Слике страница
PDF
ePub

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fu',

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me,
Though I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgie me !
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair;

May be some ither thing they gie me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,

An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An' faith we'se be acquainted better Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish warly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, E'en love an' friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear you crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms,

Each aid the others',

Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers!

But to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

TO THE SAME.

APRIL 21st, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e'enin's edge I take, To own I'm debtor To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, Or dealing through amang the naigs Their ten-hours' bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs I would na write.

The tapeless ramfeezl'd hizzie, She's saft at best, and something lazy, Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, This month an' mair, That trouth my head is grown right dizzie An' something sair.”

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; "Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad! I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

[blocks in formation]

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp,
Though fortune use you hard an' sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland harp
Wi' gleesome touch!
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp:
She's but a b-tch.

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L-d, though I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,
I'll laugh, an' sing, and shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,
Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.
And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie's name?

[blocks in formation]

E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Darkening the day!

O nature! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the simmer kindly warms

Wi' life an' light,

Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
An' no think lang;
O sweet! to stray, an' pensive ponder
A heartfelt sang!

The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, Let me fair nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive,

Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal:

May envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal!

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies: While terra firma, on her axis,

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, In Robert Burns.

POSTSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen ;

I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this "new-light,"

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

"New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

This past for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud and lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was denied, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd, That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform'd

Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' burnt.

This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe,

Ye'll find ane placed;

An' some, their new-light fair avow,

Just quite barefaced.

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;

Mysel, I've even seen them greetin
Wi' girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,
An' stay a month amang the moons
An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;
An' when the auld moon's gaun to leave them,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

An' when the new-light billies see them,
I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"
But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope, we bardies ken some better,

Than mind sic brulzie.

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

I've sent you home some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang,† ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danced my fill!
I'd better gane an' sair't the king,
At Bunker's Hill.

"Twas ae night lately in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen,

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;
But, deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld used hands had ta'en a note,

That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;

So gat the whizzle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

*A certain humorous dream of his was then making a

noise in the country side.

† A song he had promised the author.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Ld, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea:

Though I should herd the buckskin kye

For't in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce through the feathers;

An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworth's again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE..

Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke.
GAWIN DOUGLAS.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, e'en on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

[graphic][merged small]

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.-
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet:
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry.-

By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks an' meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane; And through the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.-
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods:
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.-

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil!-
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns ;

Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ;
A thief new cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted;
Five cimiters, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew ;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,

A' plump and strapping, in their teens ;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies

For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies.

« ПретходнаНастави »