A Night Out with Burns (5 page)

Dearest of Distillation! last and best!
—

—
How art thou lost!
—

Parody on Milton

Ye Irish lords, ye
knights
an'
squires
,

Wha represent our B
RUGHS
an' S
HIRES
,

An' dousely manage our affairs

In
Parliament
,

To you a simple Bardie's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet
Muse
is haerse!

Your Honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittan on her arse

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechan out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

Scotland
and
me
's in great affliction,

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction

On A
QUAVITAE
;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

Stand forth and tell yon P
REMIER
Y
OUTH

The honest, open, naked truth;

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

His servants humble:

The muckle devil 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 swoom

Wi' them wha grant them:

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want them.

In gath'rin votes ye 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 greetan owre her thrissle;

Her
mutchkin stowp
as toom's a whissle;

An' damn'd Excise-men in a bussle,

Seizan a
Stell
,

Triumphant crushan't like a muscle

Or laimpet 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' S
COT
,

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 M
ONTGOMERIES
fight,

Or gab like B
OSWEL
,

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

An'
tye
some
hose
well.

God bless your Honors, 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-gabbet Highlan Baron,

The Laird o'
Graham
;

And ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,

Dundass
his name.

Erskine
, a spunkie norland billie;

True Campbels,
Frederic
an'
Ilay
;

An' Livistone, the bauld
Sir Willie
;

An' mony ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers.

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 reekan 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' th' 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 an' 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 yon guid bluid o' auld
Boconnock
's,

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

An' drink his health in auld
Nance Tinnock
's
2

Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly seek.

Could he some
commutation
broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

He need na 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 F
IVE AND
F
ORTY
,

May still your Mither's heart support ye;

Then tho' a
Minister
grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

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

Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days,

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

In spite of a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St
Jamie
's!

Your humble Bardie sings an' prays

While
Rab
his name is.

P
OSTSCRIPT

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies,

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

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blyth an' frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phebus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The scented groves,

Or hounded forth,
dishonor
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' throu'ther,

To save their skin.

But bring a S
COTCHMAN
frae his hill,

Clap in his cheek a
highlan gill
,

Say, such is royal G
EORGE'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, with 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.

S
COTLAND
, my auld, respected Mither!

Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,

Till when ye speak, ye aiblins blether;

Yet deil-mak-matter!

F
REEDOM
and W
HISKY
gang thegither,

Tak aff you whitter.

R
ECITATIVO

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,

Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,
1

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;

When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,

And infant Frosts begin to bite,

In hoary cranreuch drest;

Ae night at e'en a merry core

O' randie, gangrel bodies,

In Poosie-Nansie's
2
held the splore,

To drink their orra dudies:

Wi' quaffing, and laughing,

They ranted an' they sang;

Wi' jumping, an' thumping,

The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld, red rags,

Ane sat; weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,

And knapsack a' in order;

His doxy lay within his arm;

Wi'
USQUEBAE
an' blankets warm,

She blinket on her Sodger:

An' ay he gies the tozie drab

The tither skelpan kiss,

While she held up her greedy gab,

Just like an aumous dish:

Ilk smack still, did crack still,

Just like a cadger's whip;

Then staggering, an' swaggering,

He roar'd this ditty up—

A
IR

I am a Son of Mars who have been in many wars,

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,

When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

My Prenticeship I past where my L
EADER
breath'd his last,

When the bloody die was cast on the heights of A
BRAM
;

And I served out my T
RADE
when the gallant
game
was play'd,

And the M
ORO
low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis among the
floating batt'ries
,

And there I left for witness, an arm and a limb;

Yet let my Country need me, with E
LLIOT
to head me,

I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

And now tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,

I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my Callet,

As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho', with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,

Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,

When the tother bag I sell and the tother bottle tell,

I could meet a troop of H
ELL
at the sound of a drum.

R
ECITATIVO

He ended; and the kebars sheuk,

Aboon the chorus roar;

While frighted rattons backward leuk,

An' seek the benmost bore:

A fairy F
IDDLER
frae the neuk,

He skirl'd out,
ENCORE
.

But up arose the martial C
HUCK
,

An' laid the loud uproar—

A
IR

I once was a Maid, tho' I cannot tell when,

And still my delight is in proper young men:

Some one of a troop of D
RAGOONS
was my dadie,

No wonder I'm fond of a S
ODGER LADDIE
,

Sing lal de lal, &c.

The first of my L
OVES
was a swaggering blade,

To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;

His leg was so tight and his cheek was so ruddy,

Transported I was with my S
ODGER LADDIE
.

But the godly old Chaplain left him in the lurch,

The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;

He ventur'd the Soul, and I risked the B
ODY
,

'Twas then I prov'd false to my S
ODGER LADDIE
.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified
Sot
,

The Regiment
AT LARGE
for a H
USBAND
I got;

From the gilded S
PONTOON
to the F
IFE
I was ready;

I asked no more but a S
ODGER LADDIE
.

But the P
EACE
it reduc'd me to beg in despair,

Till I met my old boy in a C
UNNINGHAM
fair;

His
RAGS REGIMENTAL
they flutter'd so gaudy,

My heart it rejoic'd at a S
ODGER LADDIE
.

And now I have liv'd—I know not how long,

And still I can join in a cup and a song;

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,

Here's to thee, M
Y
H
ERO
, M
Y
S
ODGER LADDIE
.

R
ECITATIVO

Poor Merry-andrew, in the neuk,

Sat guzzling wi' a Tinkler-hizzie;

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,

Between themsels they were sae busy:

At length wi' drink an' courting dizzy,

He stoiter'd up an' made a face;

Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzie,

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace.

