Even greeting card poetry can be high art!

New Year’s poem:

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Verses To Collector Mitchell

By Robert Burns

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal,

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;

Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it skelpin jig and reel,

In my poor pouches?

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,

That One-pound-one, I sairly want it;

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,

I'd bear't in mind.

So may the Auld year gang out moanin'

To see the New come laden, groanin',

Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',

To thee and thine:

Domestic peace and comforts crownin'

The hale design.

Postscript

Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,

And by fell Death was nearly nickit;

Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;

But by gude luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,

But by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,

My hale and wee, I'll tak a care o't,

A tentier way;

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,

For ance and aye!

"Gude be wi' you"

I earlier posted the one-stanza farewell Burns wrote to Joh Kennedy when he (Burns) was planning to sail for the New World.

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To John Kennedy, Dumfries House

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse

E'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse,

(Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force

A hermit's fancy;

An' down the gate in faith they're worse,

An' mair unchancy).

But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's,

An' taste sic gear as Johnie brews,

Till some bit callan bring me news

That ye are there;

An' if we dinna hae a bouze,

I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow,

Then like a swine to puke an' wallow;

But gie me just a true good fallow,

Wi' right ingine,

And spunkie ance to mak us mellow,

An' then we'll shine.

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,

Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,

An' sklent on poverty their joke,

Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you nae friendship I will troke,

Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel,

Ye hate as ill's the very deil

The flinty heart that canna feel-

Come, sir, here's to you!

Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel,

An' gude be wi' you.

Robt. Burness.

Mossgiel

The one with the mice and the men

No commentary needed for this masterpiece  J

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To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

By Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell-

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men

Gang aft agley,

An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

Yes you can be whelmed! In Scotland :)

Blogging late today, but what a beauty of an extended metaphor!  And see the last line of the antepenultimate stanza  J—

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To A Mountain Daisy, On turning down with the Plough, in April, 1786

By Robert Burns

Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

The bonie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast!

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink;

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

To see oursels as ithers see us! :)

This famous one:

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To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady's Bonnet, At Church

By Robert Burns

Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?

Your impudence protects you sairly;

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace;

Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,

Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her-

Sae fine a lady?

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner

On some poor body.

Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,

Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;

Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,

Till ye've got on it-

The verra tapmost, tow'rin height

O' Miss' bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an' grey as ony groset:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been surpris'd to spy

You on an auld wife's flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,

On's wyliecoat;

But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!

How daur ye do't?

O Jeany, dinna toss your head,

An' set your beauties a' abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin:

Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

An' foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

An' ev'n devotion!

Rab the Ranter :)

I’ve already posted the first two:

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Third Epistle To J. Lapraik

By Robert Burns

Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie,

Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie;

Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin wrack;

But may the tapmost grain that wags

Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it,

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an whatt it,

Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,

For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,

Abusin me for harsh ill-nature

On holy men,

While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,

But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,

Let's sing about our noble sel's:

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us;

But browster wives an' whisky stills,

They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,

An' if ye mak' objections at it,

Then hand in neive some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' usquabae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast an' branks be spar'd

Till kye be gaun without the herd,

And a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae

Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty-

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,

And now the sinn keeks in the west,

Then I maun rin amang the rest,

An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe myself' in haste,

Yours, Rab the Ranter.

And that fell cur called Common Sense :)

Political poem:

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The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie.  An Unco Mournfu' Tale

By Robert Burns

"Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,

But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,"

Pope

O a' ye pious godly flocks,

Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or worrying tykes?

Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,

About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,

The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast

These five an' twenty simmers past-

Oh, dool to tell!

Hae had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel'.

O, Moddie, man, an' wordy Russell,

How could you raise so vile a bustle;

Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,

An' think it fine!

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,

Sin' I hae min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit

To wear the plaid;

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,

To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?-

Sae hale and hearty every shank!

Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank

He let them taste;

Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank, -

O, sic a feast!

The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,

Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,

He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,

Baith out an in;

An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

An' sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale;

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,

He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,

Owre a' the height;

An' saw gin they were sick or hale,

At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,

Or nobly fling the gospel club,

And New-Light herds could nicely drub

Or pay their skin;

Could shake them o'er the burning dub,

Or heave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see't?-

Sic famous twa should disagree't,

And names, like "villain," "hypocrite,"

Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,

Say neither's liein!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

There's Duncan deep, an' Peebles shaul,

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,

Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we're beset;

There's scarce a new herd that we get,

But comes frae 'mang that cursed set,

I winna name;

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet

In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,

M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,

An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,

And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black an' blae,

Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief;

We thought aye death wad bring relief;

But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;

I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,

Wha fain wad openly rebel,

Forby turn-coats amang oursel',

There's Smith for ane;

I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,

An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,

Come, join your counsel and your skills

To cowe the lairds,

An' get the brutes the power themsel's

To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

An' Learning in a woody dance,

An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,

That bites sae sair,

Be banished o'er the sea to France:

Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,

M'Gill's close nervous excellence

M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

An' guid M'Math,

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.