The Canongate Burns (143 page)
Read The Canongate Burns Online
Authors: Robert Burns
Tune: The Tither Morn
When maukin bucks, at early fucks,
buck hares
      In dewy glens are seen, Sir,
And birds, on boughs, take off their mowes,
copulation
      Amang the leaves sae green, Sir;
among, so
5
Latona's sun looks liquorish on
      Dame Nature's grand impè tus,
Till his pego rise, then westward flies
penis
      To roger Madam Thetis.
have sex with
Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,
10
      And glances o'er the brae, Sir,
a ridge on a hill
Slides by a bower where many a flower
      Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,
      To love they thought no crime, Sir;
15
The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,
      While Damon's arse beat time, Sir. â
First wi the thrush, his thrust & push
      Had compass large & long, Sir;
The blackbird next, his tuneful text,
20
      Was bolder, clear & strong, Sir:
The linnet's lay came then in play,
      And the lark that soar'd aboon, Sir;
above
Till Damon, fierce, mistim'd his arse,
      And fuck'd quite out of tune, Sir. â
Burns informed George Thomson in January 1795, in the letter which contained
A Man's a Man
:
⦠give me leave to squeeze in a clever anecdote of my
Spring
originality
.
Some years ago, when I was young, and by no means the saint I am now, I was looking over, in company with a belle lettre friend, a Magazine Ode to Spring, when my friend fell foul of the recurrence of the same thoughts, and offered me a bet that it was impossible to produce an Ode to Spring on an original plan. â I accepted it, and pledged myself to bring in verdant fields, â the budding flowers, â the chrystal streams, â the melody of the groves, â and a love-story into the bargain, and yet be original. Here follows the piece, and wrote for music too! (Letter 651).
Tune: As title
Saw ye my Maggie?
Saw ye my Maggie?
Saw ye my Maggie?
       Comin o'er the lea?
5
What mark has your Maggie?
What mark has your Maggie?
What mark has your Maggie?
       That ane may ken her be?
one, know, by
My Maggie has a mark,
10
Ye'll find it in the dark,
It's in below her sark,
shirt
       A little aboon her knee.
above
What wealth has your Maggie,
What wealth has your Maggie,
15
What wealth has your Maggie,
       In tocher, gear, or fee?
dowry, goods
My Maggie has a treasure,
A hidden mine o' pleasure,
I'll howk it at my leisure,
dig/scrape
20
       It's alane for me.
alone
How loe ye yer Maggie,
love
How loe ye yer Maggie,
How loe ye yer Maggie,
       And loe nane but she?
love none
25
Ein that tell our wishes,
eyes
Eager glowing kisses,
Then diviner blisses,
       In holy ecstacy! â
How meet you your Maggie,
30
How meet you your Maggie,
How meet you your Maggie,
       When nane's to hear or see?
none
Heavenly joys before me,
Rapture trembling o'er me,
35
Maggie I adore thee,
       On my bended knee!!!
It is accepted that Burns took this from a traditional bawdy song and adapted his own lyrics to it, employing the layout of
Saw Ye My
Peggy
. As Kinsley remarks, the Abbotsford MS contains a mock testament by Burns claiming the song was by Alexander Findlater (Vol. III, pp. 1525â6).
Ellisland, Saturday Morning
First printed in Barke, 1959.
Dear Sir, our Lucky humbly begs
Ye'll prie her caller, new-laid eggs:
taste, fresh
Lord grant the Cock may keep his legs,
      Aboon the Chuckies;
above
5
And wi' his kittle, forket clegs,
roused, spindly legs
      Claw weel their dockies!
well, backsides
Had Fate that curst me in her ledger,
A Poet poor, and poorer Gager,
exciseman
Created me that feather'd Sodger,
10
      A generous Cock,
cockerel
How I wad craw and strut and roger
crow, copulate
      My kecklin Flock!
cackling
Buskit wi' mony a bien, braw feather,
dressed, snug, fine
I wad defied the warst a' weather:
would, worst
15
When corn or bear I could na gather
barley, not
      To gie my burdies;
hens
I'd treated them wi' caller heather,
fresh
      And weel-knooz'd hurdies.
well-rounded backsides
Nae cursed CLERICAL EXCISE
no
20
On honest Nature's laws and ties;
Free as the vernal breeze that flies
      At early day,
We'd tasted Nature's richest joys,
      But stint or stay.â
25
But as this subject 's something kittle,
ticklish/difficult
Our wisest way 's to say but little;
And while my Muse is at her mettle,
work
      I am, most fervent,
Or may I die upon a whittle!
knife
30
      Your Friend and Servantâ
      Robt. Burns.
Alexander Findlater (1754â1839) was the Excise Supervisor at Dumfries in 1787 and held the post until 1797, when he was promoted to Collector of Excise in Glasgow then Haddington. A friend of the poet, he was born in Burntisland, Fife, the son of an Excise Officer. This brief letter-epistle was sent with a present of eggs to Findlater from Ellisland. It is assumed that it was written early in 1790, as it is not dated.
Tune: Clout the Caldron
First printed in the
Merry Muses of Caledonia
.
Ye jovial boys who love the joys,
      The blissful joys of Lovers;
Yet dare avow with dauntless brow,
      Then th' bony lass discovers;
pregnancy
5
I pray draw near and lend an ear,
      And welcome in a Frater,
brother
For I've lately been on quarantine,
      A proven Fornicator.
Before the Congregation wide
10
      I pass'd the muster fairly,
My handsome Betsey by my side
      We gat our ditty rarely;
got, sermon
But my downcast eye by chance did spy
      What made my lips to water,
15
Those limbs so clean where I, between,
      Commenc'd a Fornicator.
With rueful face and signs of grace
      I pay'd the buttock-hire,
a fine for fornication
The night was dark and thro' the park
20
      I could not but convoy her;
A parting kiss, what could I less,
      My vows began to scatter,
My Betsey fell â lal de dal lal lal,
      I am a Fornicator.
25
But for her sake this vow I make,
      And solemnly I swear it,
That while I own a single crown,
      She's welcome for to share it;
And my roguish boy his Mother's joy,
30
      And the darling of his Pater;
father
For him I boast my pains and cost,
      Although a Fornicator.
Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades
      Have tipt you off blue-boram,
35
I tell ye plain, I do disdain
      To rank you in the Quorum;
But a bony lass upon the grass
      To teach her esse Mater,
to become a mother
And no reward but for regard,
40
O that's a Fornicator.
Your warlike Kings and Heros bold,
      Great Captains and Commanders;
Your mighty Cesars fam'd of old,
      And conquering Alexanders;
45
In fields they fought and laurels bought
      And bulwarks strong did batter,
But still they grac'd our noble list
      And ranked Fornicator!!!
Acompanion piece to
A Poet's Welcome to his Love-Begotten Daughter
, this provides an orgiastic celebration of the events prior to birth when, of course, Burns did not know the gender of the child. If Betsy Paton was not facially attractive she, like Jean Armour and the holly-decked muse of
The Vison
, shared splendid legs. McGuirk cogently elucidates the inner contrasts on which the poem is structured thus:
The free love of fornicators is contrasted with the kirk's guinea fine for fornication, disdainfully equated with prostitution by the term used: âbuttock-hire'. The ecclesiastical term âfornicator' is opposed by Latin rhymes and classical references â âfrater', âpater', âesse mater', âquorum', âCesar', âconquering Alexanders' â that suggest an alternative world more pagan and more heroic than Auld Licht Mauchline, with its perverse substitution of money for pleasure. The mock-heroic bluster of the military imagery (âpass the muster', âconvoy', âwarlike kings and heroes bold') recalls the
double entendre
of one of Burns's favourite novels, Sterne's
Tristram Shandy
(p. 213).
Ll. 33â6 refer to prostitutes (not ranked âin the Quorum') and âblue-borum' was a treatment for sexual disease, not âa social disease' as Mackay suggests (p. 114).
Tune: Tak Your Auld Cloak About You
There was twa wives, and twa witty wives,
twa
      As e'er play'd houghmagandie,
fornicating
And they coost out, upon a time,
cast/went
      Out o'er a drink o' brandy;
5
Up Maggy rose, and forth she goes,
      And she leaves auld Mary flytin,
old, scolding
And she farted by the byre-en'
-end
      For she was gaun a shiten.
going
She farted by the byre-en',
10
      She farted by the stable;
And thick and nimble were her steps
fast
      As fast as she was able:
Till at yon dyke-back the hurly brak,
by/the, diarrhoea
      But raxin for some dockins,
reaching, dock-leaves
15
The beans and pease cam down her thighs,
      And she cackit a' her stockins.
covered/fouled
Burns sent a copy of this to Robert Cleghorn, a fellow member of the enlightened Edinburgh male drinking club, the Crochallan Fencibles, sometime in early 1792. Burns told him, âI make you [a] present of the following new Edition of an old Cloaciniad song, [a] species of composition which I have heard you admire, and a kind of song I know you wanted much. It is sung to an old tune, something like Take Your Auld Cloak About You â ' (Letter 488). The date of the letter, January 1792, is conjectural.
Printed in the public edition of
The Merry Muses of Caledonia
, 1959.
Jenny sits up i' the laft
loft
       Jockie wad fain a been at her;
would, having sex
But there cam a wind out o' the west
came
       Made a' the winnocks to clatter.
windows, rattle
Chorus
5
O gie my love brose, lasses;
give, milky oatmeal
       O gie my love brose and butter;
give, lots of semen
For nane in Carrick wi' him
none
       Can gie a cunt its supper.
give
The laverock lo'es the grass,
lark, loves
10
       The paetrick lo'es the stibble:
partridge
And hey, for the gardiner lad,
       To gully awa wi' his dibble!
stab away
            O gie, &c.
stick for making seed holes
My daddie sent me to the hill
       To pu' my minnie some heather;
pull
15
An' drive it in your fill,
vagina
       Ye're welcome to the leather.
              O gie, &c.
The Mouse is a merry wee beast,
       The Moudiewart wants the een;
mole, lacks eyes
And O, for a touch o' the thing
20
       I had in my nieve yestreen.
fist/grasp, last night
              O gie, &c.
We a' were fou yestreen,
drunk, last night
       The night shall be its brither;
brother
And hey, for a roaring pin
rampant penis
       To nail twa wames thegither!
two bellies together
              O gie, &c.
De Lancey Ferguson argues that this poem is mainly Burns's reworking of a traditional Ayrshire bawdy ballad. Kinsley is less sure though he quotes, for examples, these lines from a seventeenth-century folk-song:
The moudiewark has done me ill,
And below my apron has biggit a hill;
â¦â¦â¦
This moudiewark, tho' it be blin';
If ance its nose you let it in,
Then to the hilts, within a crack
It's out o' sight, the moudiewark. (Vol. III, p. 1136.)
What can be unresevedly said is that Burns had a profusion of folk sexual riddling metaphors on which to draw. The âmoudiewart' refers to the penis, while âbrose and butter' describes a plenitude of semen.
