Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 8

Tune--"Killiecrankie."

When Guilford good our pilot stood An' did our h.e.l.lim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An' did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man: But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man.

Poor Tammy Gage within a cage Was kept at Boston--ha', man; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man; Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian bluid to draw, man; But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-Loin he hacked sma', man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man.

Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, An' did the Buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too, Began to fear, a fa', man; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour, The German chief to thraw, man: For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca', man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man: Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man; For North an' Fox united stocks, An' bore him to the wa', man.

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man: The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, "Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"

Behind the throne then Granville's gone, A secret word or twa, man; While slee Dundas arous'd the cla.s.s Be-north the Roman wa', man: An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man), Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, "Willie, rise!

Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man; Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man: An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man; An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid, To mak it guid in law, man.

Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet, That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.

I am a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa', Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice, And winna say o'er far for thrice; Yet never met wi' that surprise That broke my rest; But now a rumour's like to rise-- A whaup's i' the nest!

Epistle To John Rankine

Enclosing Some Poems

O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' c.o.c.ks for fun an' drinkin!

There's mony G.o.dly folks are thinkin, Your dreams and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it-- The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing: It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To ken them by Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I.

I've sent you here 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.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!

My muse dow scarcely spread her wing; I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king, At Bunkjer's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun'-- A bonie 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, us'd hands had taen a note, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee.

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 muir an' dale, For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by For my gowd guinea, Tho' 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 thro' 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 pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.

A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1

[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]

The First Instance That Ent.i.tled Him To The Venerable Appellation Of Father

Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me, If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie, Shall ever daunton me or awe me, My bonie lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tyta or daddie.

Tho' now they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash; An auld wife's tongue's a f.e.c.kless matter To gie ane fash.

Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter, Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for, And tho' your comin' I hae fought for, Baith kirk and queir; Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for, That I shall swear!

Wee image o' my bonie Betty, As fatherly I kiss and daut thee, As dear, and near my heart I set thee Wi' as gude will As a' the priests had seen me get thee That's out o' h.e.l.l.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a' tint, Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't The better ha'f o't.

Tho' I should be the waur bestead, Thou's be as braw and bienly clad, And thy young years as nicely bred Wi' education, As ony brat o' wedlock's bed, In a' thy station.

Lord grant that thou may aye inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit, Without his failins, 'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it, Than stockit mailens.

For if thou be what I wad hae thee, And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee, The cost nor shame o't, But be a loving father to thee, And brag the name o't.