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Part IVPart IV
Part IV
Ballad On The American War
Tune - "Killiecrankie."
When Guilford good our pilot stood
An` did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An` did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro` the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie`s Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca`, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa`, man,
Wi` sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en`mies a`, man.
Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
Was kept at Boston-ha`, man;
Till Willie Howe took o`er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi` sword an` gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi` knife an` fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma`, man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an` whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa`, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang`s he dought,
An` did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton`s glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa`, man.
Then Montague, an` Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa`, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a`, man;
An` Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An` lows`d his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca`, man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen`s boys, wi` jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an` Fox united stocks,
An` bore him to the wa`, man.
Then clubs an` hearts were Charlie`s cartes,
He swept the stakes awa`, man,
Till the diamond`s ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi` loud placads,
On Chatham`s boy did ca`, man;
An` Scotland drew her pipe an` blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a`, man!"
Behind the throne then Granville`s gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous`d the class
Be-north the Roman wa`, man:
An` Chatham`s wraith, in heav`nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi` kindling eyes, cry`d, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear`d them a`, man?"
But, word an` blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff`d Willie like a ba`, man;
Till Suthron raise, an` coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An` Caledon threw by the drone,
An` did her whittle draw, man;
An` swoor fu` rude, thro` dirt an` bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
Reply To An Announcement By J. Rankine
On His Writing To The Poet, That A Girl In That Part Of The Country Was With
A 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 o`er far for thrice;
Yet never met wi` that surprise
That broke my rest;
But now a rumour`s like to rise-
A whaup`s i` the nest!
Epistle To John Rankine
Enclosing Some Poems
O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o` cocks for fun an` drinkin!
There`s mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick`s.
Ye hae saw mony cracks an` cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o` the saunts,
An` fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, an` wants,
Are a` seen thro`.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare`t for their sakes, wha aften wear it-
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives`t aff their back.
Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye`re skaithing:
It`s just the Blue-gown badge an` claithing
O` saunts; tak that, ye lea`e them naething
To ken them by
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
I`ve sent you here some rhyming ware,
A` that I bargain`d for, an` mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang ye`ll sen`t, wi` cannie care,
And no neglect.
Tho` faith, sma` heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I`ve play`d mysel a bonie spring,
An` danc`d my fill!
I`d better gaen an` sair`t the king,
At Bunkjer`s Hill.
`Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin` wi` the gun,
An` brought a paitrick to the grun`-
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne`er thinkin they wad fash me for`t;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.
Some auld, us`d hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn`d to lie;
So gat the whissle o` my groat,
An` pay`t the fee.
But by my gun, o` guns the wale,
An` by my pouther an` my hail,
An` by my hen, an` by her tail,
I vow an` swear!
The game shall pay, o`er muir an` dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon`s the clockin-time is by,
An` the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I`se hae sporting by an` by
For my gowd guinea,
Tho` I should herd the buckskin kye
For`t in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
`Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro` the feathers;
An` baith a yellow George to claim,
An` thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad`s a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time`s expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
A Poet`s Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
The First Instance That Entitled Him To The Venerable Appellation Of Father
Thou`s welcome, wean; mishanter fa` me,
If thoughts o` thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My bonie lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca` me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho` now they ca` me fornicator,
An` tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I`m kent the better,
E`en let them clash;
An auld wife`s tongue`s a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho` ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho` your comin` I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye`re no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Wee image o` my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear, and near my heart I set thee
Wi` as gude will
As a` the priests had seen me get thee
That`s out o` hell.
Sweet fruit o` mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a` tint,
Sin` thou came to the warl` asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part`s be in`t
The better ha`f o`t.
Tho` I should be the waur bestead,
Thou`s be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi` education,
As ony brat o` wedlock`s bed,
In a` thy station.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither`s person, grace, an` merit,
An` thy poor, worthless daddy`s spirit,
Without his failins,
`Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I`ll never rue my trouble wi` thee,
The cost nor shame o`t,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o`t.
Song - O Leave Novels^1
[Footnote 1: Burns never published this poem.]
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye`re safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel;
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you`re prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that`s smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part-
`Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
Fragment - The Mauchline Lady
Tune - "I had a horse, I had nae mair."
When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where`er I gaed, where`er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye.
But when I came roun` by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
Fragment - My Girl She`s Airy
Tune - "Black Jock."
My girl she`s airy, she`s buxom and gay;
Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;
A touch of her lips it ravishes quite:
She`s always good natur`d, good humour`d, and free;
She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;
I never am happy when out of her sight.
The Belles Of Mauchline
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a`;
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon`on or Paris, they`d gotten it a`.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland`s divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:
There`s beauty and fortune to get wi` Miss Morton,
But Armour`s the jewel for me o` them a`.
Epitaph On A Noisy Polemic
Below thir stanes lie Jamie`s banes;
O Death, it`s my opinion,
Thou ne`er took such a bleth`rin bitch
Into thy dark dominion!
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire
As father Adam first was fool`d,
(A case that`s still too common,)
Here lies man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.
Epigram On The Said Occasion
O Death, had`st thou but spar`d his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife,
And a` been weel content.
Ev`n as he is, cauld in his graff,
The swap we yet will do`t;
Tak thou the carlin`s carcase aff,
Thou`se get the saul o`boot.
Another
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he show`d her,
She reduc`d him to dust and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff`rent complexion,
When called on to order the fun`ral direction,
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,
Not to show her respect, but-to save the expense!
On Tam The Chapman
As Tam the chapman on a day,
Wi`Death forgather`d by the way,
Weel pleas`d, he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas`d wi` Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack:
His social, friendly, honest heart
Sae tickled Death, they could na part;
Sae, after viewing knives and garters,
Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.
Epitaph On John Rankine
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl`
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad-
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
"By God I`ll not be seen behint them,
Nor `mang the sp`ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this damn`d infernal clan!"
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
"Lord God!" quoth he, "I have it now;
There`s just the man I want, i` faith!"
And quickly stoppit Rankine`s breath.
Lines On The Author`s Death
Written With The Supposed View Of Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet`s
Interment
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
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