Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 80

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang; He's doylt and he's dozin, his blude it is frozen,-- O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

He's doylt and he's dozin, his blude it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man.

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a' that I can; He's peevish an' jealous o' a' the young fellows,-- O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!

He's peevish an' jealous o' a' the young fellows, O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man.

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I'll cross him an' wrack him, until I heartbreak him And then his auld bra.s.s will buy me a new pan, I'll cross him an' wrack him, until I heartbreak him, And then his auld bra.s.s will buy me a new pan.

The Posie

O luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will doun yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear; For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet, bonie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day; But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.

On Glenriddell's Fox Breaking His Chain

A Fragment, 1791.

Thou, Liberty, thou art my theme; Not such as idle poets dream, Who trick thee up a heathen G.o.ddess That a fantastic cap and rod has; Such stale conceits are poor and silly; I paint thee out, a Highland filly, A st.u.r.dy, stubborn, handsome dapple, As sleek's a mouse, as round's an apple, That when thou pleasest canst do wonders; But when thy luckless rider blunders, Or if thy fancy should demur there, Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.

These things premised, I sing a Fox, Was caught among his native rocks, And to a dirty kennel chained, How he his liberty regained.

Glenriddell! Whig without a stain, A Whig in principle and grain, Could'st thou enslave a free-born creature, A native denizen of Nature?

How could'st thou, with a heart so good, (A better ne'er was sluiced with blood!) Nail a poor devil to a tree, That ne'er did harm to thine or thee?

The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was, Quite frantic in his country's cause; And oft was Reynard's prison pa.s.sing, And with his brother-Whigs canva.s.sing The Rights of Men, the Powers of Women, With all the dignity of Freemen.

Sir Reynard daily heard debates Of Princes', Kings', and Nations' fates, With many rueful, b.l.o.o.d.y stories Of Tyrants, Jacobites, and Tories: From liberty how angels fell, That now are galley-slaves in h.e.l.l; How Nimrod first the trade began Of binding Slavery's chains on Man; How fell Semiramis--G.o.d d.a.m.n her!

Did first, with sacrilegious hammer, (All ills till then were trivial matters) For Man dethron'd forge hen-peck fetters;

How Xerxes, that abandoned Tory, Thought cutting throats was reaping glory, Until the stubborn Whigs of Sparta Taught him great Nature's Magna Charta; How mighty Rome her fiat hurl'd Resistless o'er a bowing world, And, kinder than they did desire, Polish'd mankind with sword and fire; With much, too tedious to relate, Of ancient and of modern date, But ending still, how Billy Pitt (Unlucky boy!) with wicked wit, Has gagg'd old Britain, drain'd her coffer, As butchers bind and bleed a heifer,

Thus wily Reynard by degrees, In kennel listening at his ease, Suck'd in a mighty stock of knowledge, As much as some folks at a College; Knew Britain's rights and const.i.tution, Her aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, diminution, How fortune wrought us good from evil; Let no man, then, despise the Devil, As who should say, 'I never can need him,'

Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom.

Poem On Pastoral Poetry

Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers: And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 'Mid a' thy favours!

Say, La.s.sie, why, thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd--sang But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin', till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?

They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin' patches O' heathen tatters: I pa.s.s by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air, And rural grace; And, wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share A rival place?

Yes! there is ane--a Scottish callan!

There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!

Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonie la.s.ses bleach their claes, Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays, At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.

Verses On The Destruction Of The Woods Near Drumlanrig

As on the banks o' wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lammies play'd, I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, When from the eddying deep below, Up rose the genius of the stream.

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his caves, the sigh he gave-- "And come ye here, my son," he cried, "To wander in my birken shade?

To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

"There was a time, it's nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a' my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool: And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool;

"When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, That, slowly curling, clamb the hill.

But now the cot is bare and cauld, Its leafy bield for ever gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast its lane."

"Alas!" quoth I, "what ruefu' chance Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?

Has laid your rocky bosom bare-- Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes?

Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring?

Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?"