Robert Burns - The Complete Works

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn’d it still your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you ay as weel’s I want ye,
And then ye’ll do.
The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld mysel’ by word o’ mouth,
He’d tak my letter:
I lippen’d to the chief in trouth,
And bade nae better.
But aiblins honest Master Heron,
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,
And holy study;
And tir’d o’ sauls to waste his lear on
E’en tried the body.
But what dy’e think, my trusty fier,
I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
Ye’ll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
‘Mang sons o’ men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—
I need na vaunt,
But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care!
I’m weary sick o’t late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share
Than mony ithers:
But why should ae man better fare,
And a’ men brithers?
Come, firm Resolve, take then the van,
Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint-heart ne’er wan
A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife,
That’s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,
As e’er tread clay!
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I’m yours for ay,

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op’ning rose,
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark’s wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flow’r-enamoured busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse
To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip;—
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
For, oh! my soul is parch’d with love.

“Blest be M’Murdo to his latest day!
No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray;
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!
O may no son the father’s honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain.”
How fully the poet’s wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]
O, could I give thee India’s wealth,
As I this trifle send!
Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.
But golden sands did never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold could never buy—
An honest Bard’s esteem.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity:
Tho’, by-the-by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough’d, and bade me say,
“You’re one year older this important day.”
If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion,
But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word—“think!”
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way;
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle:
That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care!
To yon old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you’ll mind the important now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours,
And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on,
How this new play an’ that new sang is comin’?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need nae toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There’s themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a’ her glory.
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword,
‘Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord,
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms
‘Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;
A woman—tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil—
As able and as cruel as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow’d to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land
Would take the muses’ servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caution
Ye’ll soon hae poets o’ the Scottish nation,
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time, on’ lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
“Whose aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here!”
My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,
But like good withers, shore before ye strike.—
And gratefu’ still I hope ye’ll ever find us,
For a’ the patronage and meikle kindness
We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we’re but poor—ye’se get but thanks.