Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,

       Sir-Loin he hacked sma', man.

       Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,

       Till Fraser brave did fa', man;

       Then lost his way, ae misty day,

       In Saratoga shaw, man.

       Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,

       An' did the Buckskins claw, man;

       But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,

       He hung it to the wa', man.

       Then Montague, an' Guilford too,

       Began to fear, a fa', man;

       And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,

       The German chief to thraw, man:

       For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,

       Nae mercy had at a', man;

       An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,

       An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

       Then Rockingham took up the game,

       Till death did on him ca', man;

       When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,

       Conform to gospel law, man:

       Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,

       They did his measures thraw, man;

       For North an' Fox united stocks,

       An' bore him to the wa', man.

       Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,

       He swept the stakes awa', man,

       Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,

       Led him a sair faux pas, man:

       The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,

       On Chatham's boy did ca', man;

       An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,

       “Up, Willie, waur them a', man!”

       Behind the throne then Granville's gone,

       A secret word or twa, man;

       While slee Dundas arous'd the class

       Be-north the Roman wa', man:

       An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,

       (Inspired bardies saw, man),

       Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, “Willie, rise!

       Would I hae fear'd them a', man?”

       But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.

       Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man;

       Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise

       Behind him in a raw, man:

       An' Caledon threw by the drone,

       An' did her whittle draw, man;

       An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,

       To mak it guid in law, man.

Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine On His Writing To The Poet,

       Table of Contents

      That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With A Child To Him.

      I am a keeper of the law

       In some sma' points, altho' not a';

       Some people tell me gin I fa',

       Ae way or ither,

       The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',

       Breaks a' thegither.

       I hae been in for't ance or twice,

       And winna say o'er far for thrice;

       Yet never met wi' that surprise

       That broke my rest;

       But now a rumour's like to rise—

       A whaup's i' the nest!

Epistle To John Rankine

       Table of Contents

      Enclosing Some Poems

       O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,

       The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!

       There's mony godly folks are thinkin,

       Your dreams and tricks

       Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin

       Straught to auld Nick's.

       Ye hae saw mony cracks an' cants,

       And in your wicked, drucken rants,

       Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

       An' fill them fou;

       And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,

       Are a' seen thro'.

       Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

       That holy robe, O dinna tear it!

       Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—

       The lads in black;

       But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

       Rives't aff their back.

       Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:

       It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing

       O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething

       To ken them by

       Frae ony unregenerate heathen,

       Like you or I.

       I've sent you here some rhyming ware,

       A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;

       Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

       I will expect,

       Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,

       And no neglect.

       Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!

       My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;

       I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

       An' danc'd my fill!

       I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,

       At Bunkjer's Hill.

       'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

       I gaed a rovin' wi' the gun,

       An' brought a paitrick to the grun'—

       A bonie hen;

       And, as the twilight was begun,

       Thought nane wad ken.

       The poor, wee thing was little hurt;

       I straikit it a wee for sport,

       Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;

       But, Deil-ma-care!

       Somebody tells the poacher-court

       The hale affair.

       Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,

       That sic a hen had got a shot;

       I was suspected for the plot;

       I scorn'd to lie;

       So gat the whissle o' my groat,

       An' pay't the fee.

       But by my gun, o' guns the wale,

       An' by my pouther an' my hail,