The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 37

LXI.

TO MR. M'ADAM,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN.

[It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,--probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Woodburn, his steward,--poured out this little unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.]

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; See wha tak's notice o' the bard I lap and cry'd fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million: I'll c.o.c.k my nose aboon them a'-- I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!

'Twas n.o.ble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel', To grant your high protection: A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, Is ay a blest infection.

Tho' by his[57] banes who in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy!

On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand ay.--

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me; A lee d.y.k.e-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' many flow'ry simmers!

And bless your bonnie la.s.ses baith, I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!

And G.o.d bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 57: Diogenes.]

LXII.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonis.h.i.+ng Burns about his errors, is generally believed to have been William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochiltree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extinguished half the Tailors in Ayrs.h.i.+re, and made the amazed dominie

"Strangely fidge and fyke."

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.]

What ails ye now, ye lousie b----h, To thresh my back at sic a pitch?

Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch, Your bodkin's bauld, I didna suffer ha'f 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-flae.

King David o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the la.s.ses sic mischief, As fill'd 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' druken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts An unco' slip yet, An' snugly sit among the saunts At Davie's hip get.

But fegs, the Session says I maun Gae fa' upo' anither plan, Than garrin la.s.ses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither'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, an' answer for't, Ye're blamed for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, An' snoov'd away before the Session; I made an open fair confession-- I scorn'd to lee; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me.

LXIII.

TO J. RANKINE.

[With the Laird of Adamhill's personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.]

I am a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa'

Ae way or ither.

The breaking of ae point, though sma', Breaks a' thegither

I hae been in for't once or twice, And winna say o'er far for thrice, Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a rumour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest.

LXIV.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.

[The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composition.]

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief; For lack o' thee I've lost my la.s.s, For lack o' thee I scrimp my gla.s.s.