But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ’men Gang aft agley, An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!
Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e’e. On prospects drear! An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear!
Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper
Here lies Johnie Pigeon; What was his religion? Whae’er desires to ken, To some other warl’ Maun follow the carl, For here Johnie Pigeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full-flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.
Epitaph For James Smith
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’, He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid hale weeks awa, Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass,— Perhaps he was your father!
Adam Armour’s Prayer
Gude pity me, because I’m little! For though I am an elf o’ mettle, An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle, Jink there or here, Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle, I’m unco queer.
An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case; For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace, Because we stang’d her through the place, An’ hurt her spleuchan; For whilk we daurna show our face Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows, And hunted, as was William Wallace, Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows, An’ sodgers baith; But Gude preserve us frae the gallows, That shamefu’ death!
Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’— O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell! There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell Wi’ hideous din, And if he offers to rebel, Then heave him in.
When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink, An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink, May Sautan gie her doup a clink Within his yett, An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink, Red-reekin het.
Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry— Some devil seize them in a hurry, An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry Straught through the lake, An’ gie their hides a noble curry Wi’ oil of aik!
As for the jurr-puir worthless body! She’s got mischief enough already; Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy She’s suffer’d sair; But, may she wintle in a woody, If she wh-e mair!
The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata^1
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.]
Recitativo
When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast; When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; Ae night at e’en a merry core O’ randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore, To drink their orra duddies; Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing, They ranted an’ they sang, Wi’ jumping an’ thumping, The vera girdle rang,
First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’ in order; His doxy lay within his arm; Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm She blinkit on her sodger; An’ aye he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpin’ kiss, While she held up her greedy gab, Just like an aumous dish; Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger’s whip; Then staggering an’ swaggering He roar’d this ditty up—
Air
Tune—“Soldier’s Joy.”
I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.
My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram: and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d, And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum, I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo
He ended; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, An’ seek the benmost bore: A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl’d out, encore! But up arose the martial chuck, An’ laid the loud uproar.
Air
Tune—“Sodger Laddie.”
I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie, Sing, lal de lal, &c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch; The sword I forsook for the sake of the church: He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body, ’Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair, Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair, His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy, My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d—I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup and a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.
Recitativo
Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie; They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk, Between themselves they were sae busy: At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy, He stoiter’d up an’ made a face; Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie, Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.
Air
Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou; Sir Knave is a fool in a session; He’s there but a ’prentice I trow, But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk, An’ I held awa to the school; I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck; A hizzie’s the half of my craft; But what could ye other expect Of ane that’s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffin; I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk, For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi’ a jeer; There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court A tumbler ca’d the Premier.
Observ’d ye yon reverend lad Mak faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad,— It’s rivalship just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion I’ll tell, For faith I’m confoundedly dry; The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’, Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I.
Recitativo
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin; For mony a pursie she had hooked, An’ had in mony a well been douked; Her love had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie! Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman.
Air
Tune—“O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”
A Highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn; But he still was faithfu’ to his clan, My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Chorus
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman! Sing ho my braw John Highlandman! There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’ Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid, An’ guid claymore down by his side, The ladies’ hearts he did trepan, My gallant, braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey, An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none,— My gallant, braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d him beyond the sea. But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.