by Robert Burns
And my roguish boy his Mother’s joy,
30 And the darling of his Pater; father
For him I boast my pains and cost,
Although a Fornicator.
Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades
Have tipt you off blue-boram,
35 I tell ye plain, I do disdain
To rank you in the Quorum;
But a bony lass upon the grass
To teach her esse Mater, to become a mother
And no reward but for regard,
40 O that’s a Fornicator.
Your warlike Kings and Heros bold,
Great Captains and Commanders;
Your mighty Cesars fam’d of old,
And conquering Alexanders;
45 In fields they fought and laurels bought
And bulwarks strong did batter,
But still they grac’d our noble list
And ranked Fornicator!!!
Acompanion piece to A Poet’s Welcome to his Love-Begotten Daughter, this provides an orgiastic celebration of the events prior to birth when, of course, Burns did not know the gender of the child. If Betsy Paton was not facially attractive she, like Jean Armour and the holly-decked muse of The Vison, shared splendid legs. McGuirk cogently elucidates the inner contrasts on which the poem is structured thus:
The free love of fornicators is contrasted with the kirk’s guinea fine for fornication, disdainfully equated with prostitution by the term used: ‘buttock-hire’. The ecclesiastical term ‘fornicator’ is opposed by Latin rhymes and classical references – ‘frater’, ‘pater’, ‘esse mater’, ‘quorum’, ‘Cesar’, ‘conquering Alexanders’ – that suggest an alternative world more pagan and more heroic than Auld Licht Mauchline, with its perverse substitution of money for pleasure. The mock-heroic bluster of the military imagery (‘pass the muster’, ‘convoy’, ‘warlike kings and heroes bold’) recalls the double entendre of one of Burns’s favourite novels, Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (p. 213).
Ll. 33–6 refer to prostitutes (not ranked ‘in the Quorum’) and ‘blue-borum’ was a treatment for sexual disease, not ‘a social disease’ as Mackay suggests (p. 114).
There was Twa Wives
Tune: Tak Your Auld Cloak About You
There was twa wives, and twa witty wives, twa
As e’er play’d houghmagandie, fornicating
And they coost out, upon a time, cast/went
Out o’er a drink o’ brandy;
5 Up Maggy rose, and forth she goes,
And she leaves auld Mary flytin, old, scolding
And she farted by the byre-en’ -end
For she was gaun a shiten. going
She farted by the byre-en’,
10 She farted by the stable;
And thick and nimble were her steps fast
As fast as she was able:
Till at yon dyke-back the hurly brak, by/the, diarrhoea
But raxin for some dockins, reaching, dock-leaves
15 The beans and pease cam down her thighs,
And she cackit a’ her stockins. covered/fouled
Burns sent a copy of this to Robert Cleghorn, a fellow member of the enlightened Edinburgh male drinking club, the Crochallan Fencibles, sometime in early 1792. Burns told him, ‘I make you [a] present of the following new Edition of an old Cloaciniad song, [a] species of composition which I have heard you admire, and a kind of song I know you wanted much. It is sung to an old tune, something like Take Your Auld Cloak About You — ’ (Letter 488). The date of the letter, January 1792, is conjectural.
Brose and Butter
Printed in the public edition of The Merry Muses of Caledonia, 1959.
Jenny sits up i’ the laft loft
Jockie wad fain a been at her; would, having sex
But there cam a wind out o’ the west came
Made a’ the winnocks to clatter. windows, rattle
Chorus
5 O gie my love brose, lasses; give, milky oatmeal
O gie my love brose and butter; give, lots of semen
For nane in Carrick wi’ him none
Can gie a cunt its supper. give
The laverock lo’es the grass, lark, loves
10 The paetrick lo’es the stibble: partridge
And hey, for the gardiner lad,
To gully awa wi’ his dibble! stab away
O gie, &c. stick for making seed holes
My daddie sent me to the hill
To pu’ my minnie some heather; pull
15 An’ drive it in your fill, vagina
Ye’re welcome to the leather.
