The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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a’ that, an’ a’ that,

      An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;

      I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,

      I’ve wife enough for a’ that.

      I never drank the Muses’ stank,

      Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;

      But there it streams, and richly reams,

      My Helicon I ca’ that.

      For a’ that, &c.

      Great love I bear to a’ the fair,

      Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;

      But lordly will, I hold it still

      A mortal sin to thraw that.

      For a’ that, &c.

      In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,

      Wi’ mutual love, an a’ that:

      But for how lang the flie may stang,

      Let inclination law that.

      For a’ that, &c.

      Their tricks and craft have put me daft.

      They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;

      But clear your decks, and here’s the sex!

      I like the jads for a’ that

      Chorus.

      For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

      An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;

      My dearest bluid, to do them guid,

      They’re welcome till’t for a’ that

      Recitativo.

      So sung the bard—and Nansie’s wa’s

      Shook with a thunder of applause,

      Re-echo’d from each mouth:

      They toom’d their pocks, an’ pawn’d their duds,

      They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,

      To quench their lowan drouth.

      Then owre again, the jovial thrang,

      The poet did request,

      To loose his pack an’ wale a sang,

      A ballad o’ the best;

      He rising, rejoicing,

      Between his twa Deborahs

      Looks round him, an’ found them

      Impatient for the chorus.

      Air.

      Tune—“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”

      See! the smoking bowl before us,

      Mark our jovial ragged ring!

      Round and round take up the chorus,

      And in raptures let us sing.

      Chorus.

      A fig for those by law protected!

      Liberty’s a glorious feast!

      Courts for cowards were erected,

      Churches built to please the priest.

      What is title? what is treasure?

      What is reputation’s care?

      If we lead a life of pleasure,

      ’Tis no matter how or where!

      A fig, &c.

      With the ready trick and fable,

      Round we wander all the day;

      And at night, in barn or stable,

      Hug our doxies on the hay.

      A fig, &c.

      Does the train-attended carriage

      Through the country lighter rove?

      Does the sober bed of marriage

      Witness brighter scenes of love?

      A fig, &c.

      Life is all a variorum,

      We regard not how it goes;

      Let them cant about decorum

      Who have characters to lose.

      A fig, &c.

      Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!

      Here’s to all the wandering train!

      Here’s our ragged brats and wallets!

      One and all cry out—Amen!

      A fig for those by law protected!

      Liberty’s a glorious feast!

      Courts for cowards were erected,

      Churches built to please the priest.

      XV. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. A TRUE STORY

      [John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine—so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, “Sit down, Dr. Hornbook.” On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

      Some books are lies frae end to end,

      And some great lies were never penn’d:

      Ev’n ministers, they ha’e been kenn’d,

      In holy rapture,

      A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

      And nail’t wi’ Scripture.

      But this that I am gaun to tell,

      Which lately on a night befel,

      Is just as true’s the Deil’s in h—ll

      Or Dublin-city;

      That e’er he nearer comes oursel

      ‘S a muckle pity.

      The Clachan yill had made me canty,

      I was na fou, but just had plenty;

      I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay

      To free the ditches;

      An’ hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn’d ay

      Frae ghaists an’ witches.

      The rising moon began to glow’r

      The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:

      To count her horns with a’ my pow’r,

      I set mysel;

      But whether she had three or four,

      I could na tell.

      I was come round about the hill,

      And todlin down on Willie’s mill,

      Setting my staff with a’ my skill,

      To keep me sicker;

      Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,

      I took a bicker.

      I there wi’ something did forgather,

      That put me in an eerie swither;

      An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

      Clear-dangling, hang;

      A three-taed leister on the ither

      Lay,

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