The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

Guid speed and furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie!
Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannie
The staff o' bread,
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head!

II

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs
Like drivin wrack!
But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack!

III

I'm bizzie, too, an' skelpin at it;
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie-pen, I gat it,
Wi' muckle wark,
An' took my jocteleg, an' whatt it
Like onie clark.

IV

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin me for harsh ill-nature
On holy men,
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better,
But mair profane!

V

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells!
Let's sing about our noble sel's:

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help or roose us,
But browster wives an' whisky stills—
They are the Muses!

VI

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it;
An' if ye mak' objections at it,
Then hand in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take;
An', when wi' usquabae we've wat it,
It winna break.

VII

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard
An' theckit right,
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.

VIII

Then Muse-inspirin aqua-vitæ
Shall mak us baith sae blythe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,
And be as canty
As ye were nine year less than thretty—
Sweet ane an' twenty!

IX

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,
And now the sinn keeks in the wast;
Then I maun rin amang the rest,
An' quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.

Sept. 13, 1785