A
IR

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;

Sir Knave is a fool in a Session,

He's there but a prentice, I trow,

But I am a fool by profession.

My Grannie she bought me a beuk,

An' I held awa to the school;

I fear I my talent misteuk,

But what will ye hae of a fool.

For drink I would venture my neck;

A hizzie's the half of my Craft:

But what could ye other expect

Of ane that's avowedly daft.

I, ance, was ty'd up like a stirk,

For civilly swearing and quaffing;

I, ance, was abus'd i' the kirk,

For towsing a lass i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,

Let nae body name wi' a jeer;

There's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court

A Tumbler ca'd the Premier.

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad

Mak faces to tickle the Mob;

He rails at our mountebank squad,

Its rivalship just i' the job.

And now my conclusion I'll tell,

For faith I'm confoundedly dry:

The chiel that's a fool for himsel,

Guid Lord, he's far dafter than I.

R
ECITATIVO

Then niest outspak a raucle Carlin,

Wha ken't fu' weel to cleek the Sterlin;

For mony a pursie she had hooked,

An' had in mony a well been douked:

Her L
OVE
had been a H
IGHLAND LADDIE
,

But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!

Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began

To wail her braw J
OHN
H
IGHLANDMAN
—

A
IR

A H
IGHLAND
lad my Love was born,

The lalland laws he held in scorn;

But he still was faithfu' to his clan,

My gallant, braw J
OHN
H
IGHLANDMAN
.

C
HORUS

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!

Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!

There's not a lad in a' the lan'

Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his Philibeg, an' tartan Plaid,

An' guid Claymore down by his side,

The ladies' hearts he did trepan,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,

An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay:

For a lalland face he feared none,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,

But ere the bud was on the tree,

Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,

Embracing my John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.

But Och! they catch'd him at the last,

And bound him in a dungeon fast,

My curse upon them every one,

They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.

And now a Widow I must mourn

The Pleasures that will ne'er return;

No comfort but a hearty can,

When I think on John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.

R
ECITATIVO

A pigmy Scraper wi' his Fiddle,

Wha us'd to trystes an' fairs to driddle,

Her strappan limb an' gausy middle,

(He reach'd nae higher)

Had hol'd his
HEARTIE
like a riddle,

An' blawn't on fire.

Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e,

He croon'd his gamut,
ONE, TWO, THREE
,

Then in an
ARIOSO
key,

The wee Apollo

Set off wi'
ALLEGRETTO
glee

His
GIGA SOLO
—

A
IR

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,

An' go wi' me an' be my D
EAR
;

An' then your every C
ARE AN
' F
EAR

May whistle owre the lave o't.

C
HORUS

I am a Fiddler to my trade,

An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,

The sweetest still to W
IFE OR
M
AID
,

Was whistle owre the lave o't.

At K
IRNS
an' W
EDDINS
we'se be there,

An' O sae nicely's we will fare!

We'll bowse about till Dadie C
ARE

Sing whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,

An' sun oursells about the dyke;

An' at our leisure when ye like

We'll whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,

An' while I kittle hair on thairms

H
UNGER
, C
AULD
, an' a' sic harms

May whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.

R
ECITATIVO

Her charms had struck a sturdy C
AIRD
,

As weel as poor G
UTSCRAPER
;

He taks the Fiddler by the beard,

An' draws a roosty rapier—

He swoor by a' was swearing worth

To speet him like a Pliver,

Unless he would from that time forth

Relinquish her for ever:

Wi' ghastly e'e poor T
WEEDLEDEE

Upon his hunkers bended,

An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,

An' so the quarrel ended;

But tho' his little heart did grieve,

When round the T
INKLER
prest her,

He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve

When thus the C
AIRD
address'd her—

A
IR

My bonie lass, I work in brass,

A T
INKLER
is my station;

I've travell'd round all Christian ground

In this my occupation;

I've ta'en the gold an' been enroll'd

In many a noble squadron;

But vain they search'd when off I march'd

To go an' clout the C
AUDRON
.

I've taen the gold, &c.

Despise that S
HRIMP
, that withered I
MP
,

With a' his noise an' cap'rin;

An' take a share, with those that bear

The
budget
and the
apron
!

And
by
that S
TOWP
! my faith an' houpe,

And
by
that dear K
ILBAIGIE
,
3

If e'er ye want, or meet with scant,

May I ne'er weet my
CRAIGIE
!

And by that Stowp, &c.

R
ECITATIVO

The Caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk;

Partly wi' L
OVE
o'ercome sae sair,

An' partly she was drunk:

S
IR
V
IOLINO
with an air,

That show'd a man o' spunk,

Wish'd
UNISON
between the
PAIR
,

An' made the bottle clunk

To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,

That play'd a D
AME
a shavie—

The Fiddler
RAK'D
her,
FORE AND AFT
,

Behint the Chicken cavie:

Her lord, a wight of H
OMER
's craft,
4

Tho' limpan wi' the Spavie,

He hirpl'd up an' lap like daft,

An' shor'd them D
AINTY
D
AVI
e

O'
boot
that night.

He was a care-defying blade,

As ever B
ACCHUS
listed!

Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,

His heart she ever miss'd it.

He had no
WISH
but—to be glad,

Nor
WANT
but—when he thristed;

He hated nought but—to be sad,

An' thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

A
IR

I am a B
ARD
of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks an' a' that;

But H
OMER LIKE
the glowran byke,

Frae town to town I draw that.

C
HORUS

For a' that an' a' that,

An' twice as muckle's a' that,

I've lost but A
NE
, I've T
WA
behin',

I've W
IFE
E
NEUGH
for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' S
TANK
,