Obrázky na stránke
PDF
ePub

KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM

Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the L-d makes a rock, To crush common-sense for her sins;1

If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor Doctor at ance,2

Muirland Jock! To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,
An' ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value,

Andro Gowk ! Ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;

Tho' ye do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,
For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,

Daddy Auld! Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant when ye're taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will! Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are,

Poet Burns! She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

PRESENTATION STANZAS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Factor John! Factor John, whom the L-d made alone,
And ne'er made anither, thy peer,

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION

Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this token sincere,

Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.

Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird, when your pen can be spared,

A copy of this I bequeath,

On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,

To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,

Afton's Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

Sonnet on receiving a favour.1

10 Aug., 1789.

Addressed to ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. of Fintry.
I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Extemporaneous Effusion

On being appointed to an Excise division.2
SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,

Ochon the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels :
But-what'll ye say?

These movin' things ca'd wives an' weans,
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!

"The "sonnet" has fourteen lines, but no other trace of a sonnet's structure.

2 The occasion is the same.

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT

Song.-Willie brew'd a peck o' maut.1

O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.

Chorus. We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;

The cock may craw, the day may daw
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.

1 Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of the Lowes. Date AugustSeptember 1789.

So in Johnson's copy; altered to "last" in most editions. The poet

does write "last" (underlined) when quoting two verses in a letter to Captain Riddell (Oct. 16, 1789), but there is a good reason for this, and Johnson's text may be correct enough.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes.1

Chorus.-Ca' the yowes to the knowes,b
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad:
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
An' ye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.

Ca' the yowes, &c.

[blocks in formation]

It is easy enough to detect Burns's stanzas in this pastiche.

HIGHLAND HARRY BACK AGAIN

I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen.1

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate I fear I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips, like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-
It was her een sae bonie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;
She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonie blue.
But "spare to speak, and spare to speed;"
She'll aibling listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead"
To her twa een sae bonie blue.

⚫ road.

Highland Harry back again.2

My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu' stately straded he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.

Chorus.-O for him back again!
O for him back again!

I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.
b perhaps.

1 The lady is a Miss Jeanie Jaffray, daughter of the Minister of Lochmaben.

2 The oldest title I ever heard to this air was, "The Highland Watch's

• death.

d strode.

Farewell to Ireland." The chorus 1 picked up from an old woman in Dunblane; the rest of the song is mine.— R. B., Glenriddell notes.

« PredošláPokračovať »