LITMIR.BIZ

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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 and 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 you hae an hour to spare,

      I will expect

      Yon sang,[55] 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 bonnie spring,

      An’ danc’d my fill!

      I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king,

      At Bunker’s Hill.

      ’Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

      I gaed a roving wi’ the gun,

      An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’,

      A bonnie 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 moor an’ dale,

      For this niest year.

      As soon’s the clockin-time is by,

      An’ the wee pouts begun to cry,

      L—d, I’se hae sportin’ 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 ay 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.

      L. ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES

      [Burns in this Poem, as well as in others, speaks openly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the confessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when “Hungry ruin had him in the wind,” and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecutions of fortune.]

      A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,

      A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,

      A’ ye wha live and never think,

      Come, mourn wi’ me!

      Our billie’s gien us a’ a jink,

      An’ owre the sea.

      Lament him a’ ye rantin’ core,

      Wha dearly like a random-splore,

      Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar

      In social key;

      For now he’s taen anither shore,

      An’ owre the sea!

      The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,

      And in their dear petitions place him;

      The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him,

      Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;

      For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him

      That’s owre the sea!

      O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!

      Hadst thou taen’ aff some drowsy bummle

      Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble,

      ’Twad been nae plea,

      But he was gleg as onie wumble,

      That’s owre the sea!

      Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,

      An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;

      ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,

      In flinders flee;

      He was her laureate monie a year,

      That’s owre the sea!

      He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west

      Lang mustering up a bitter blast;

      A jillet brak his heart at last,

      Ill may she be!

      So, took a birth afore the mast,

      An’ owre the sea.

      To tremble under fortune’s cummock,

      On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,

      Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,

      Could ill agree;

      So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,

      An’ owre the sea.

      He ne’er was gien to great misguiding,

      Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;

      Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding:

      He dealt it free;

      The muse was a’ that he took pride in,

      That’s owre the sea.

      Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

      An’ hap him in a cozie biel;

      Ye’ll find him ay a dainty chiel,

      And fou o’ glee;

      He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,

      That’s owre the sea.

      Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!

      Your native soil was right ill-willie;

      But may ye flourish like a lily,

      Now bonnilie!

      I’ll

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