The Canongate Burns (144 page)
Read The Canongate Burns Online
Authors: Robert Burns
In sober hours I am a priest;
     A hero when I'm tipsey, O;
But I'm a King and ev'rything,
     When wi' a wanton Gipsey, O.
          Green grow &c.
Chorus
5
Green grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O,
The lasses they hae wimble bores,
have gimlet
The widows they hae gashes O.
have
'Twas late yestreen I met wi' ane,
one
10
     An' wow, but she was gentle, O!
Ae han' she pat roun' my cravat,
one hand, put
     The tither to my pintle O.
penis
          Green grow &c.
I dought na speak â yet was na fley'd â
dared not, not scared
     My heart play'd duntie, duntie, O;
15
An' ceremony laid aside,
     I fairly fun' her cuntie, O. â
found
          Green grow &c.
     Multa desunt â
more to follow
This was sent to John Richmond, Edinburgh, on 3rd September, 1786, after the comment, âArmour has just brought me a fine boy and girl at one throw. God bless the little dears!' (Letter 45). The letter appeared in 1877. The manuscript was eventually sold again at New York, 22 April, 1937 and checked by De Lancey Ferguson at the sale (M.M.C., p. 59).
It is influenced by traditional folk song, but does, as Kinsley remarks, possess his âcompactness and energy' (Vol. III, p. 1210). A song in Herd's
Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs
, 1776, reads:
The down bed, the feather bed
       The bed amang the rashes O,
Yet a' the beds is no sae saft,
       As the bellies o' the lassies O!
Green grow the rashes O,
       Green grow the rashes O,
The feather-bed is no sae saft,
       As a bed amang the rashes [O]. (Vol. III, p. 1210.)
The body of the lyric, though, is from Burns.
Tune: Saw Ye My Eppie McNab
Amang our young lassies there's Muirland Meg,
among
She'll beg or she'll work, and she'll play or she beg,
At thretteen her maidenhead flew to the gate,
thirteen, virginity
And the door o' her cage stands open yet.
5
Her kittle black een they wad thirl you thro',
eyes, thrill
Her rose-bud lips cry, kiss me now;
The curls and links o' her bonie black hair,
Wad put you in mind that the lassie has mair.
would, more
An armfu' o' love is her bosom sae plump,
so
10
A span o' delight is her middle sae jimp;
so, small
A taper, white leg, and a thumpin thie,
large, thigh
And a fiddle near by, an ye play a wee!
a little
Love's her delight, and kissin's her treasure;
She'll stick at nae price, an ye gae her gude measure.
no, give, good
15
As lang's a sheep-fit, and as girt's a goose-egg,
long, thick
And that's the measure o' Muirland Meg.
A transcript of this by Alan Cunningham is bound in a copy of
The
Merry Muses
in the British Museum. According to Cunningham Muirland Meg was a Margaret Hog [g], (Meg Hog) nicknamed Monkery Meg, who had a house of ill repute on the White Sands at Dumfries.
Tune: The Auld Cripple Dow
As honest Jacob on a night,
      Wi' his beloved beauty,
Was duly laid on wedlock's bed
      And noddin' at his duty:
5
            Tal de dal, &c.
âHow lang, she says, ye fumblin' wretch,
      Will ye be f[uckin]g at it?
âMy eldest wean might die of age,
child
      Before that ye could get it.
10
âYe pegh, and grane, and groazle there,
pant, groan, breathe heavily
      And mak an unco splutter,
mighty
And I maun ly and thole you here,
must, endure
      And fient a hair the better.
not a bit
Then he, in wrath, put up his graith,
tool
15
      The Deevil's in the hizzie!
hussy
I mow you as I mow the lave,
copulate with, others
      And night and day I'm bisy.
busy
I've bairn'd the servant gypsies baith,
given children to, both
      Forbye your titty Leah;
sister
20
Ye barren jad, ye put me mad,
jade/woman
      What mair can I do wi' you.
more
There's ne'er a mow I've gi'en the lave,
fuck, given, others
      But ye hae got a dizzen;
have, dozen
And damn'd a ane ye'se get again,
one
25
      Altho' you c[un]t should gizzen.'
shrivel
Then Rachel calm, as ony lamb,
any
      She claps him on the waulies,
genitals
Quo' she, âne'er fash a woman's clash,
heed, talk/tongue
      âIn throwth, ye mow me braulies.
very well
30
My dear 'tis true, for mony a mow,
      I'm your ungratefu' debtor;
But ance again, I dinna ken,
once, do not know
      We'll aiblens happen better.'
perhaps
Then honest man! wi' little wark,
work
35
      He soon forgat his ire;
irritation
The patriarch, he coost the sark,
cast off, shirt
      And up and till't like fire!!!
The comic irreverence of this bedtime conversation between the Old Testament figures, Jacob and Sarah, possesses a rhetorical compactness expected from Burns. Kinsley accepts it as Burns's (Vol. III, p. 1522) on the strength of a holograph sold at Sotheby's, 4th December, 1873 and recorded in
The Burns Chronicle
, 1894, p. 140 (information collated by De Lancey Ferguson). Asecond manuscript was seen by Scott Douglas and owned by aMr Roberts, Town-clerk at Forfar. It was introduced as âA Wicked Song. /Author's Name Unknown. /Tune: The Waukin' o' a Winter's Night'. It carried a mock-moral warning to readers that, inter alia, it was the âproduction of one of those licentious, ungodly ⦠wretches who take it as a compliment to be called wicked, providing you allow them to be witty' (MMC, Goodsir Smith, p. 67). Given his predilection for so using the Old Testament, this is unmistakably Burns.
Tune: Wat Ye Wha I Met Yestreen
The night it was a haly night,
holy
      The day had been a haly day;
Kilmarnock gleam'd wi' candle light,
      As Girzie hameward took her way.
5
A man o' sin, ill may he thrive!
      And never haly-meeting see!
Wi' godly Girzie met belyve,
quickly
      Amang the Cragie hills sae hie.
among, so high
The chiel' was wight, the chiel' was stark,
fellow, strong
10
      He wad na wait to chap nor ca',
knock
And she was faint wi' haly wark,
work
      She had na pith to say him na.
no strength, no
But ay she glowr'd up to the moon,
stared
      And ay she sigh'd most piouslie;
15
âI trust my heart's in heaven aboon,
above
      Whare'er your sinful pintle be'.
penis
There has been some doubt as to whether Burns had a hand in this song, but a holograph copy is reported in
The Burns Chronicle
of 1894 (p. 142), titled
A New Song
â
From an Old Story
. It has not since been traced, but modern editors accept this is probably Burns's work. As De Lancey Ferguson notes, the text in the MMC differs from the manuscript version (MMC, Goodsir Smith, p. 71). Given that it was written on the back of a manuscript of the Burns song
Yestreen I Had a Pint o' Wine
, it is almost certainly by the poet, or his reworking of a traditional bawdy work. The Craigie Hills (l. 8) lie to the north of Tarbolton in the parish of Craigie.
Tune: Comin' Thro' the Rye
First printed publicly by De Lancey Ferguson, in
Modern Philology
,
Vol. XXX, August 1932.
O, I hae tint my rosy cheek,
have lost
      Likewise my waist sae sma';
so small
O wae gae by the sodger lown,
woe befall, fool
      The sodger did it a'.
Chorus
5
O wha'll mow me now, my jo,
darling
      An' wha'll mow me now:
have sex with
A sodger wi' his bandileers
soldier, testicles
      Has bang'd my belly fu'.
made pregnant
Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer
must tolerate
10
      O' mony a saucy quine;
girl
When, curse upon her godly face!
      Her cunt's as merry's mine.
            O wha'll mow &c.
Our dame hauds up her wanton tail,
holds, shows her vagina
      As due as she gaes lie;
goes down
15
An' yet misca's [a] young thing,
miscalls
      The trade if she but try.
            O wha'll mow &c.
Our dame can lae her ain gudeman,
leave, own husband
      An' mow for glutton greed;
have sex (out of lust)
An' yet misca's a poor thing,
miscalls
20
      That's mowin' for its bread.
(a prostitute)
            O wha'll mow &c.
Alake! sae sweet a tree as love,
so
      Sic bitter fruit should bear!
such
Alake, what e'er a merry arse,
      Should draw a sa'tty tear.
salty
            O wha'll mow &c.
25
But deevil damn the lousy loun,
devil, fellow
      Denies the bairn he got!
child
Or lea's the merry arse he lo'd
leaves, loved
      To wear a ragged coat!
            O wha'll mow &c.
This is ascribed to Burns by W. Scott Douglas who owned an â1800' edition of
The Merry Muses
and later by Professor De Lancey Ferguson, in
Modern Philology
, Vol. XXX, August 1932. Despite the lack of manuscript authority to prove provenance, it seems certain it is either his original lyric or a brushed-up version of an old song. A few stanzas, particularly the last, are distrinctively his, as De Lancey Ferguson and Hans Hecht have commented (See footnote, M.M.C., p. 72).
Tune: Gillicrankie
As I cam down by Annan side,
       Intending for the border,
Amang the Scroggie banks and braes
scrubby
       Wha met I but a trogger.
who, pedlar
5
He laid me down upon my back,
       I thought he was but jokin',
Till he was in me to the hilts,
       O the deevil tak sic troggin!
devil, pack-ware
What could I say, what could I do,
10
       I bann'd and sair misca'd him,
cursed, sore
But whiltie-whaltie gaed his arse,
up and down went
       The mair that I forbade him:
more
He stell'd his foot against a stane,
braced, stone
       And doubl'd ilka stroke in,
every
15
Till I gaed daft amang his hands,
went, among
       O the deevil tak sic troggin!
devil, pack-ware
Then up we raise, and took the road,
   And in by Ecclefechan,
Where the brandy stoup we gart it clink,
made
20
   And the strang-beer ream the quech in.
strong-, froth, cup
Bedown the bents o' Bonshaw braes,
below, bent-grass, slopes
   We took the partin' yokin';
intercourse
But I've claw'd a sairy cunt synsine,
scratched, sorry, since then
   O the deevil tak sic troggin!
devil, pack-ware
Like the bawdy song
Muirland Meg
this was transcribed by Cunningham from the Gracie manuscripts. He notes on the manuscript that when Burns travelled to Ecclefechan with John Lewars he was challenged to write some lyrics in which the village name would rhyme. This may or may not account for the last stanza, but cannot be taken as the origin of the entire song. Kinsley is probably right to suggest that this may be partly traditional, or based on an old song probably reworked by Burns (Vol. III, p. 1523). Scott Douglas merely guesses that his
Merry
Muses
text is by Burns and the 1959 editors, Barke and Goodsir Smith, agree (M.M.C., p. 75).
