A Night Out with Burns (4 page)

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea;

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,

The desart were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign;

The brightest jewel in my crown,

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

O Lady Mary Ann looks o'er the castle-wa',

She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba',

The youngest he was the flower amang them a',

My bonie laddie's young but he's growin yet.—

O Father, O Father, an ye think it fit,

We'll send him a year to the College yet,

We'll sew a green ribban round about his hat,

And that will let them ken he's to marry yet.—

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,

Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,

And the langer it blossom'd, the sweeter it grew,

For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.—

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,

Bonie, and bloomin and straught was its make,

The sun took delight to shine for its sake,

And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.—

The Simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa that we hae seen,

But far better days I trust will come again,

For my bonie laddie's young but he's growin yet.—

Thou's welcome, Wean! Mischanter fa' me,

If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy Mamie,

Shall ever daunton me or awe me,

My bonie lady;

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tyta, or Daddie.—

Tho' now they ca' me, Fornicator,

And tease my name in kintra clatter,

The mair they talk, I'm kend the better;

E'en let them clash!

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.—

Welcome! My bonie, sweet, wee Dochter!

Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for;

And tho' your comin I hae fought for,

Baith Kirk and Queir;

Yet by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,

That I shall swear!

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,

As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,

As dear and near my heart I set thee,

Wi' as gude will,

As a' the Priests had seen me get thee

That's out o' hell.—

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,

My funny toil is no a' tint;

Tho' ye come to the warld asklent,

Which fools may scoff at,

In my last plack thy part's be in't,

The better half o't.—

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,

Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,

And thy young years as nicely bred

Wi' education,

As ony brat o' Wedlock's bed,

In a' thy station.—

Lord grant that thou may ay inherit

Thy Mither's looks an' gracefu' merit;

An' thy poor, worthless Daddie's spirit,

Without his failins!

'Twad please me mair to see thee heir it

Than stocked mailins!

For if thou be, what I wad hae thee,

And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee,

The cost nor shame o't,

But be a loving Father to thee,

And brag the name o't.—

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass,

An' aye I love her still,

An' whilst that virtue warms my breast

I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonnie lasses I hae seen,

And mony full as braw,

But for a modest gracefu' mein

The like I never saw.

A bonny lass I will confess,

Is pleasant to the e'e,

But without some better qualities

She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,

And what is best of a',

Her reputation is compleat,

And fair without a flaw;

She dresses ay sae clean and neat,

Both decent and genteel;

And then there's something in her gait

Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air

May slightly touch the heart,

But it's innocence and modesty

That polishes the dart.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,

'Tis this enchants my soul;

For absolutely in my breast

She reigns without control.

Gie him strong
Drink
until he wink
,

That's sinking in despair;

An'
liquor
guid, to fire his bluid
,

That's prest wi' grief an' care:

There let him bowse an' deep carouse
,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his
loves
or
debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi:6, 7

Let other Poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken
Bacchus
,

An' crabbed names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I sing the juice
Scotch bear
can mak us,

In glass or jug.

O thou, my M
USE
! Guid, auld S
COTCH
D
RINK
!

Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I
lisp
an'
wink
,

To sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,

And Aits set up their awnie horn,

An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee
John Barleycorn
,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

In souple scones, the wale o' food!

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong
heart's blood
,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin:

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;

But oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;

Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care;

Thou strings the nerves o' Labor-sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,

Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet, humbly kind, in time o' need,

The
poorman
's wine,

His wee drap pirratch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants?

Ev'n goodly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspir'd,

When gaping they besiege the
tents
,

Are doubly fir'd.

That
merry night
we get the corn in

O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

Or reekan on a
New-
year-
mornin

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap
sp'ritual burn
in,

An'
gusty sucker
!

When Vulcan gies his bellys breath,

An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith,

O rare! to see thee fizz an' fraeth

I' the lugget caup!

Then
Burnewin
comes on like Death,

At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for airn
or
steel;

The brawnie, banie, Ploughman-chiel

Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,

Though maks the gossips clatter bright,

How fumbling coofs their dearies slight,

Wae worth the name!

Nae Howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,

An' just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the
barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's ay the cheapest Lawyer's fee

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my
Muse
has reason

To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

But mony daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that
Brandy
, burnan trash!

Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!

Twins mony a poor, doylt, druken hash

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld
Scotland
's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots wha wish auld Scotland well,

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor, plackless devils like
mysel
,

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu'
wines
to mell,

Or
foreign gill
.

May
Gravels
round his blather wrench,

An'
Gouts
torment him, inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o'
Whisky-punch

Wi' honest men!

O
Whisky
! soul o' plays an' pranks!

Accept a
Bardie
's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor Verses!

Thou comes—they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's arses!

Thee,
Ferintosh
! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal
Forbes' Charter'd boast

Is taen awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,

Wha mak the
Whisky stills
their prize!

Haud up thy han'
Deil
! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd
Drinkers
.

Fortune, if thou'll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an'
Whisky gill
,

An' rowth o'
rhyme
to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie;

That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonie lassie:

The boat rocks at the Pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bony Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready,

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes deep and bloody.

It's not the roar o' sea or shore,

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;

Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—

It's leaving thee, my bony Mary!

When chapman billies leave the street,

And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,

As market-days are wearing late,

An' folk begin to tak the gate;

While we sit bousing at the nappy,

And getting fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest
Tam o' Shanter
,

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonny lasses.)

O
Tam
! hadst thou but been sae wise,

As ta'en thy ain wife
Kate
's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;

That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was nae sober;

That ilka melder, wi' the miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesied that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By
Alloway
's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

To think how mony counsels sweet,

How mony lengthen'd sage advices,

The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market-night,

Tam
had got planted unco right;

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter
Johnny
,

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;

Tam
lo'ed him like a vera brither;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;

And ay the ale was growing better:

The landlady and
Tam
grew gracious,

Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:

The Souter tauld his queerest stories;

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

The storm without might rair and rustle,

Tam
did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy:

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:

Kings may be blest, but
Tam
was glorious,

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white—then melts for ever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm.—

Nae man can tether time or tide;

The hour approaches
Tam
maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he taks the road in,

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;

Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:

That night, a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare,
Meg
,

A better never lifted leg,

Tam
skelpit on thro' dub and mire,

Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;

Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;

Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares:

Kirk-Alloway
was drawing nigh,

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—

By this time he was cross the ford,

Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd;

And past the birks and meikle stane,

Where drunken
Charlie
brak's neck-bane;

And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Where
Mungo
's mither hang'd hersel.—

Before him
Doon
pours all his floods;

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;

The lightnings flash from pole to pole;

Near and more near the thunders roll:

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,

Kirk-Alloway
seem'd in a bleeze;

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.—

Inspiring bold
John Barleycorn
!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil;

Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!—

The swats sae ream'd in
Tammie
's noddle,

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.

But
Maggie
stood right sair astonish'd,

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

She ventured forward on the light;

And, vow!
Tam
saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance;

Nae cotillion brent new frae
France
,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge:

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—

Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;

And by some devilish cantraip slight

Each in its cauld hand held a light.—

By which heroic
Tam
was able

To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes, in gibbet airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;

Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;

Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;

A garter, which a babe had strangled;

A knife, a father's throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft,

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;

Three Lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,

Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;

Three Priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,

Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.—

As
Tammie
glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:

The piper loud and louder blew;

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linket at it in her sark!

Now
Tam
, O
Tam
! had thae been queans,

A' plump and strapping in their teens,

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,

I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,

For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Lowping and flinging on a crummock.

I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But
Tam
kend what was what fu' brawlie,

There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,

That night enlisted in the core,

(Lang after kend on
Carrick
shore;

For mony a beast to dead she shot,

And perish'd mony a bony boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

And kept the country-side in fear:)

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie.—

Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),

Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour;

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

(A souple jade she was, and strang),

And how
Tam
stood, like ane bewitch'd,

And thought his very een enrich'd;

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam
tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!'

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,

When plundering herds assail their byke;

As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When ‘Catch the thief!' resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

Ah,
Tam
! Ah,
Tam
! thou'll get thy fairin!

In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!

In vain thy
Kate
awaits thy comin!

Kate
soon will be a woefu' woman!

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

And win the key-stane
1
of the brig;

There at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the key-stane she could make,

The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at
Tam
wi' furious ettle;

But little wist she Maggie's mettle—

Ae spring brought off her master hale,

But left behind her ain gray tail:

The carlin claught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,

Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.