The Poetical Works of Robert Burns

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE
INN AT CARRON.

WE came na here to view your warks
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise.

But when we tirl'd at your door,

Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us!

EPIGRAM.

WRITTEN AT INVERARY.

WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon

The Lord their God, his Grace. There's naething here but Highland pride,

And Highland scab and hunger; If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in an anger.

VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE,

ON HIS WRITING ΤΟ THE POET,
THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART OF
THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD
TO HIM.

I AM a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin I fa',
Ae way or ither,
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',
Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say owre far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise
That broke my rest,
But now a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

LINES

SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKINE, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DECEASE.

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead;
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!

LINES

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK.

live

GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give;
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.

THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND.
CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,

I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

EXTEMPORE LINES,

IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN.

THE King's most humble servant I,
Can scarcely spare a minute;

But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye;

Or else the Deil's be in it.

My bottle is my holy pool,

That heals the wounds o' care an' dool,

And pleasure is a wanton trout,

An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE

SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,

I didna suffer ha'f sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow

crouse,

I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

A furnicator-loun he call'd me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
But what the matter?'

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, Quo' I, 'I fear unless ye geld me,
An' jag-the-flae.
I'll ne'er be better.'

GIVEN AT A MEETING

A TOAST

OF THE DUMFRIESSHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATE THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY'S VICTORY, APRIL 12TH,

1782.

INSTEAD of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast,

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost:
That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found,
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.
The next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution;
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd,
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD

GALLOWAY.

WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair?

Flit, Galloway, and find

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,

The picture of thy mind!

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME.

BRIGHT ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-famed Roman way,
So ended in a mire!

TO THE SAME,

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT.

SPARE me thy vengeance, Galloway,

In quiet let me live:

I ask no kindness at thy hand,

For thou hast none to give.

HE clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, Collected Harry stood awee,

Then open'd out his arm, man; His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,

And ey'd the gathering storm, man: Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail,

Or torrents owre a linn, man;

The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a', | Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass

He aften did assist ye;

For had ye staid whole weeks awa,

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye.

To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass, Perhaps he was your father.

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Livros

The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, Volume 1