May gravels round his blather wrench, An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, What twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch O’ sour disdain, Out owre a glass o’ whisky-punch Wi’ honest men!
O Whisky! soul o’ plays and pranks! Accept a bardie’s gratfu’ thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes—they rattle in their ranks, At ither’s a-s!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an’ barkin hoast May kill us a’; For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast Is ta’en awa?
Thae curst horse-leeches o’ the’ Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An’ bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn’d drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whisky gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.
1786
The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie
On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie: Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie, I’ve seen the day Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie, Out-owre the lay.
Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy, An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie, I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie, A bonie gray: He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank; An’ set weel down a shapely shank, As e’er tread yird; An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird.
It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year, Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear; He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, An’ fifty mark; Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear, An’ thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie: Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, Ye ne’er was donsie; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, An’ unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride, When ye bure hame my bonie bride: An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, Wi’ maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide For sic a pair.
Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, An’ wintle like a saumont coble, That day, ye was a jinker noble, For heels an’ win’! An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble, Far, far, behin’!
When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh, An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh An’ tak the road! Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh, An’ ca’t thee mad.
When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow, We took the road aye like a swallow: At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, For pith an’ speed; But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollowm Whare’er thou gaed.
The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle, An’ gar’t them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O’ saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun, In guid March-weather, Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’, For days thegither.
Thou never braing’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit; But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, Wi’ pith an’ power; Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit An’ slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep, An’ threaten’d labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer: I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep, For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it; Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov’t awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa, That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! An’ mony an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, Wi’ something yet.
An’ think na’, my auld trusty servan’, That now perhaps thou’s less deservin, An’ thy auld days may end in starvin; For my last fow, A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane Laid by for you.
We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether To some hain’d rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue.
The Twa Dogs^1
A Tale
’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle, That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, Upon a bonie day in June, When wearin’ thro’ the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather’d ance upon a time.
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor’s pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar; But though he was o’ high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev’n wi’ al tinkler-gipsy’s messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.
The tither was a ploughman’s collie— A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, And in freak had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland Sang,^2 Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl.
[Footnote 1: Luath was Burns’ own dog.]
[Footnote 2: Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—R. B.]
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack an’ thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit; Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit; Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, An’ worry’d ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down. An’ there began a lang digression. About the “lords o’ the creation.”
Caesar
I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks, The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a’ the lan’: An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.
Luath
Trowth, Caesar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an’ sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.
An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An’ they maun starve o’ cauld an’ hunger: But how it comes, I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Caesar
But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinkin brock.