Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

a mangy sheep could scrub,

       Or nobly fling the gospel club,

       And New-Light herds could nicely drub

       Or pay their skin;

       Could shake them o'er the burning dub,

       Or heave them in.

       Sic twa—O! do I live to see't?—

       Sic famous twa should disagree't,

       And names, like “villain,” “hypocrite,”

       Ilk ither gi'en,

       While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,

       Say neither's liein!

       A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

       There's Duncan^3 deep, an' Peebles^4 shaul,

       But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5

       We trust in thee,

       That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,

       Till they agree.

       Consider, sirs, how we're beset;

       There's scarce a new herd that we get,

       But comes frae 'mang that cursed set,

       I winna name;

       I hope frae heav'n to see them yet

       In fiery flame.

       [Footnote 3: Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald.]

       [Footnote 4: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-on-Ayr.]

       [Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline.]

       Dalrymple^6 has been lang our fae,

       M'Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae,

       An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^8

       And baith the Shaws,^9

       That aft hae made us black an' blae,

       Wi' vengefu' paws.

       Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch'd mischief;

       We thought aye death wad bring relief;

       But he has gotten, to our grief,

       Ane to succeed him,^11

       A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;

       I meikle dread him.

       And mony a ane that I could tell,

       Wha fain wad openly rebel,

       Forby turn-coats amang oursel',

       There's Smith^12 for ane;

       I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,

       An' that ye'll fin'.

       O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,

       By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,

       Come, join your counsel and your skills

       To cowe the lairds,

       An' get the brutes the power themsel's

       To choose their herds.

       Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

       An' Learning in a woody dance,

       An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,

       That bites sae sair,

       Be banished o'er the sea to France:

       Let him bark there.

       Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,

       M'Gill's close nervous excellence

       [Footnote 6: Rev. Dr. Dalrymple of Ayr.]

       [Footnote 7: Rev. Wm. M'Gill, colleague of Dr. Dalrymple.]

       [Footnote 8: Minister of St. Quivox.]

       [Footnote 9: Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of

       Coylton.]

       [Footnote 10: Dr. Peter Wodrow of Tarbolton.]

       [Footnote 11: Rev. John M'Math, a young assistant and successor

       to Wodrow.]

       [Footnote 12: Rev. George Smith of Galston.]

       M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

       An' guid M'Math,

       Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

       May a' pack aff.

1785

       Table of Contents

Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet

       Table of Contents

      January

       While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

       An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

       An' hing us owre the ingle,

       I set me down to pass the time,

       An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

       In hamely, westlin jingle.

       While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

       Ben to the chimla lug,

       I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,

       That live sae bien an' snug:

       I tent less, and want less

       Their roomy fire-side;

       But hanker, and canker,

       To see their cursed pride.

       It's hardly in a body's pow'r

       To keep, at times, frae being sour,

       To see how things are shar'd;

       How best o' chiels are whiles in want,

       While coofs on countless thousands rant,

       And ken na how to wair't;

       But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

       Tho' we hae little gear;

       We're fit to win our daily bread,

       As lang's we're hale and fier:

       “Mair spier na, nor fear na,”^1

       Auld age ne'er mind a feg;

       The last o't, the warst o't

       Is only but to beg.

       To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,

       When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,

       Is doubtless, great distress!

       [Footnote 1: Ramsay.—R. B.]

       Yet then content could make us blest;

       Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste

       Of truest happiness.

       The honest heart that's free frae a'

       Intended fraud or guile,

       However Fortune kick the ba',

       Has aye some cause to smile;

       An' mind still, you'll find still,

       A comfort this nae sma';

       Nae mair then we'll care then,

       Nae farther can we fa'.

       What tho', like commoners of air,

       We wander out, we know not where,

       But either house or hal',

       Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

       The sweeping