was like a bluidy tiger
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;
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.
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
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,
to think upon our zion;
and hing our fiddles up to sleep,
like baby-clouts a-dryin!
e, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,
and o'er the thairms be tryin;
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;
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,
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,
for there they'll think you clever;
or, nae reflection on your lear,
ye maymence a shaver;
or to the netherton repair,
an' turn a carpet weaver
aff-hand this day.
mu'trie and you were just a match,
we never had sic twa drones;
auld hornie did the laigh kirk watch,
just like a winkin baudrons,
and aye he catch'd the tither wretch,
to fry them in his caudrons;
but now his honour maun detach,
wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,
fast, fast this day.
see, see auld orthodoxy's faes
she's swingein thro' the city!
hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
i vow it's unco pretty:
there, learning, with his greekish face,
grunts out some latin ditty;
andmon-sense is gaun, she says,
to mak to jamie beattie
her plaint this day.
but there's morality himsel',
embracing all opinions;
hear, how he gies the tither yell,
between his twapanions!
see, how she peels the skin an' fell,
as ane were peelin onions!
now there, they're packed aff to hell,
an' banish'd our dominions,
henceforth this day.
o happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
e bouse about the porter!
morality's demure decoys
shall here nae mair find quarter:
mackinlay, russell, are the boys
that heresy can torture;
they'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
and cowe her measure shorter
by th' head some day.
e, bring the tither mutchkin in,
and here's—for a conclusion—
to ev'ry new light mother's son,
from this time forth, confusion!
if mair they deave us wi' their din,
or patronage intrusion,
we'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin,
we'll rin them aff in fusion
like oil, some day.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to james smith epistle to james smith
friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
i owe thee much—blair.
dear smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief,
that e'er attempted stealth or rief!
ye surely hae some warlock-brief
owre human hearts;
for ne'er a bosom yet was prief
against your arts.
for me, i swear by sun an' moon,
an' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
just gaun to see you;
an' ev'ry ither pair that's done,
mair taen i'm wi' you.
that auld, capricious carlin, nature,
to mak amends for scrimpit stature,
she's turn'd you off, a human creature
on her first plan,
and in her freaks, on ev'ry feature
she's wrote the man.
just now i've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
my barmie noddle's working prime.
my fancy yerkit up sublime,
wi' hasty summon;
hae ye a leisure-moment's time
to hear what'sin?
some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;
some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
some rhyme to court the countra clash,
an' raise a din;
for me, an aim i never fash;
i rhyme for fun.
the star that rules my luckless lot,
has fated me the russet coat,
an' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
but, in requit,
has blest me with a random-shot
o'countra wit.
this while my notion's taen a sklent,
to try my fate in guid, black prent;
but still the mair i'm that way bent,
something cries “hooklie!”
i red you, honest man, tak tent?
ye'll shaw your folly;
“there's ither poets, much your betters,
far seen in greek, deep men o' letters,
hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
a' future ages;
now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
their unknown pages.”
then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
to garland my poetic brows!
henceforth i'll rove where busy ploughs
are whistlin' thrang,
an' teach the lanely heights an' howes
my rustic sang.
i'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
how never-halting moments speed,
till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
then, all unknown,
i'll lay me with th' inglorious dead
forgot and gone!
but why o' death being a tale?
just now we're living sound and hale;
then top and maintop crowd the sail,
heave care o'er-side!
and large, before enjoyment's gale,
let's tak the tide.
this life, sae far's i understand,
is a' enchanted fairy-land,
where pleasure is the magic-wand,
that, wielded right,
maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
dance by fu' light.
the magic-wand then let us wield;
for ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
see, cra weary, joyless eild,
wi' wrinkl'd face,
es hostin, hirplin owre the field,
we' creepin pace.
when ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
an' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
an' social noise:
an' fareweel dear, deluding woman,
the joy of joys!
o life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
young fancy's rays the hills adorning!
cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning,
we frisk away,
like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
to joy an' play.
we wander there, we wander here,
we eye the rose upon the brier,
unmindful that the thorn is near,
among the leaves;
and tho' the puny wound appear,
short while it grieves.
some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
for which they never toil'd nor swat;
they drink the sweet and eat the fat,
but care or pain;
and haply eye the barren hut
with high disdain.
with steady aim, some fortune chase;
keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
an' seize the prey:
then cannie, in some cozie place,
they close the day.
and others, like your humble servan',
poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
to right or left eternal swervin,
they zig-zag on;
till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin,
they aften groan.
alas! what bitter toil an' straining—
but truce with peevish, poorplaining!
is fortune's fickle luna waning?