it at my leisure, dig/scrape
20 It’s alane for me. alone
How loe ye yer Maggie, love
How loe ye yer Maggie,
How loe ye yer Maggie,
And loe nane but she? love none
25 Ein that tell our wishes, eyes
Eager glowing kisses,
Then diviner blisses,
In holy ecstacy! —
How meet you your Maggie,
30 How meet you your Maggie,
How meet you your Maggie,
When nane’s to hear or see? none
Heavenly joys before me,
Rapture trembling o’er me,
35 Maggie I adore thee,
On my bended knee!!!
It is accepted that Burns took this from a traditional bawdy song and adapted his own lyrics to it, employing the layout of Saw Ye My Peggy. As Kinsley remarks, the Abbotsford MS contains a mock testament by Burns claiming the song was by Alexander Findlater (Vol. III, pp. 1525–6).
To Alexander Findlater
Ellisland, Saturday Morning
First printed in Barke, 1959.
Dear Sir, our Lucky humbly begs
Ye’ll prie her caller, new-laid eggs: taste, fresh
Lord grant the Cock may keep his legs,
Aboon the Chuckies; above
5 And wi’ his kittle, forket clegs, roused, spindly legs
Claw weel their dockies! well, backsides
Had Fate that curst me in her ledger,
A Poet poor, and poorer Gager, exciseman
Created me that feather’d Sodger,
10 A generous Cock, cockerel
How I wad craw and strut and roger crow, copulate
My kecklin Flock! cackling
Buskit wi’ mony a bien, braw feather, dressed, snug, fine
I wad defied the warst a’ weather: would, worst
15 When corn or bear I could na gather barley, not
To gie my burdies; hens
I’d treated them wi’ caller heather, fresh
And weel-knooz’d hurdies. well-rounded backsides
Nae cursed CLERICAL EXCISE no
20 On honest Nature’s laws and ties;
Free as the vernal breeze that flies
At early day,
We’d tasted Nature’s richest joys,
But stint or stay.—
25 But as this subject ’s something kittle, ticklish/difficult
Our wisest way ’s to say but little;
And while my Muse is at her mettle, work
I am, most fervent,
Or may I die upon a whittle! knife
30 Your Friend and Servant—
Robt. Burns.
Alexander Findlater (1754–1839) was the Excise Supervisor at Dumfries in 1787 and held the post until 1797, when he was promoted to Collector of Excise in Glasgow then Haddington. A friend of the poet, he was born in Burntisland, Fife, the son of an Excise Officer. This brief letter-epistle was sent with a present of eggs to Findlater from Ellisland. It is assumed that it was written e
arly in 1790, as it is not dated.
The Fornicator
Tune: Clout the Caldron
First printed in the Merry Muses of Caledonia.
Ye jovial boys who love the joys,
The blissful joys of Lovers;
Yet dare avow with dauntless brow,
Then th’ bony lass discovers; pregnancy
5 I pray draw near and lend an ear,
And welcome in a Frater, brother
For I’ve lately been on quarantine,
A proven Fornicator.
Before the Congregation wide
10 I pass’d the muster fairly,
My handsome Betsey by my side
We gat our ditty rarely; got, sermon
But my downcast eye by chance did spy
What made my lips to water,
15 Those limbs so clean where I, between,
Commenc’d a Fornicator.
With rueful face and signs of grace
I pay’d the buttock-hire, a fine for fornication
The night was dark and thro’ the park
20 I could not but convoy her;
A parting kiss, what could I less,
My vows began to scatter,
My Betsey fell — lal de dal lal lal,
I am a Fornicator.
25 But for her sake this vow I make,
And solemnly I swear it,
That while I own a single crown,
She’s welcome for to share it;
