Poems of Robert Burns Page 8

And coost her duddies to the wark,

  And linket at it in her sark!

  Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,

  A’ plump and strapping in their teens,

  Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen,

  Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!

  Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,

  That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair,

  I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,

  For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!

  But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,

  Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

  Lowping and flinging on a crummock,

  I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

  But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie,

  There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,

  That night enlisted in the core,

  (Lang after kend on Carrick shore;

  For mony a beast to dead she shot,

  And perish’d mony a bony boat,

  And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

  And kept the countryside in fear)

  Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,

  That while a lassie she had worn,

  In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,

  It was her best, and she was vauntie. –

  Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,

  That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

  Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches)

  Wad ever grac’d a dance o’ witches!

  But here my Muse her wing maun cour;

  Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;

  To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

  (A souple jade she was, and strang),

  And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d,

  And thought his very een enrich’d;

  Ev’n Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,

  And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main:

  Till first ae caper, syne anither,

  Ta m tint his reason a’ thegither,

  And roars out, ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’

  And in an instant all was dark:

  And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

  When out the hellish legion sallied.

  As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,

  When plundering herds assail their byke,

  As open pussie’s mortal foes,

  When pop! she starts before their nose;

  As eager runs the market-crowd,

  When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud;

  So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

  Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

  Ah, Ta m ! Ah, Ta m ! thou’ll get thy fairin!

  In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin!

  In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!

  Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!

  Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

  And win the key-stane∗ of the brig;

  There at them thou thy tail may toss,

  A running stream they dare na cross.

  But ere the key-stane she could make,

  The fient a tale she had to shake!

  For Nannie, far before the rest,

  Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

  And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;

  But little wist she Maggie’s mettle –

  Ae spring brought off her master hale,

  But left behind her ain gray tail:

  The carlin claught her by the rump,

  And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

  Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,

  Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:

  Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,

  Or cutty sarks run in your mind,

  Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear,

  Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

  The Banks o’ Doon

  (TUNE: CALEDONIAN HUNT’S DELIGHT)

  Ye banks and braes o’ bonie Doon,

  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;

  How can ye chant, ye little birds,

  And I sae weary fu’ o’ care!

  Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird,

  That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:

  Thou minds me o’ departed joys,

  Departed never to return.

  Oft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,

  To see the rose and woodbine twine

  And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,

  And fondly sae did I o’ mine.

  Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,

  Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;

  And my fause luver staw my rose,

  But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

  Ye Jacobites By Name

  Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear;

  Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear;

  Ye Jacobites by name,

  Your fautes I will proclaim,

  Your doctrines I maun blame –

  You shall hear.

  What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law?

  What is right and what is wrang, by the law?

  What is right and what is wrang?

  A short sword and a lang,

  A weak arm and a strang

  For to draw.

  What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?

  What makes heroic strife, famed afar?

  What makes heroic strife?

  To whet th’ assassin’s knife,

  Or hunt a parent’s life

  Wi’ bluidie war.

  Then let your schemes alone, in the State, in the State;

  Then let your schemes alone in the State;

  Then let your schemes alone,

  Adore the rising sun,

  And leave a man undone

  To his fate.

  Fareweel to a’ Our Scottish Fame

  Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,

  Fareweel our ancient glory!

  Fareweel even to the Scottish name,

  Sae fam’d in martial story!

  Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands,

  And Tweed rins to the ocean,

  To mark where England’s province stands –

  Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

  What force or guile could not subdue,

  Thro’ many warlike ages,

  Is wrought now by a coward few,

  For hireling traitors’ wages.

  The English steel we could disdain,

  Secure in valour’s station;

  But English gold has been our bane –

  Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

  O would, ere I had seen the day

  That treason thus could sell us,

  My auld grey head had lien in clay,

  Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!

  But pith and power, till my last hour,

  I’ll mak’ this declaration;

  We’re bought and sold for English gold –

  Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

  Ae Fond Kiss

  (TUNE: RORY DALL’S PORT)

  Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

  Ae farewell and then forever!

  Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

  Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

  Who shall say that fortune grieves him

  While the star of hope she leaves him?

  Me, nae chearfu’ twinkle lights me;

  Dark despair around benights me.

  I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,

  Naething could resist my Nancy:

  But to see her, was to love her;

  Love but her, and love for ever.

  Had we never lov’d sae kindly,

  Had we never lov’d sae blindly,

  Never met – or never parted,

  We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

  Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!

  Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!

  Thine be ilka joy and treasure,

 
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!

  Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;

  Ae fareweel, Alas! for ever!

  Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,

  Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

  I Hae a Wife o’ My Ain

  I hae a wife o’ my ain,

  I’ll partake wi’ naebody;

  I’ll tak Cuckold frae nane,

  I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody.

  I hae a penny to spend,

  There, thanks to naebody;

  I hae naething to lend,

  I’ll borrow frae naebody.

  I am naebody’s lord,

  I’ll be slave to naebody;

  I hae a gude braid sword,

  I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.

  I’ll be merry and free,

  I’ll be sad for naebody;

  Naebody cares for me,

  I care for naebody.

