The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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LAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH, PUBLISHER |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
LAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH, PUBLISHER
I
Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest
Can yield ava:
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Willie,'s awa.
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II
O, Willie was a witty wight,And had o' things an unco sleight!
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight
And trig an' braw;
But now they'll busk her like a fright—
Willie's awa!
III
The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd—
That was a law:
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd—
Willie's awa!
IV
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and foolsFrae colleges and boarding schools
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw:
He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie,'s awa!
V
The brethren o' the Commerce-ChaumerMay mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour:
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Amang them a'.
I fear they'll now mak monie a stammer:
Willie's awa!
VI
Nae mair we see his levee doorPhilosophers and Poets pour,
And toothy Critics by the score
In bloody raw:
The adjutant of a' the core,
Willie,'s awa!
VII
Now worthy Greg'ry's Latin face,Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace,
M'Kenzie, Stewart, such a brace
As Rome ne'er saw,
They a' maun meet some ither place—
Willie's awa!
VIII
Poor Burns ev'n ‘Scotch Drink’ canna quicken:He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin
By hoodie-craw.
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin—
Willie's awa!
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IX
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd, girnin blellum,And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic-skellum
His quill may draw:
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
Willie,'s awa!
X
Up wimpling, stately Tweed I've sped,And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now roaring red
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure's fled:
Willie's awa!
XI
May I be Slander's common speech,A text for Infamy to preach,
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw,
When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
Tho' far awa!
XII
May never wicked Fortune touzle him,May never wicked men bamboozle him,
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He canty claw!
Then to the blessed new Jerusalem
Fleet-wing awa!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |