 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
437
OCCASIONAL LINES.
[_]
Read at the one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of the birth of Burns, held at the Academy of Music, Newark, N. J., Jan. 25, 1884.
We tak' na fash wi' freeze or thaw,
Gin breezes sough, or tempests blaw,
For this ae night we celebrate
Rab Burns's birth; an' bauld we say't,
We dinna min' the weather a haet—
Na flash o' pouther;
But stan'—we hae na tint that gate—
Shouther to shouther.
Gin breezes sough, or tempests blaw,
For this ae night we celebrate
Rab Burns's birth; an' bauld we say't,
We dinna min' the weather a haet—
Na flash o' pouther;
But stan'—we hae na tint that gate—
Shouther to shouther.
We'se sicker come on ilka year
For sic a purpose—dinna fear;
But noo, while tides o' frien'ship swell,
An' speeches, each as lang's an ell;
Wi' muckle strunt frae Hielan' stell,
Mak' spirits mingle,
Let's doucely celebrate oursel',
In crambo-jingle.
For sic a purpose—dinna fear;
But noo, while tides o' frien'ship swell,
An' speeches, each as lang's an ell;
Wi' muckle strunt frae Hielan' stell,
Mak' spirits mingle,
Let's doucely celebrate oursel',
In crambo-jingle.
An' first, our Chairman, there sits he—
Guid-willie feelin' in his ee:
A ship ye'd build o' boortree limb,
Light gather frae the gloamin' dim,
Or satisfy a woman's whim
By showin' sconner,
Ere ye wad get ae thing frae him
Save truth an' honor.
Guid-willie feelin' in his ee:
A ship ye'd build o' boortree limb,
Light gather frae the gloamin' dim,
Or satisfy a woman's whim
By showin' sconner,
Ere ye wad get ae thing frae him
Save truth an' honor.
There's Woodruff wi' his streakit pow,
Gowd specs on's nose—an' talkin'! Wow!
An' when he mak's harangue on Burns,
An' Rhetoric sae deftly turns,
An' a' his hearers feelin's kirns
At his ain pleasure,
O' just applause he fairly earns
Na scrimpit measure.
Gowd specs on's nose—an' talkin'! Wow!
438
An' Rhetoric sae deftly turns,
An' a' his hearers feelin's kirns
At his ain pleasure,
O' just applause he fairly earns
Na scrimpit measure.
Noo, Soutar, dinna jouk ayont,
But tak' yer parritch, butter on't.
I fear yer blate; but bide a wee;
When threescore years hae bleared yer ee,
Ye'se tak' all roose yer frien's'll gie,
Though noo ye'd fen it;
In monie a place ye bore the gree,
An' weel ye ken it.
But tak' yer parritch, butter on't.
I fear yer blate; but bide a wee;
When threescore years hae bleared yer ee,
Ye'se tak' all roose yer frien's'll gie,
Though noo ye'd fen it;
In monie a place ye bore the gree,
An' weel ye ken it.
An' there's the Surrogat'—he's here,
But na aboot yer wills to spier—
He ay has haen a wull o' 's ain,
An' aften gangs his gate alane;
But, spite o' that, ere he be gane,
We'se sae contrive it,
We'se mak' him cozey, croose an' fain,
Wi' guid Glenlivet.
But na aboot yer wills to spier—
He ay has haen a wull o' 's ain,
An' aften gangs his gate alane;
But, spite o' that, ere he be gane,
We'se sae contrive it,
We'se mak' him cozey, croose an' fain,
Wi' guid Glenlivet.
An' here to-night, the Boord o' Trade
Comes kiuttlin' underneath our plaid;
A birkie wha's their President;
To spak' their notion here is sent,
An' in his parle ye'se fin' na sklent—
A' bright as siller;
Fact, fancy, truth a' sentiment
Ye'se get frae Miller.
Comes kiuttlin' underneath our plaid;
A birkie wha's their President;
To spak' their notion here is sent,
An' in his parle ye'se fin' na sklent—
A' bright as siller;
Fact, fancy, truth a' sentiment
Ye'se get frae Miller.
An' he, schulemeister noo na mair,
But Mayor himsel', weel skill't in lear—
He kens ilk city caddies quirk;
He'll hae na jinkin' in the wark:
He'll drag out wrang whare'er it lurk
Frae roof to groun'-sill;
An', gin it need, he'll use his birk
On the Common Council.
But Mayor himsel', weel skill't in lear—
439
He'll hae na jinkin' in the wark:
He'll drag out wrang whare'er it lurk
Frae roof to groun'-sill;
An', gin it need, he'll use his birk
On the Common Council.
We've na the Bench, but just the Bar—
Aiblins for that we're nane the war;
We've ane at han', the law to ken,
To cannille the right defen',
An' mak' the rogues wha' will na men',
Sup stoups o' sorrow;
To-night on him ye can depen',
An' sae to—Morrow.
Aiblins for that we're nane the war;
We've ane at han', the law to ken,
To cannille the right defen',
An' mak' the rogues wha' will na men',
Sup stoups o' sorrow;
To-night on him ye can depen',
An' sae to—Morrow.
Niest 'tis ma duty tae record
The Solon o' the Saxteenth Ward,
Wha to auld Bungstarter is leal,
An' mak's the faes o' Skinner squeal:
Ye'se fin' him still a dainty chiel,
For a' his scoffin';
He shoots his grunzie off right weel,
This Barnes Magoffin.
The Solon o' the Saxteenth Ward,
Wha to auld Bungstarter is leal,
An' mak's the faes o' Skinner squeal:
Ye'se fin' him still a dainty chiel,
For a' his scoffin';
He shoots his grunzie off right weel,
This Barnes Magoffin.
Then comes yer honored Chief, George Fyfe,
A mon just plain, o' upright life;
He ne'er did oniebody wrang,
An' loes in peace through life to gang,
But, gin a king wad come alang,
A' claithed in purple,
An' bid him fleech, he'd stan' up strong,
An' scorn tae hirple.
A mon just plain, o' upright life;
He ne'er did oniebody wrang,
An' loes in peace through life to gang,
But, gin a king wad come alang,
A' claithed in purple,
An' bid him fleech, he'd stan' up strong,
An' scorn tae hirple.
The Sherra niest—he's unco [W]right!
Wi' him we'se hae a roarin' night;
A jinker he wha' will na jink
Afore a stoup o' guid Scotch drink;
But haud him till't, an' in a wink
Wi' his droll daffin',
Yer hearts'll loup, yer e'en'll blink—
Maist dead wi' laughin'.
Wi' him we'se hae a roarin' night;
440
Afore a stoup o' guid Scotch drink;
But haud him till't, an' in a wink
Wi' his droll daffin',
Yer hearts'll loup, yer e'en'll blink—
Maist dead wi' laughin'.
The last—his points I maunna tell;
I loe him weel too—that's mysel'!
Kenspeckle 'tis I hae na gear,
An' hence, na monie frien's, I fear—
Na matter! when nae mair I'm here,
To Heaven a climber,
Or aiblins doon, drink ance a year
To Tam the Rhymer.
I loe him weel too—that's mysel'!
Kenspeckle 'tis I hae na gear,
An' hence, na monie frien's, I fear—
Na matter! when nae mair I'm here,
To Heaven a climber,
Or aiblins doon, drink ance a year
To Tam the Rhymer.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |