Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (84 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
541.
Leezie Lindsay (Fragment of a Song)
WILL ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
Will ye go to the Hielands wi’ me?
Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,
My pride and my darling to be.
542.
The Wren’s Nest (Fragment of a Song)
THE ROBIN to the Wren’s nest
Cam keekin’ in, cam keekin’ in;
O weel’s me on your auld pow,
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
Thou’s ne’er get leave to lie without,
5
And I within, and I within,
Sae lang’s I hae an auld clout
To rowe ye in, to rowe ye in.
543.
THERE’S news, lassies, news,
Gude news I’ve to tell!
There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads
Come to our town to sell.
Chorus.
— The wean wants a cradle,
5
And the cradle wants a cod:
I’ll no gang to my bed,
Until I get a nod.
Father, quo’ she, Mither, quo she,
Do what you can,
10
I’ll no gang to my bed,
Until I get a man.
The wean, &c.
I hae as gude a craft rig
As made o’yird and stane;
15
And waly fa’ the ley-crap,
For I maun till’d again.
The wean, &c.
544.
O THAT I had ne’er been married,
I wad never had nae care,
Now I’ve gotten wife an’ weans,
An’ they cry “Crowdie” evermair.
Chorus.
— Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,
5
Three times crowdie in a day
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.
Waefu’ Want and Hunger fley me,
Glowrin’ by the hallan en’;
10
Sair I fecht them at the door,
But aye I’m eerie they come ben.
Ance crowdie, &c.
545.
Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet (Song)
Chorus
— Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet,
Mally’s modest and discreet;
Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair,
Mally’s every way complete.
AS I was walking up the street,
5
A barefit maid I chanc’d to meet;
But O the road was very hard
For that fair maiden’s tender feet.
Mally’s meek, &c.
It were mair meet that those fine feet
10
Were weel laced up in silken shoon;
An’ ‘twere more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon,
Mally’s meek, &c.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
15
Comes trinklin down her swan-like neck,
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck,
Mally’s meek, &c.
546.
Jockie’s taen the parting Kiss (Song)
Air
— “Bonie lass tak a man.”
JOCKEY’S taen the parting kiss,
O’er the mountains he is gane,
And with him is a’ my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remain,
Spare my Love, ye winds that blaw,
5
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my Love, thou feath’ry snaw,
Drifting o’er the frozen plain!
When the shades of evening creep
O’er the day’s fair, gladsome e’e,
10
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening be.
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he’ll repeat her name;
For where’er he distant roves,
15
Jockey’s heart is still the same.
547.
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,
5
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;
10
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’,
15
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;
20
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,
25
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!
30
548.
The Dean of Faculty: A new Ballad
A NEW BALLAD
Tune
— “The Dragon of Wantley.”
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot,
5
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than ‘twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir.
This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
Among the first was number’d;
10
But pious Bob, ‘mid learning’s store,
Commandment the tenth remember’d:
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And wan his heart’s desire,
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
15
Tho’ the devil piss in the fire.
Squire Hal, besides, had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy;
For talents, to deserve a place,
Are qualifications saucy.
20
So their worships of the Faculty,
Quite sick of merit’s rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.
As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight
25
Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob’s purblind mental vision —
Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be opened yet,
Till for eloquence you hail him,
30
And swear that he has the angel met
That met the ass of Balaam.
In your heretic sins may you live and die,
Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!
But accept, ye sublime Majority,
35
My congratulations hearty.
With your honours, as with a certain king,
In your servants this is striking,
The more incapacity they bring,
The more they’re to your liking.
40
549.
MY honor’d Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet’s weal;
Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
5
And potion glasses.
O what a canty world were it,
Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And Fortune favour worth and merit
As they deserve;
10
And aye rowth o’ roast-beef and claret,
Syne, wha wad starve?
Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
15
I’ve found her still,
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
‘Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches like baudrons by a ratton
20
Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on,
Wi’felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast saut on,
He’s aff like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
25
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O hell’s damned waft.
30
Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy damn’d auld elbow yeuks wi’joy
And hellish pleasure!
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
35
Thy sicker treasure.
Soon, heels o’er gowdie, in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,
And murdering wrestle,
40
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
A gibbet’s tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,
45
I quat my pen,
The Lord preserve us frae the devil!
Amen! Amen!
