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, An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail, I vow an’ swear! The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale, For this, niest year.
As soon’s the clockin-time is by, An’ the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I’se hae sporting by an’ by For my gowd guinea, Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye For’t in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! ’Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro’ the feathers; An’ baith a yellow George to claim, An’ thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad’s a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time’s expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.
A Poet’s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
The First Instance That Entitled Him To The Venerable Appellation Of Father
Thou’s welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me, If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy mamie, Shall ever daunton me or awe me, My bonie lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me Tyta or daddie.
Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator, An’ tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I’m kent the better, E’en let them clash; An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter, Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for, And tho’ your comin’ I hae fought for, Baith kirk and queir; Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for, That I shall swear!
Wee image o’ my bonie Betty, As fatherly I kiss and daut thee, As dear, and near my heart I set thee Wi’ as gude will As a’ the priests had seen me get thee That’s out o’ hell.
Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a’ tint, Sin’ thou came to the warl’ asklent, Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part’s be in’t The better ha’f o’t.
Tho’ I should be the waur bestead, Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad, And thy young years as nicely bred Wi’ education, As ony brat o’ wedlock’s bed, In a’ thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit, An’ thy poor, worthless daddy’s spirit, Without his failins, ’Twill please me mair to see thee heir it, Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee, And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, I’ll never rue my trouble wi’ thee, The cost nor shame o’t, But be a loving father to thee, And brag the name o’t.
Song—O Leave Novels^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel; Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part— ’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. The frank address, the soft caress, Are worse than poisoned darts of steel; The frank address, and politesse, Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
Fragment—The Mauchline Lady
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
When first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was na steady; Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade, A mistress still I had aye.
But when I came roun’ by Mauchline toun, Not dreadin anybody, My heart was caught, before I thought, And by a Mauchline lady.
Fragment—My Girl She’s Airy
Tune—“Black Jock.”
My girl she’s airy, she’s buxom and gay; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May; A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: She’s always good natur’d, good humour’d, and free; She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me; I never am happy when out of her sight.
The Belles Of Mauchline
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a’; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon’on or Paris, they’d gotten it a’.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland’s divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Miss Morton, But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.
Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic
Below thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes; O Death, it’s my opinion, Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin bitch Into thy dark dominion!
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire
As father Adam first was fool’d, (A case that’s still too common,) Here lies man a woman ruled, The devil ruled the woman.
Epigram On The Said Occasion
O Death, had’st thou but spar’d his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchanged the wife, And a’ been weel content.
Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff, The swap we yet will do’t; Tak thou the carlin’s carcase aff, Thou’se get the saul o’boot.
Another
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, When deprived of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he show’d her, She reduc’d him to dust and she drank up the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’rent complexion, When called on to order the fun’ral direction, Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence, Not to show her respect, but—to save the expense!
On Tam The Chapman
As Tam the chapman on a day, Wi’Death forgather’d by the way, Weel pleas’d, he greets a wight so famous, And Death was nae less pleas’d wi’ Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down his pack, And there blaws up a hearty crack: His social, friendly, honest heart Sae tickled Death, they could na part; Sae, after viewing knives and garters, Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.
Epitaph On John Rankine
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, Was driving to the tither warl’ A mixtie—maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad— Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Ashamed himself to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
“By God I’ll not be seen behint them, Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this damn’d infernal clan!” By Adamhill a glance he threw, “Lord God!” quoth he, “I have it now; There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!” And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.
Lines On The Author’s Death
Written With The Supposed View Of Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet’s Interment
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.