Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,

       Sae white and bonie,

       Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;

       They'll ruin Johnie!”

       The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,

       And says “Ye needna yoke the pleugh,

       Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,

       Tak ye nae fear:

       They'll be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh,

       In twa-three year.

       “Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death,

       By loss o' blood or want of breath

       This night I'm free to tak my aith,

       That Hornbook's skill

       Has clad a score i' their last claith,

       By drap an' pill.

       “An honest wabster to his trade,

       Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred

       Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

       When it was sair;

       The wife slade cannie to her bed,

       But ne'er spak mair.

       “A country laird had ta'en the batts,

       Or some curmurring in his guts,

       His only son for Hornbook sets,

       An' pays him well:

       The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

       Was laird himsel'.

       “A bonie lass—ye kend her name—

       Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;

       She trusts hersel', to hide the shame,

       In Hornbook's care;

       Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

       To hide it there.

       [Footnote 5: The grave-digger.—R.B.]

       “That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;

       Thus goes he on from day to day,

       Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

       An's weel paid for't;

       Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

       Wi' his damn'd dirt:

       “But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,

       Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;

       I'll nail the self-conceited sot,

       As dead's a herrin;

       Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

       He gets his fairin!”

       But just as he began to tell,

       The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell

       Some wee short hour ayont the twal',

       Which rais'd us baith:

       I took the way that pleas'd mysel',

       And sae did Death.

Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard

       Table of Contents

      April 1, 1785

       While briers an' woodbines budding green,

       An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,

       An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

       Inspire my muse,

       This freedom, in an unknown frien',

       I pray excuse.

       On Fasten—e'en we had a rockin,

       To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;

       And there was muckle fun and jokin,

       Ye need na doubt;

       At length we had a hearty yokin

       At sang about.

       There was ae sang, amang the rest,

       Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,

       That some kind husband had addrest

       To some sweet wife;

       It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

       A' to the life.

       I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,

       What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;

       Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,

       Or Beattie's wark?”

       They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

       About Muirkirk.

       It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,

       An' sae about him there I speir't;

       Then a' that kent him round declar'd

       He had ingine;

       That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

       It was sae fine:

       That, set him to a pint of ale,

       An' either douce or merry tale,

       Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

       Or witty catches—

       'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,

       He had few matches.

       Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

       Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith,

       Or die a cadger pownie's death,

       At some dyke-back,

       A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,

       To hear your crack.

       But, first an' foremost, I should tell,

       Amaist as soon as I could spell,

       I to the crambo-jingle fell;

       Tho' rude an' rough—

       Yet crooning to a body's sel'

       Does weel eneugh.

       I am nae poet, in a sense;

       But just a rhymer like by chance,

       An' hae to learning nae pretence;

       Yet, what the matter?

       Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

       I jingle at her.

       Your critic-folk may cock their nose,

       And say, “How can you e'er propose,

       You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

       To mak a sang?”

       But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

       Ye're maybe wrang.

       What's a' your jargon o' your schools—

       Your Latin names for horns an' stools?

       If honest Nature made you fools,

       What sairs your grammars?

       Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,

       Or knappin-hammers.

       A set o' dull, conceited hashes

       Confuse their brains in college classes!

       They gang in stirks, and come out asses,

       Plain truth to speak;

       An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

       By dint o' Greek!

       Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,

       That's a' the