Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 115

This Hal for genius, wit and lore, Among the first was number'd; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, Commandment the tenth remember'd: Yet simple Bob the victory got, And wan his heart's desire, Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, Tho' the devil p.i.s.s in the fire.

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case Pretensions rather bra.s.sy; For talents, to deserve a place, Are qualifications saucy.

So their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit's rudeness, Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight Of a son of Circ.u.mcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob's purblind mental vision-- Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet, Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear that he has the angel met That met the a.s.s of Balaam.

In your heretic sins may you live and die, Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!

But accept, ye sublime Majority, My congratulations hearty.

With your honours, as with a certain king, In your servants this is striking, The more incapacity they bring, The more they're to your liking.

Epistle To Colonel De Peyster

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal; Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parna.s.sus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion gla.s.ses.

O what a canty world were it, Would pain and care and sickness spare it; And Fortune favour worth and merit As they deserve; And aye rowth o' roast-beef and claret, Syne, wha wad starve?

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a ratton Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on, Wi'felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, First showing us the tempting ware, Bright wines, and bonie la.s.ses rare, To put us daft Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O h.e.l.l's d.a.m.ned waft.

Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy d.a.m.n'd auld elbow yeuks wi'joy And h.e.l.lish pleasure!

Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs, And, like a sheep-head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs, And murdering wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs, A gibbet's ta.s.sel.

But lest you think I am uncivil To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen, The Lord preserve us frae the devil!

Amen! Amen!

A La.s.s Wi' A Tocher

Tune--"Ballinamona Ora."

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' Beauty's alarms, The slender bit Beauty you grasp in your arms, O, gie me the la.s.s that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the la.s.s wi' the weel-stockit farms.

Chorus--Then hey, for a la.s.s wi' a tocher, Then hey, for a la.s.s wi' a tocher; Then hey, for a la.s.s wi' a tocher; The nice yellow guineas for me.

Your Beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows: But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes.

Then hey, for a la.s.s, &c.

And e'en when this Beauty your bosom hath blest The brightest o' Beauty may cloy when possess'd; But the sweet, yellow darlings wi' Geordie impress'd, The langer ye hae them, the mair they're carest.

Then hey, for a la.s.s, &c.

Heron Election Ballad, No. IV.

The Trogger.

Tune--"Buy Broom Besoms."

Wha will buy my troggin, fine election ware, Broken trade o' Broughton, a' in high repair?

Chorus--Buy braw troggin frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin let him come to me.

There's a n.o.ble Earl's fame and high renown, For an auld sang--it's thought the gudes were stown-- Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth o' Broughton in a needle's e'e; Here's a reputation tint by Balmaghie.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's its stuff and lining, Cardoness' head, Fine for a soger, a' the wale o' lead.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's a little wadset, Buittle's sc.r.a.p o' truth, p.a.w.n'd in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's an honest conscience might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' Tinwald, so was never worn.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's armorial bearings frae the manse o' Urr; The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast; By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Satan's picture, like a bizzard gled, Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin' like a taed.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the font where Douglas stane and mortar names; Lately used at Caily christening Murray's crimes.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Murray's fragments o' the ten commands; Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands.

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Saw ye e'er sic troggin? if to buy ye're slack, Hornie's turnin chapman--he'll buy a' the pack.

Buy braw troggin, &c.