O gie, &c.
The Mouse is a merry wee beast,
The Moudiewart wants the een; mole, lacks eyes
And O, for a touch o’ the thing
20 I had in my nieve yestreen. fist/grasp, last night
O gie, &c.
We a’ were fou yestreen, drunk, last night
The night shall be its brither; brother
And hey, for a roaring pin rampant penis
To nail twa wames thegither! two bellies together
O gie, &c.
De Lancey Ferguson argues that this poem is mainly Burns’s reworking of a traditional Ayrshire bawdy ballad. Kinsley is less sure though he quotes, for examples, these lines from a seventeenth-century folk-song:
The moudiewark has done me ill,
And below my apron has biggit a hill;
………
This moudiewark, tho’ it be blin’;
If ance its nose you let it in,
Then to the hilts, within a crack
It’s out o’ sight, the moudiewark. (Vol. III, p. 1136.)
What can be unresevedly said is that Burns had a profusion of folk sexual riddling metaphors on which to draw. The ‘moudiewart’ refers to the penis, while ‘brose and butter’ describes a plenitude of semen.
Green Grow the Rashes O
In sober hours I am a priest;
A hero when I’m tipsey, O;
But I’m a King and ev’rything,
When wi’ a wanton Gipsey, O.
Green grow &c.
Chorus
5 Green grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O,
The lasses they hae wimble bores, have gimlet
The widows they hae gashes O. have
’Twas late yestreen I met wi’ ane, one
10 An’ wow, but she was gentle, O!
Ae han’ she pat roun’ my cravat, one hand, put
The tither to my pintle O. penis
Green grow &c.
I dought na speak — yet was na fley’d — dared not, not scared
My heart play’d duntie, duntie, O;
15 An’ ceremony laid aside,
I fairly fun’ her cuntie, O. — found
Green grow &c.
Multa desunt — more to follow
This was sent to John Richmond, Edinburgh, on 3rd September, 1786, after the comment, ‘Armour has just brought me a fine boy and girl at one throw. God bless the little dears!’ (Letter 45). The letter appeared in 1877. The manuscript was eventually sold again at New York, 22 April, 1937 and checked by De Lancey Ferguson at the sale (M.M.C., p. 59).
It is influenced by traditional folk song, but does, as Kinsley remarks, possess his ‘compactness and energy’ (Vol. III, p. 1210). A song in Herd’s Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, 1776, reads:
The down bed, the feather bed
The bed amang the rashes O,
Yet a’ the beds is no sae saft,
As the bellies o’ the lassies O!
Green grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O,
The feather-bed is no sae saft,
As a bed amang the rashes [O]. (Vol. III, p. 1210.)
The body of the lyric, though, is from Burns.
Muirland Meg
Tune: Saw Ye My Eppie McNab
Amang our young lassies there’s Muirland Meg, among
She’ll beg or she’ll work, and she
’ll play or she beg,
At thretteen her maidenhead flew to the gate, thirteen, virginity
And the door o’ her cage stands open yet.
5 Her kittle black een they wad thirl you thro’, eyes, thrill
Her rose-bud lips cry, kiss me now;
The curls and links o’ her bonie black hair,
Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair. would, more
An armfu’ o’ love is her bosom sae plump, so
10 A span o’ delight is her middle sae jimp; so, small
A taper, white leg, and a thumpin thie, large, thigh
And a fiddle near by, an ye play a wee! a little
Love’s her delight, and kissin’s her treasure;
She’ll stick at nae price, an ye gae her gude measure. no, give, good
15 As lang’s a sheep-fit, and as girt’s a goose-egg, long, thick
And that’s the measure o’ Muirland Meg.
A transcript of this by Alan Cunningham is bound in a copy of The Merry Muses in the British Museum. According to Cunningham Muirland Meg was a Margaret Hog [g], (Meg Hog) nicknamed Monkery Meg, who had a house of ill repute on the White Sands at Dumfries.
The Patriarch
Tune: The Auld Cripple Dow
As honest Jacob on a night,
Wi’ his beloved beauty,
Was duly laid on wedlock’s bed
And noddin’ at his duty:
5 Tal de dal, &c.
‘How lang, she says, ye fumblin’ wretch,
Will ye be f[uckin]g at it?
‘My eldest wean might die of age, child
Before that ye could get it.
10 ‘Ye pegh, and grane, and groazle there, pant, groan, breathe heavily
And mak an unco splutter, mighty
And I maun ly and thole you here, must, endure
And fient a hair the better. not a bit
Then he, in wrath, put up his graith, tool
15 The Deevil’s in the hizzie! hussy
I mow you as I mow the lave, copulate with, others
And night and day I’m bisy. busy
I’ve bairn’d the servant gypsies baith, given children to, both
Forbye your titty Leah; sister
20 Ye barren jad, ye put me mad, jade/woman
What mair can I do wi’ you. more
There’s ne’er a mow I’ve gi’en the lave, fuck, given, others
But ye hae got a dizzen; have, dozen
And damn’d a ane ye’se get again, one
25 Altho’ you c[un]t should gizzen.’ shrivel
Then Rachel calm, as ony lamb, any
She claps him on the waulies, genitals
Quo’ she, ‘ne’er fash a woman’s clash, heed, talk/tongue
‘In throwth, ye mow me braulies. very well
30 My dear ’tis true, for mony a mow,
I’m your ungratefu’ debtor;
But ance again, I dinna ken, once, do not know
We’ll aiblens happen better.’ perhaps
Then honest man! wi’ little wark, work
35 He soon forgat his ire; irritation
The patriarch, he coost the sark, cast off, shirt
And up and till’t like fire!!!
The comic irreverence of this bedtime conversation between the Old Testament figures, Jacob and Sarah, possesses a rhetorical compactness expected from Burns. Kinsley accepts it as Burns’s (Vol. III, p. 1522) on the strength of a holograph sold at Sotheby’s, 4th December, 1873 and recorded in The Burns Chronicle, 1894, p. 140 (information collated by De Lancey Ferguson). Asecond manuscript was seen by Scott Douglas and owned by aMr Roberts, Town-clerk at Forfar. It was introduced as ‘A Wicked Song. /Author’s Name Unknown. /Tune: The Waukin’ o’ a Winter’s Night’. It carried a mock-moral warning to readers that, inter alia, it was the ‘production of one of those licentious, ungodly … wretches who take it as a compliment to be called wicked, providing you allow them to be witty’ (MMC, Goodsir Smith, p. 67). Given his predilection for so using the Old Testament, this is unmistakably Burns.
Godly Girzie
Tune: Wat Ye Wha I Met Yestreen
The night it was a haly night, holy
The day had been a haly day;
Kilmarnock gleam’d wi’ candle light,
As Girzie hameward took her way.
5 A man o’ sin, ill may he thrive!
And never haly-meeting see!
Wi’ godly Girzie met belyve, quickly
Amang the Cragie hills sae hie. among, so high
The chiel’ was wight, the chiel’ was stark, fellow, strong
10 He wad na wait to chap nor ca’, knock
And she was faint wi’ haly wark, work
She had na pith to say him na. no strength, no
But ay she glowr’d up to the moon, stared
And ay she sigh’d most piouslie;
15 ‘I trust my heart’s in heaven aboon, above
Whare’er your sinful pintle be’. penis
There has been some doubt as to whether Burns had a hand in this song, but a holograph copy is reported in The Burns Chronicle of 1894 (p. 142), titled A New Song – From an Old Story. It has not since been traced, but modern editors accept this is probably Burns’s work. As De Lancey Ferguson notes, the text in the MMC differs from the manuscript version (MMC, Goodsir Smith, p. 71). Given that it was written on the back of a manuscript of the Burns song Yestreen I Had a Pint o’ Wine, it is almost certainly by the poet, or his reworking of a traditional bawdy work. The Craigie Hills (l. 8) lie to the north of Tarbolton in the parish of Craigie.
