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.

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.