Poems of Robert Burns Read online

  Commenc’d a Fornicator.

  With rueful face and signs of grace

  I pay’d the buttock-hire,

  The night was dark and thro’ the park

  I could not but convoy her;

  A parting kiss, what could I less,

  My vows began to scatter,

  My Betsey fell – lal de dal lal lal,

  I am a Fornicator.

  But for her sake this vow I make,

  And solemnly I swear it,

  That while I own a single crown,

  She’s welcome for to share it;

  And my roguish boy his mother’s joy,

  And the darling of his pater,

  For him I boast my pains and cost,

  Although a Fornicator.

  Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades

  Have tipt you off blue-boram,

  I tell ye plain, I do disdain

  To rank you in the quorum;

  But a bonie lass upon the grass

  To teach her esse mater;

  And no reward but for regard,

  O that’s a Fornicator.

  Your warlike kings and heroes bold,

  Great captains and commanders;

  Your mighty Cèsars fam’d of old,

  And conquering Alexanders;

  In fields they fought and laurels bought

  And bulwarks strong did batter,

  And still they grac’d our noble list

  And ranked Fornicator!

  On Burns’ Horse Being Impounded

  Was e’er puir Poet sae befitted,

  The maister drunk – the horse committed:

  Puir harmless beast! Tak’ thee nae care,

  Thou’lt be a horse when he’s nae mair.

  Man Was Made to Mourn. A Dirge

  (TUNE: PEGGY BAWN)

  When chill November’s surly blast

  Made fields and forests bare,

  One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth,

  Along the banks of Aire,

  I spy’d a man, whose aged step

  Seem’d weary, worn with care;

  His face was furrow’d o’er with years,

  And hoary was his hair.

  Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?

  Began the rev’rend Sage;

  Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

  Or youthful pleasure’s rage?

  Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

  Too soon thou hast began,

  To wander forth, with me, to mourn

  The miseries of Man.

  The sun that overhangs yon moors,

  Out-spreading far and wide,

  Where hundreds labour to support

  A haughty lordling’s pride;

  I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun

  Twice forty times return;

  And ev’ry time has added proofs,

  That Man was made to mourn.

  O Man! while in thy early years,

  How prodigal of time!

  Mispending all thy precious hours,

  Thy glorious, youthful prime!

  Alternate follies take the sway;

  Licentious passions burn;

  Which tenfold force gives Nature’s law,

  That Man was made to mourn.

  Look not alone on youthful prime,

  Or manhood’s active might;

  Man then is useful to his kind,

  Supported is his right:

  But see him on the edge of life,

  With cares and sorrows worn,

  Then age and want, Oh! ill-match’d pair!

  Show Man was made to mourn.

  A few seem favourites of Fate,

  In pleasure’s lap carest;

  Yet think not all the Rich and Great,

  Are likewise truly blest.

  But Oh! what crouds in ev’ry land,

  All wretched and forlorn,

  Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,

  That Man was made to mourn!

  Many and sharp the num’rous ills

  Inwoven with our frame!

  More pointed still we make ourselves,

  Regret, remorse and shame!

  And Man, whose heav’n-erected face,

  The smiles of love adorn,

  Man’s inhumanity to Man

  Makes countless thousands mourn!

  See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,

  So abject, mean and vile,

  Who begs a brother of the earth

  To give him leave to toil;

  And see his lordly fellow-worm,

  The poor petition spurn,

  Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife,

  And helpless offspring mourn.

  If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,

  By Nature’s law design’d,

  Why was an independent wish

  E’er planted in my mind?

  If not, why am I subject to

  His cruelty, or scorn?

  Or why has Man the will and pow’r

  To make his fellow mourn?

  Yet let not this too much, my son,

  Disturb thy youthful breast:

  This partial view of human-kind

  Is surely not the last!

  The poor, oppressed, honest man

  Had never, sure, been born,

  Had there not been some recompense

  To comfort those that mourn!

  O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,

  The kindest and the best!

  Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

  Are laid with thee at rest!

  The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,

  From pomp and pleasure torn;

  But Oh! a blest relief for those

  That weary-laden mourn!

  The Holy Fair

  A robe of seeming truth and trust

  Hid crafty observation;

  And secret hung, with poison’d crust,

  The dirk of defamation:

  A mask that like the gorget show’d,

  Dye-varying, on the pigeon;

  And for a mantle large and broad,

  He wrapt him in Religion.

  Hypocrisy a-la-Mode

  Upon a simmer Sunday morn,

  When Nature’s face is fair,

  I walked forth to view the corn,

  And snuff the callor air.

  The rising sun, owre Galston muirs,

  Wi’ glorious light was glintan;

  The hares were hirplan down the furrs,

  The lav’rocks they were chantan

  Fu’ sweet that day.

  As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad,

  To see a scene sae gay,

  Three hizzies, early at the road,

  Cam skelpan up the way.

  Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,

  But ane wi’ lyart lining;

  The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

  Was in the fashion shining

  Fu’ gay that day.

  The twa appear’d like sisters twin,

  In feature, form an’ claes;

  Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,

  As sour as ony slaes:

  The third cam up, hap-step-an’-loup,

  As light as ony lambie,

  An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop,

  As soon as e’er she saw me,

  Fu’ kind that day.

  Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass,

  I think ye seem to ken me;

  I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face,

  But yet I canna name ye.’

