While Rab his name is :)

Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!  J

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The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons

By Robert Burns

Dearest of distillation! last and best-

-How art thou lost!-

Parody on Milton

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,

Wha represent our brughs an' shires,

An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple poet's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!

Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her arse

Low i' the dust,

And scriechinhout prosaic verse,

An like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

Scotland an' me's in great affliction,

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction

On aqua-vitae;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youth

The honest, open, naked truth:

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,

His servants humble:

The muckle deevil blaw you south

If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?

Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!

Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant them;

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want them.

In gath'rin votes you were na slack;

Now stand as tightly by your tack:

Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,

An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack

Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;

Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;

An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin a stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel,

Or limpet shell!

Then, on the tither hand present her-

A blackguard smuggler right behint her,

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner

Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,

But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,

To see his poor auld mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,

Trode i' the mire out o' sight?

But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,

An' tie some hose well.

God bless your Honours! can ye see't-

The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,

An' no get warmly to your feet,

An' gar them hear it,

An' tell them wi'a patriot-heat

Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,

To round the period an' pause,

An' with rhetoric clause on clause

To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran';

Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;

An' that glib-gabbit Highland baron,

The Laird o' Graham;

An' ane, a chap that's damn'd aulfarran',

Dundas his name:

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;

True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;

An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;

An' mony ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers.

See sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,

If poets e'er are represented;

I ken if that your sword were wanted,

Ye'd lend a hand;

But when there's ought to say anent it,

Ye're at a stand.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,

To get auld Scotland back her kettle;

Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,

Ye'll see't or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,

Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood,

Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud

About her whisky.

An' Lord! if ance they pit her till't,

Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,

An'durk an' pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the streets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' the first she meets!

For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,

An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear,

To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,

May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks;

But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the cadie!

An' send him to his dicing box

An' sportin' lady.

Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's

Nine times a-week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Was kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

He needna fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,

She'll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,

May still you mither's heart support ye;

Then, tho'a minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your gingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honours, a' your days,

Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble poet sings an' prays,

While Rab his name is.

Postscript

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies

See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;

Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies,

But, blythe and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak aff their whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The scented groves;

Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droves!

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;

They downa bide the stink o' powther;

Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither

To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a'throw'ther,

To save their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,

Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,

Say, such is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe!

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;

Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;

Wi'bluidy hand a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,

An' raise a philosophic reek,

An' physically causes seek,

In clime an' season;

But tell me whisky's name in Greek

I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!

Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,

Till, whare ye sit on craps o' heather,

Ye tine your dam;

Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!

Take aff your dram!

No kidding! :)

A horse is a metaphor  J

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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.

By Robert Burns

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:

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

I've seen the day

Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,

Out-owre the lay.

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

An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,

A bonie 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 mear;

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 trotting wi' your minnie:

Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,

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 bonie 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 hobble,

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, and 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 aye like a swallow:

At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollowm

Whare'er thou gaed.

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

Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,

An' gar't them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,

In guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braing'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' power;

Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit

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, and breastit,

Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,

Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time 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 warst.

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' mony an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi' something yet.

An' 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.

Elegy

Not my elegy, because I’m back alive from the highway drive.

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Tam Samson's Elegy

By Robert Burns

When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he

supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields," and

expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the

author composed his elegy and epitaph.

                                                           —R.B., 1787.

An honest man's the noblest work of God

—Pope.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?

Or Robertson again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

"Na' waur than a'! cries ilka chiel,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,

An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane-

Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren, o' the mystic level

May hing their head in woefu' bevel,

While by their nose the tears will revel,

Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel;

Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,

And binds the mire like a rock;

When to the loughs the curlers flock,

Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?

Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core,

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

Or up the rink like Jehu roar,

In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's hog-score-

Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,

And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,

And eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wail

Tam Samson's dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';

Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;

Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw

Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa;

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,

Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,

While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples free'd;

But och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!

Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters,

In vain the gout his ancles fetters,

In vain the burns cam down like waters,

An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters

"Tam Samson's dead!"

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,

An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,

Till coward Death behind him jumpit,

Wi' deadly feid;

Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

When at his heart he felt the dagger,

He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,

But yet he drew the mortal trigger,

Wi' weel-aimed heed;

"Lord, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger-

Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;

Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;

Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,

Marks out his head;

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

There, low he lies, in lasting rest;

Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast

Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest

To hatch an' breed:

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,

And sportsmen wander by yon grave,

Three volleys let his memory crave,

O' pouther an' lead,

Till Echo answer frae her cave,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!

Is th' wish o' mony mae than me:

He had twa fauts, or maybe three,

Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we:

Tam Samson's dead!

The Epitaph

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies

Ye canting zealots, spare him!

If honest worth in Heaven rise,

Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

Per Contra

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly

Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie;

Tell ev'ry social honest billie

To cease his grievin';

For, yet unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie.

Tam Samson's leevin'!

My chief, amaist my only pleasure :)

I didn’t post the first epistle to Davie because it isn’t in this stanza form:

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Second Epistle to Davie, A Brother Poet

By Robert Burns

Auld Neibour,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,

For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter;

Tho' I maun say't I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,

Lang may your elbuck jink diddle,

To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war'ly cares;

Till barins' barins kindly cuddle

Your auld grey hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;

I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;

An, gif it's sae, ye sud by lickit

Until ye fyke;

Sic haun's as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words to gar them clink;

Whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whiles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

Commen' to me the bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil haet,-that I sud ban-

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin,

But just the pouchie put the neive in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,

My chief, amaist my only pleasure;

At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my daintie Davie:

The warl' may play you mony a shavie;

But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door tae door.