The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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thee an’ I, in aught hours gaun,

      In guid March-weather,

      Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’

      For days thegither.

      Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,

      But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

      An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,

      Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,

      ’Till spiritty knowes wad rair’t and risket,

      An’ slypet owre.

      When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,

      An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,

      I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

      Aboon the timmer;

      I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep

      For that, or simmer.

      In cart or car thou never reestit;

      The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it;

      Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, an’ breastit,

      Then stood to blaw;

      But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

      Thou snoov’t awa.

      My pleugh is now thy bairntime a’;

      Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;

      Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’t awa,

      That thou hast nurst:

      They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,

      The vera worst.

      Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

      An, wi’ the weary warl’ fought!

      An’ monie an anxious day, I thought

      We wad be beat!

      Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,

      Wi’ something yet.

      And think na, my auld, trusty servan’,

      That now perhaps thou’s less deservin,

      An’ thy auld days may end in starvin,

      For my last fow,

      A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane

      Laid by for you.

      We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;

      We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;

      Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether,

      To some hain’d rig,

      Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

      Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

      VIII. TO A HAGGIS

      [The vehement nationality of this poem is but a small part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the minced pie of the south; both are characteristic of the people: the ingredients which compose the former are all of Scottish growth, including the bag which contains them; the ingredients of the latter are gathered chiefly from the four quarters of the globe: the haggis is the triumph of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.]

      Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

      Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!

      Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

      Painch, tripe, or thairm:

      Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace

      As lang’s my arm.

      The groaning trencher there ye fill,

      Your hurdies like a distant hill,

      Your pin wad help to mend a mill

      In time o’ need,

      While thro’ your pores the dews distil

      Like amber bead.

      His knife see rustic-labour dight,

      An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,

      Trenching your gushing entrails bright

      Like onie ditch;

      And then, O what a glorious sight,

      Warm-reekin, rich!

      Then horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,

      Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

      ’Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

      Are bent like drums;

      Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

      Bethankit hums.

      Is there that o’er his French ragout,

      Or olio that wad staw a sow,

      Or fricassee wad mak her spew

      Wi’ perfect sconner,

      Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

      On sic a dinner?

      Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

      As feckless as a wither’d rash,

      His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

      His nieve a nit;

      Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,

      O how unfit!

      But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

      The trembling earth resounds his tread,

      Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

      He’ll mak it whissle;

      An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,

      Like taps o’ thrissle.

      Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

      And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

      Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware

      That jaups in luggies;

      But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

      Gie her a Haggis!

      IX. A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH

      [“There was a certain period of my life,” says Burns, “that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed effected the ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by the most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following.”]

      O Thou Great Being! what Thou art

      Surpasses me to know;

      Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

      Are all Thy works below.

      Thy creature here before Thee stands,

      All wretched and distrest;

      Yet sure those ills that wring my soul

      Obey Thy high behest.

      Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act

      From cruelty or wrath!

      O, free my weary eyes from tears,

      Or close them fast in death!

      But if I must afflicted be,

      To suit some wise design;

      Then, man my soul with firm resolves

      To bear and not repine!

      X. A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

      [I have heard the third verse of this very moving Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that the poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning is very different: Burns felt the torrent-strength of passion overpowering his resolution, and trusted that God would be merciful

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