till kye be gaun without the herd,
and a' the vittel in the yard,
an' theekit right,
i mean your ingle-side to guard
ae winter night.
then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae
shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,
till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,
an' be as canty
as ye were nine years less than thretty—
sweet ane an' twenty!
but stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,
and now the sinn keeks in the west,
then i maun rin amang the rest,
an' quat my chanter;
sae i subscribe myself' in haste,
yours, rab the ranter.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to the rev. john mmath epistle to the rev. john m'math
sept. 13, 1785.
inclosing a copy of “holy willie's prayer,”
which he had requested, sept. 17, 1785
while at the stook the shearers cow'r
to shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,
or in gulravage rinnin scowr
to pass the time,
to you i dedicate the hour
in idle rhyme.
my musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
on gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
is grown right eerie now she's done it,
lest they should blame her,
an' rouse their holy thunder on it
an anathem her.
i own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
that i, a simple, country bardie,
should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
wha, if they ken me,
can easy, wi' a single wordie,
lowse hell upon me.
but i gae mad at their grimaces,
their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,
their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,
their raxin conscience,
whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
waur nor their nonsense.
there's gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,
wha has mair honour in his breast
than mony scores as guid's the priest
wha sae abus'd him:
and may a bard no crack his jest
what way they've us'd him?
see him, the poor man's friend in need,
the gentleman in word an' deed—
an' shall his fame an' honour bleed
by worthless, skellums,
an' not a muse erect her head
to cowe the blellums?
o pope, had i thy satire's darts
to gie the rascals their deserts,
i'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
an' tell aloud
their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
to cheat the crowd.
god knows, i'm no the thing i should be,
nor am i even the thing i could be,
but twenty times i rather would be
an atheist clean,
than under gospel colours hid be
just for a screen.
an honest man may like a glass,
an honest man may like a lass,
but mean revenge, an' malice fause
he'll still disdain,
an' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
like some we ken.
they take religion in their mouth;
they talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
for what?—to gie their malice skouth
on some puir wight,
an' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
to ruin straight.
all hail, religion! maid divine!
pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
who in her rough imperfect line
thus daurs to name thee;
to stigmatise false friends of thine
can ne'er defame thee.
tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,
an' far unworthy of thy train,
with trembling voice i tune my strain,
to join with those
who boldly dare thy cause maintain
in spite of foes:
in spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
in spite o' undermining jobs,
in spite o' dark banditti stabs
at worth an' merit,
by scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
but hellish spirit.
o ayr! my dear, my native ground,
within thy presbyterial bound
a candid liberal band is found
of public teachers,
as men, as christians too, renown'd,
an' manly preachers.
sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
sir, in that circle you are fam'd;
an' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd
(which gies you honour)
even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,
an' winning manner.
pardon this freedom i have ta'en,
an' if impertinent i've been,
impute it not, good sir, in ane
whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,
but to his utmost would befriend
ought that belang'd ye.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns second epistle to davie second epistle to davie
a brother poet
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,
men' 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 la
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.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—young peggy blooms song—young peggy blooms
tune—“loch eroch-side.”
young peggy blooms our boniest lass,
her blush is like the morning,
the rosy dawn, the springing grass,
with early gems adorning.
her eyes outshine the radiant beams
that gild the passing shower,
and glitter o'er the crystal streams,
and cheer each fresh'ning flower.
her lips, more than the cherries bright,
a richer dye has graced them;
they charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
and sweetly tempt to taste them;
her smile is as the evening mild,
when feather'd pairs are courting,
and little lambkins wanton wild,
in playful bands disporting.
were fortune lovely peggy's foe,
such sweetness would relent her;
as blooming spring unbends the brow
of surly, savage winter.
detraction's eye no aim can gain,
her winning pow'rs to lessen;
and fretful envy grins in vain
the poison'd tooth to fasten.
ye pow'rs of honour, love, and truth,
from ev'ry ill defend her!
inspire the highly-favour'd youth
the destinies intend her:
still fan the sweet connubial flame
responsive in each bosom;
and bless the dear parental name
with many a filial blossom.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—farewell to ballochmyle song—farewell to ballochmyle
tune—“miss forbe's farewell to banff.”