  Logan Water

  O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,

  The day I was my Willie’s bride;

  And years sinsyne hae o’er us run,

  Like Logan to the simmer sun.

  But now thy flow’ry banks appear

  Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,

  While my dear lad maun face his faes,

  Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

  Again the merry month o’ May

  Has made our hills and vallies gay;

  The birds rejoice in leafy bow’rs,

  The bees hum round the breathing flow’rs:

  Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,

  And ev’ning’s tears are tears o’ joy:

  My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,

  While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.

  Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,

  Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;

  Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,

  Or wi’ his song her cares beguile: –

  But I, wi’ my sweet nurslings here,

  Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,

  Pass widow’d nights, and joyless days,

  While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.

  O wae upon you, men o’ state,

  That brethren rouse in deadly hate!

  As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,

  Sae may it on your heads return!

  Ye mind na, mid your cruel joys,

  The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cries!

  But soon may peace bring happy days,

  And Willie hame to Logan braes!

  Scots Wha Hae

  (TUNE: HEY, TUTTI TAITIE)

  Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,

  Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,

  Welcome to your gory bed

  Or to victorie!

  Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:

  See the front o’ battle lour,

  See approach proud Edward’s power –

  Chains and slaverie!

  Wha will be a traitor knave?

  Wha can fill a coward’s grave?

  Wha sae base as be a slave? –

  Let him turn, and flee!

  Wha for Scotland’s king and law

  Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,

  Freeman stand or freeman fa’,

  Let him follow me!

  By Oppression’s woes and pains,

  By your sons in servile chains,

  We will drain our dearest veins

  But they shall be free!

  Lay the proud usurpers low!

  Tyrants fall in every foe!

  Liberty’s in every blow! –

  Let us do, or die!

  A Red, Red Rose

  (TUNE: MAJOR GRAHAM)

  My luve is like a red, red rose,

  That’s newly sprung in June:

  My luve is like the melodie,

  That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.

  Sae Flaxen Were Her Ringlets

  (TUNE: OONAGH’S WATERFALL)

  Sae flaxen were her ringlets,

  Her eyebrows of a darker hue,

  Bewitchingly o’erarching

  Twa laughing een o’ bonie blue;

  Her smiling, sae wyling,

  Wad make a wretch forget his woe;

  What pleasure, what treasure,

  Unto these rosy lips to grow:

  Such was my Chloris’ bonie face,

  When first her bonie face I saw;

  And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm,

  She says, she lo’es me best of a’.

  Like harmony her motion;

  Her pretty ancle is a spy,

  Betraying fair proportion,

  Wad make a saint forget the sky.

  Sae warming, sae charming,

  Her fauteless form and gracefu’ air;

  Ilk feature – auld Nature

  Declar’d that she could do nae mair:

  Hers are the willing chains o’ love,

  By conquering Beauty’s sovereign law;

  And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm,

  She says, she lo’es me best of a’.

  Let others love the city,

  And gaudy shew at sunny noon;

  Give me the lonely valley,

  The dewy eve, and rising moon.

  Fair beaming, and streaming

  Her silver light the boughs among;

  While falling, recalling,

  The amorous thrush concludes his sang;

  There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

  By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,

  And hear my vows o’ truth and love,

  And say, thou lo’es me best of a’.

  Ode to Spring

  (TUNE: THE TITHER MORN)

  When maukin bucks, at early f–s,

  In dewy glens are seen, Sir;

  And birds, on boughs, take off their m–s,

  Amang the leaves sae green, Sir;

  Latona’s sun looks liquorish on

  Dame Nature’s grand impètus,

  Till his p–go rise, then westward flies

  To r–ger Madame Thetis.

  Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,

  And glances o’er the brae, Sir,

  Slides by a bower where many a flower

  Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;

  There Damon lay with Sylvia gay,

  To love they thought no crime, Sir;

  The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,

  While Damon’s a–se beat time, Sir.

  First, wi’ the thrush, his thrust and push

  Had compass large and long, Sir;

  The blackbird next, his tuneful text,

  Was bolder, clear and strong, Sir:

  The linnet’s lay came then in play,

  And the lark that soar’d aboon, Sir;

  Till Damon, fierce, mistim’d his a–,

  And f–’d quite out o’ tune, Sir.

  Is There for Honest Poverty

  (TUNE: FOR A’ THAT)

  Is there for honest poverty

  That hings his head, an’ a’ that?

  The coward slave, we pass him by –

  We dare be poor for a’ that!

  For a’ that, an a’ that,

  Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that,

  The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

  The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

  What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,

  Wear hodden grey, an’ a’ that?

  Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine –

  A man’s a man for a’ that!

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

  Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that,

  The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,

  Is king o’ men for a’ that.

  Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord,

  Wha struts, and star
es, an’ a’ that;

  Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,

  He’s but a coof for a’ that.

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

  His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,

  The man o’ independent mind,

  He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

  A prince can mak a belted knight,

  A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that,

  But an honest man’s aboon his might –

  Gude faith, he mauna fa’ that!

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

  Their dignities, an a’ that,

  The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth

  Are higher rank than a’ that.

  Then let us pray that come it may –

  As come it will, for a’ that –