The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

grumble

      Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! trouble yourself

      Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom swim

      Wi’ them wha grant ’em: who

      If honestly they canna come, cannot

      30 Far better want ’em. lack them

      In gath’rin votes you were na slack; not lazy

      Now stand as tightly by your tack:

      Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, scratch your ear, shrug

      An’ hum an haw;

      35 But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack tale

      Before them a’.

      Paint Scotland greetan owre her thrissle; weeping, over, thistle

      Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; pint-pot, empty as a whistle

      An’ damn’d Excise-men in a bustle,

      40 Seizin a Stell, still

      Triumphant, crushan’t like a mussel,

      Or laimpet shell. limpet

      Then on the tither hand present her, other

      A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,

      45 An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner cheek-by-jowl, fat faced

      Colleaguing join, —

      Pickin her pouch as bare as Winter pocket

      Of a’ kind coin.

      Is there, that bears the name o’ SCOT,

      50 But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, blood

      To see his poor auld Mither’s pot old mother’s

      Thus dung in staves, broken in pieces

      An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat, last coin

      By gallows knaves?

      55 Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,

      Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight!

      But could I like MONTGOMERIES fight,

      Or gab like BOSWELL, talk

      There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, shirt-necks, would

      60 An’ tye some hose well. tie

      God bless your Honors! can ye see’t,

      The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, old, jolly, wife weep

      An’ no get warmly to your feet,

      An’ gar them hear it, make

      65 An’ tell them wi’ a patriot-heat, Scottish passion

      Ye winna bear it? will not

      Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, know

      To round the period an’ pause,

      An’ with rhetoric clause on clause

      70 To mak harangues;

      Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Parliament’s walls

      Auld Scotland’s wrangs. old, wrongs

Dempster,1 a true blue Scot I’se warran; I’ll warrant

Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;2 oath

      75 An’ that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, quick-tongued

The Laird o’ Graham;3

      An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarran, one, shrewd

Dundass4 his name:

Erskine,5 a spunkie Norland billie; spirited Northern young man

80 True Campbells, Frederick an’ Ilay;6

An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;7 bold

      An’ mony ithers, many others

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully8 old

      Might own for brithers. brothers

85 Thee sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,9 soldier, assigned (M.P.)

      If Bardies e’er are represented;

      I ken if that your sword were wanted, know

      Ye’d lend your hand;

      But when there’s ought to say anent it, about

      90 Ye’re at a stand.

      Arouse my boys! exert your mettle,

      To get auld Scotland back her kettle! old, whisky still

      Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, wager, plough scraper

      Ye’ll see’t or lang, before long

      95 She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekan whittle, smoking knife

      Anither sang. another song

      This while she’s been in crankous mood, fretful

      Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; blood

      (Deil na they never mair do guid, not, more, good

      100 Play’d her that pliskie!) trick

      An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud run stark mad

      About her Whisky.

      An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, once, put her to it

      Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, tuck up

      105 An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt, blade

      She’ll tak the streets,

      An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, run her knife, handle

      I’ the first she meets!

      For God-sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,

      110 An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, stroke, carefully

      An’ to the Muckle House repair, great Parliament

      Wi’ instant speed,

      An’ strive, wi’ a’ your Wit an’ Lear, knowledge

      To get remead.

115 Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,10 gypsy

      May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks;

      But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! give him it hot

      E’en cowe the cadie! subdue, rascal

      An’ send him to his dicing box

      120 An’ sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid of auld Boconnock’s,11