  Quo’ she, an laughan as she spak,

  An’ taks me by the han’s,

  ‘Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck

  Of a’ the ten comman’s

  A screed some day.

  ‘My name is Fun – your cronie dear,

  The nearest friend ye hae;

  An’ this is Superstition here,

  An’ that’s Hypocrisy.

  I’m gaun to Mauchline holy fair, />
  To spend an hour in daffin:

  Gin ye go there, yon runkl’d pair,

  We will get famous laughin

  At them this day.’

  Quoth I, ‘With a’ my heart I’ll do’t;

  I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,

  An’ meet you on the holy spot;

  Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!’

  Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,

  An’ soon I made me ready;

  For roads were clad, frae side to side,

  Wi’ monie a wearie body,

  In droves that day.

  Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,

  Gaed hoddan by their cotters;

  There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

  Are springan owre the gutters.

  The lasses, skelpan barefit, thrang,

  In silks and scarlets glitter;

  Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

  An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,

  Fu’ crump that day.

  When by the plate we set our nose,

  Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,

  A greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,

  An’ we maun draw our tippence.

  Then in we go to see the show,

  On ev’ry side they’re gath’ran;

  Some carryan dails, some chairs an’ stools,

  An’ some are busy bleth’ran

  Right loud that day.

  Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,

  An’ screen our countra gentry;

  There racer Jess, an’ twathree wh-res,

  Are blinkan at the entry.

  Here sits a raw o’ tittlan jads,

  Wi’ heaving breasts an’ bare neck;

  And there a batch o’ Wabster lads,

  Blackguarding from Kilmarnock

  For fun this day.

  Here, some are thinkan on their sins,

  An’ some upo’ their claes;

  Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,

  Anither sighs an’ prays:

  On this hand sits an Elect swatch,

  Wi’ screw’d-up, grace-proud faces;

  On that, a set o’ chaps, at watch,

  Thrang winkan on the lasses

  To chairs that day.

  O happy is that man, an’ blest!

  Nae wonder that it pride him!

  Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,

  Comes clinkan down beside him!

  Wi’ arm repos’d on the chair-back,

  He sweetly does compose him;

  Which, by degrees, slips round her neck

  An’s loof upon her bosom

  Unkend that day.

  Now a’ the congregation o’er

  Is silent expectation;

  For Sawney speels the holy door,

  Wi’ tidings of salvation.

  Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

  ’Mang sons o’ God present him,

  The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face,

  To’s ain het hame had sent him

  Wi’ fright that day.

  Hear how he clears the points o’ faith

  Wi’ rattlin an’ thumpin!

  Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

  He’s stampan, an he’s jumpan!

  His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d up snout,

  His eldritch squeel an’ gestures,

  O how they fire the heart devout,

  Like cantharidian plaisters

  On sic a day!

  But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice;

  There’s peace an’ rest nae langer;

  For a’ the real judges rise,

  They canna sit for anger.

  Smith opens out his cauld harangues,

  On practice and on morals;

  An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,

  To gie the jars an’ barrels

  A lift that day.

  What signifies his barren shine,

  Of moral pow’rs an’ reason?

  His English style, an’ gesture fine,

  Are a’ clean out o’ season.

  Like Socrates or Antonine,

  Or some auld pagan heathen,

  The moral man he does define,

  But ne’er a word o’ faith in

  That’s right this day.

  In guid time comes an antidote

  Against sic poosion’d nostrum;

  For Peebles, frae the water-fit,

  Ascends the holy rostrum:

  See, up he’s got the word o’ God,

  An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,

  While Common Sense has taen the road,

  An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate

  Fast, fast this day.

  Wee Miller neist, the guard relieves,

  An’ Orthodoxy raibles,

  Tho’ in his heart he weel believes,

  An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:

  But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,

  So, cannilie he hums them;

  Altho’ his carnal Wit an’ Sense

  Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him

  At times that day.

  Now, butt an’ ben, the change-house fills,

  Wi’ yill-caup Commentators:

  Here’s crying out for bakes an’ gills,

  An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;

  While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,

  Wi’ Logic, an’ wi’ Scripture,

  They raise a din that in the end,

  Is like to breed a rupture

  O’ wrath that day.

  Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair

  Than either school or colledge:

  It kindles wit, it waukens lear,

  It pangs us fou o’ knowledge.

  Be’t whisky-gill or penny-wheep,

  Or ony stronger potion,

  It never fails, on drinkin deep,

  To kittle up our notion,

  By night or day.

  The lads and lasses, blythely bent

  To mind baith saul an’ body,

  Sit round the table, weel content,

  An’ steer about the toddy.

  On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk,

  They’re makin observations;

  While some are cozie i’ the neuk,

  An’ forming assignations

  To meet some day.

  But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,

  Till a’ the hills are rairan,

  An’ echos back return the shouts;

  Black Russel is na spairan:

  His piercin words, like Highlan swords,

  Divide the joints an’ marrow;

  His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell,

  Our vera ∗‘sauls does harrow’

  Wi’ fright that day!

  A vast, unbottom’d, boundless Pit,

  Fill’d fou o’ lowan brunstane,

  Whase raging flame, an’ scorching heat,

  Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

  The half asleep start up wi’ fear,

  An’ think they hear it roaran,

  When presently it does appear,

  ’Twas but some neebor snoran

  Asleep that day.

  ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,

  How monie stories past,

  An’ how they crouded to the yill,

  When they were a’ dismist:

  How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups,

  Amang the furms an’ benches;

  An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps,