Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 41

The Calf

To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. "And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall."

Right, sir! your text I'll prove it true, Tho' heretics may laugh; For instance, there's yourself just now, G.o.d knows, an unco calf.

And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na, sir but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a stirk.

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour, Shall ever be your lot, Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er should be a stot!

Tho' when some kind connubial dear Your but--and--ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A n.o.ble head of horns.

And, in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowt, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowt.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a gra.s.sy hillock, With justice they may mark your head-- "Here lies a famous bullock!"

Nature's Law--A Poem

Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

Great Nature spoke: observant man obey'd--Pope.

Let other heroes boast their scars, The marks of sturt and strife: And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life:

Shame fa' the fun, wi' sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber!

I sing his name, and n.o.bler fame, Wha multiplies our number.

Great Nature spoke, with air benign, "Go on, ye human race; This lower world I you resign; Be fruitful and increase.

The liquid fire of strong desire I've pour'd it in each bosom; Here, on this had, does Mankind stand, And there is Beauty's blossom."

The Hero of these artless strains, A lowly bard was he, Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains, With meikle mirth an'glee; Kind Nature's care had given his share Large, of the flaming current; And, all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent.

He felt the powerful, high behest Thrill, vital, thro' and thro'; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due: Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs, From mildews of abortion; And low! the bard--a great reward-- Has got a double portion!

Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra's equal sway, That gave another Burns, With future rhymes, an' other times, To emulate his sire: To sing auld Coil in n.o.bler style With more poetic fire.

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys; Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow'r of ancient nations; And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, To endless generations!

Song--Willie Chalmers

Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrs.h.i.+re, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:--

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parna.s.sus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi' donwward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets, For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, la.s.s, that weel ken'd name May cost a pair o' blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes.

Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear yer'e fair, And Honour safely back her; And Modesty a.s.sume your air, And ne'er a ane mistak her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they've fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you sh.o.r.e Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart's the royal blue, And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin', glowrin' countra laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver: My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues For deil a hair I roose him.

May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours,-- And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.

Reply To A Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g Epistle Received From A Tailor

What ails ye now, ye lousie b.i.t.c.h To thresh my back at sic a pitch?

Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld; I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye p.r.i.c.k-the-louse, An' jag-the-flea!

King David, o' poetic brief, Wrocht 'mang the la.s.ses sic mischief As filled his after-life wi' grief, An' bluidy rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, At Davie's hip yet!

But, fegs! the session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan Than garrin la.s.ses coup the cran, Clean heels ower body, An' sairly thole their mother's ban Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport, How I did wi' the Session sort; Auld Clink.u.m, at the inner port, Cried three times, "Robin!

Come hither lad, and answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, An' snoov'd awa before the Session: I made an open, fair confession-- I scorn't to lee, An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator-loun he call'd me, An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, "But, what the matter?

(Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me, I'll ne'er be better!"

"Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no?

If that your right hand, leg or toe Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, You should remember To cut it aff--an' what for no Your dearest member?"

"Na, na, (quo' I,) I'm no for that, Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't; I'd rather suffer for my faut A hearty flewit, As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, Tho' I should rue it.

"Or, gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a'--I've just ae ither-- When next wi' yon la.s.s I forgather, Whate'er betide it, I'll frankly gie her 't a' thegither, An' let her guide it."

But, sir, this pleas'd them warst of a', An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, I said "Gude night," an' cam' awa', An' left the Session; I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.