Wha’ll Mow Me Now?
Tune: Comin’ Thro’ the Rye
First printed publicly by De Lancey Ferguson, in Modern Philology,
Vol. XXX, August 1932.
O, I hae tint my rosy cheek, have lost
Likewise my waist sae sma’; so small
O wae gae by the sodger lown, woe befall, fool
The sodger did it a’.
Chorus
5 O wha’ll mow me now, my jo, darling
An’ wha’ll mow me now: have sex with
A sodger wi’ his bandileers soldier, testicles
Has bang’d my belly fu’. made pregnant
Now I maun thole the scornfu’ sneer must tolerate
10 O’ mony a saucy quine; girl
When, curse upon her godly face!
Her cunt’s as merry’s mine.
O wha’ll mow &c.
Our dame hauds up her wanton tail, holds, shows her vagina
As due as she gaes lie; goes down
15 An’ yet misca’s [a] young thing, miscalls
The trade if she but try.
O wha’ll mow &c.
Our dame can lae her ain gudeman, leave, own husband
An’ mow for glutton greed; have sex (out of lust)
An’ yet misca’s a poor thing, miscalls
20 That’s mowin’ for its bread. (a prostitute)
O wha’ll mow &c.
Alake! sae sweet a tree as love, so
Sic bitter fruit should bear! such
Alake, what e’er a merry arse,
Should draw a sa’tty tear. salty
O wha’ll mow &c.
25 But deevil damn the lousy loun, devil, fellow
Denies the bairn he got! child
Or lea’s the merry arse he lo’d leaves, loved
To wear a ragged coat!
O wha’ll mow &c.
This is ascribed to Burns by W. Scott Douglas who owned an ‘1800’ edition of The Merry Muses and later by Professor De Lancey Ferguson, in Modern Philology, Vol. XXX, August 1932. Despite the lack of manuscript authority to prove provenance, it seems certain it is either his original lyric or a brushed-up version of an old song. A few stanzas, particularly the last, are distrinctively his, as De Lancey Ferguson and Hans Hecht have commented (See footnote, M.M.C., p. 72).
The Trogger
Tune: Gillicrankie
As I cam down by Annan side,
>
Intending for the border,
Amang the Scroggie banks and braes scrubby
Wha met I but a trogger. who, pedlar
5 He laid me down upon my back,
I thought he was but jokin’,
Till he was in me to the hilts,
O the deevil tak sic troggin! devil, pack-ware
What could I say, what could I do,
10 I bann’d and sair misca’d him, cursed, sore
But whiltie-whaltie gaed his arse, up and down went
The mair that I forbade him: more
He stell’d his foot against a stane, braced, stone
And doubl’d ilka stroke in, every
15 Till I gaed daft amang his hands, went, among
O the deevil tak sic troggin! devil, pack-ware
Then up we raise, and took the road,
And in by Ecclefechan,
Where the brandy stoup we gart it clink, made
20 And the strang-beer ream the quech in. strong-, froth, cup
Bedown the bents o’ Bonshaw braes, below, bent-grass, slopes
We took the partin’ yokin’; intercourse
But I’ve claw’d a sairy cunt synsine, scratched, sorry, since then
O the deevil tak sic troggin! devil, pack-ware
Like the bawdy song Muirland Meg this was transcribed by Cunningham from the Gracie manuscripts. He notes on the manuscript that when Burns travelled to Ecclefechan with John Lewars he was challenged to write some lyrics in which the village name would rhyme. This may or may not account for the last stanza, but cannot be taken as the origin of the entire song. Kinsley is probably right to suggest that this may be partly traditional, or based on an old song probably reworked by Burns (Vol. III, p. 1523). Scott Douglas merely guesses that his Merry Muses text is by Burns and the 1959 editors, Barke and Goodsir Smith, agree (M.M.C., p. 75).
