The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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sweet wee lady,

      Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me

      Tit-ta or daddy.

      Wee image of my bonny Betty,

      I, fatherly, will 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.

      What tho’ 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.

      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.

      An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee,

      An’ tak the counsel I sall gie thee,

      A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee,

      If thou be spar’d;

      Thro’ a’ thy childish years I’ll e’e thee,

      An’ think’t weel war’d.

      Gude grant that thou may ay inherit

      Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,

      An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit,

      Without his failins;

      ’Twill please me mair to hear an’ see it

      Than stocket mailens.

      XXXIV. NATURE’S LAW. A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. ESQ

      “Great nature spoke, observant man obey’d.”

Pope.

      [This Poem was written by Burns at Mossgiel, and “humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.” It is supposed to allude to his intercourse with Jean Armour, with the circumstances of which he seems to have made many of his comrades acquainted. These verses were well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they remained in manuscript till given to the world by Sir Harris Nicolas, in Pickering’s Aldine Edition of the British Poets.]

      Let other heroes boast their scars,

      The marks of sturt and strife;

      And other poets sing of wars,

      The plagues of human life;

      Shame fa’ the fun; wi’ sword and gun

      To slap mankind like lumber!

      I sing his name, and nobler fame,

      Wha multiplies our number.

      Great Nature spoke with air benign,

      “Go on, ye human race!

      This lower world I you resign;

      Be fruitful and increase.

      The liquid fire of strong desire

      I’ve pour’d it in each bosom;

      Here, in this hand, does mankind stand,

      And there, is beauty’s blossom.”

      The hero of these artless strains,

      A lowly bard was he,

      Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plains

      With meikle mirth an’ glee;

      Kind Nature’s care had given his share,

      Large, of the flaming current;

      And all devout, he never sought

      To stem the sacred torrent.

      He felt the powerful, high behest,

      Thrill vital through and through;

      And sought a correspondent breast,

      To give obedience due:

      Propitious Powers screen’d the young flowers,

      From mildews of abortion;

      And lo! the bard, a great reward,

      Has got a double portion!

      Auld cantie Coil may count the day,

      As annual it returns,

      The third of Libra’s equal sway,

      That gave another B[urns],

      With future rhymes, an’ other times,

      To emulate his sire;

      To sing auld Coil in nobler style,

      With more poetic fire.

      Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,

      Look down with gracious eyes;

      And bless auld Coila, large and long,

      With multiplying joys:

      Lang may she stand to prop the land,

      The flow’r of ancient nations;

      And B[urns’s] spring, her fame to sing,

      Thro’ endless generations!

      XXXV. TO THE REV. JOHN M’MATH

      [Poor M’Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His dependent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, and died in a foreign land.]

      Sept. 17th, 1785.

      While at the stook the shearers cow’r

      To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,

      Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’r

      To pass the time,

      To you I dedicate the hour

      In idle rhyme.

      My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet

      On gown, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet,

      Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,

      Lest they should blame her,

      An’ rouse their holy thunder on it

      And anathem her.

      I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,

      That I, a simple countra bardie,

      Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,

      Wha, if they ken me,

      Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,

      Lowse hell upon me.

      But I gae mad at their grimaces,

      Their sighin’ cantin’ grace-proud faces,

      Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,

      Their raxin’ conscience,

      Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces,

      Waur nor their nonsense.

      There’s Gaun,[45] miska’t waur than a beast,

      Wha has mair honour in his breast

      Than mony scores as guid’s the priest

      Wha sae abus’t him.

      An’ may a bard no crack his jest

      What way they’ve use’t him.

      See him, the poor man’s friend in need,

      The

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<p>45</p>

Gavin Hamilton, Esq.