Poems and Songs of Robert Burns
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,
Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bitches.
It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;
But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the—Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O’ Balaam’s ass:
A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi’ brass.
Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg
The cut of Adam’s philibeg;
The knife that nickit Abel’s craig
He’ll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Gude fellows wi’ him:
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And Then ye’ll see him!
Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!—
Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca’ thee;
I’d take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”
Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary
The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish’d, confounded, cries Satan—“By God,
I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!”
The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm
A Ballad.
Tune—“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”
Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
“That what is no sense must be nonsense,”
Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi’ terror:
To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error,
Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing,^2
Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief,
And Orator Bob^4 is its ruin,
Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.
D’rymple mild! D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa,
D’rymple mild!^5 For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.
Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d;
Then out wi’ your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.
Rumble John!^6 And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.
[Footnote 1: Dr. M’Gill, Ayr.—R.B,]
[Footnote 2: See the advertisement.—R.B.]
[Footnote 3: John Ballantine,—R.B.]
[Footnote 4: Robert Aiken.—R.B.]
[Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.—R.B.]
[Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]
Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There’s a holier chase in your view:
I’ll lay on your head, that the pack you’ll soon lead,
For puppies like you there’s but few,
Simper James!^7 For puppies like you there’s but few.
Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie!^8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi’ your “Liberty’s Chain” and your wit;
O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—t.
Poet Willie!^9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh—t.
Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie!^10 Wi’people that ken ye nae better.
Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark,
He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t,
Jamie Goose!^11 He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t.
Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice o’ recruits;
[Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]
[Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster,
who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary
of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in
Liberty’s endering chain.”—R.B.]
[Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.—R.B.]
[Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been
foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant
Mitchel—R.B.]
Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes,
Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.
Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma’ is your share:
Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
To crush common-sense for her sins;
If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig,
An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s—had o’ sma’ value,
Andro Gowk!^15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.
Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death,
For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,
Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.
Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;
The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will!^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin’s sons! Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
[Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree.—R.B.]
[Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston.—R.B.]
[Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk.—R.B.]
[Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—R.B.]
[Footnote 16: William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see
“Holy Willie’s” prayer.—R.B.]
[Footnote 17: Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—R.B.]
Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,
And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead,
Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.
Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy,
She could ca’us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She could ca’us nae waur than we are.
Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents
Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne’er made anither, thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this token sincere,
Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.
Afton’s Laird! Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared,
A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score as I mention’d before,
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,
Afton’s Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.
Sonnet On Receiving A Favour
10 Aug., 1979.
Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.
I call no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand’rig spheres,
Only to number out a villain’s years!
I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.
Extemporaneous Effusion
On being appointed to an Excise division.
Searching auld wives’ barrels,
Ochon the day!
That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But—what’ll ye say?
These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans,
Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes!
Song—Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut^1
O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allen cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.
Chorus.—We are na fou, we’re nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;
The cock may craw, the day may daw
And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we’ve merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.
[Footnote 1: Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing—
master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of
the Lowes. Date, August—September, 1789.—Lang.]
Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes
Chorus.—Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad:
He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca’d me his dearie.
Ca’ the yowes, &c.
Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu’ clearly.
Ca’ the yowes, &c.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep,
An’ ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes, &c.
If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’ thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca’ the yowes, &c.
While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the yowes, &c.
I Gaed A Waefu’ Gate Yestreen