LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

water-kelpies haunt the foord,

      By your direction;

      An’ nighted trav’llers are allur’d

      To their destruction.

      An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies

      Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is,

      The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

      Delude his eyes,

      Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

      Ne’er mair to rise.

      When masons’ mystic word an’ grip

      In storms an’ tempests raise you up,

      Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,

      Or, strange to tell!

      The youngest brother ye wad whip

      Aff straught to hell!

      Lang syne, in Eden’s bonie yard,

      When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,

      An’ all the soul of love they shar’d,

      The raptur’d hour,

      Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry sward,

      In shady bow’r:

      Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

      Ye came to Paradise incog.

      An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,

      (Black be your fa’!)

      An’ gied the infant world a shog,

      ‘Maist ruin’d a’.

      D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

      Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,

      Ye did present your smoutie phiz

      ‘Mang better folk,

      An’ sklented on the man of Uzz

      Your spitefu’ joke?

      An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,

      An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hall,

      While scabs an’ botches did him gall,

      Wi’ bitter claw,

      An’ lows’d his ill tongu’d, wicked scawl,

      Was warst ava?

      But a’ your doings to rehearse,

      Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,

      Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,

      Down to this time,

      Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,

      In prose or rhyme.

      An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,

      A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,

      Some luckless hour will send him linkin

      To your black pit;

      But, faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,

      An’ cheat you yet.

      But fare ye well, auld Nickie-ben!

      O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!

      Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—

      Still hae a stake—

      I’m wae to think upo’ yon den

      Ev’n for your sake!

      VII. THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR

      [“Whenever Burns has occasion,” says Hogg, “to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart.” The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of knight-errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.]

      A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

      Hae, there’s a rip to thy auld baggie:

      Tho’ thou’s howe-backit, now, an’ knaggie,

      I’ve seen the day

      Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie

      Out-owre the lay.

      Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ crazy,

      An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisy,

      I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek, and glaizie,

      A bonny gray:

      He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,

      Ance in a day.

      Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,

      A filly, buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,

      An set weel down a shapely shank,

      As e’er tread yird;

      An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,

      Like ony bird.

      It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,

      Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s Meere;

      He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,

      An’ fifty mark;

      Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear,

      An’ thou was stark.

      When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,

      Ye then was trottin wi’ your minnie:

      Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funny,

      Ye ne’er was donsie:

      But hamely, tawie, quiet an’ cannie,

      An’ unco sonsie.

      That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride,

      When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:

      An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,

      Wi’ maiden air!

      Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,

      For sic a pair.

      Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,

      An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,

      That day, ye was a jinker noble,

      For heels an’ win’!

      An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble,

      Far, far, behin’!

      When thou an’ I were young an’ skeigh,

      An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

      How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skreigh,

      An’ tak the road!

      Town’s bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh,

      An’ ca’t thee mad.

      When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,

      We took the road ay like a swallow:

      At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow,

      For pith an’ speed;

      But every tail thou pay’t them hollow,

      Where’er thou gaed.

      The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cattle,

      Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle;

      But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle,

      An’ gar’t them whaizle:

      Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle

      O’ saugh or hazle.

      Thou

Скачать книгу