The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 6

The cudgel in my nieve did shake.

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quaick-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill; An' dawt.i.t, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit,

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing s.p.u.n.kies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some c.o.c.k or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to h.e.l.l!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reest.i.t gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehea.r.s.e, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet.

But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den Ev'n for your sake!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AULD MARE MAGGIE."]

VII.

THE AULD FARMER'S

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS

AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of knight-errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.]

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly, buirdly, steeve, an' sw.a.n.k, An set weel down a shapely shank, As e'er tread yird; An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie: Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny, Ye ne'er was donsie: But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, An' unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonnie bride: An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble, That day, ye was a jinker n.o.ble, For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, We took the road ay like a swallow: At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, For pith an' speed; But every tail thou pay't them hollow, Where'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, An' gar't them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle O' saugh or hazle.

Thou was a n.o.ble fittie-lan', As e'er in tug or tow was drawn: Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, In guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith an' pow'r, 'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer; I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reest.i.t; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breast.i.t, Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hast.i.t, Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a'; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera worst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An, wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last fow, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may n.o.bly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue.