 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
THE RONALDS OF THE BENNALS
I
In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,And proper young lasses and a', man:
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals?
They carry the gree frae them a', man.
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II
Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare't:Braid money to tocher them a', man;
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.
III
There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seenAs bonie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.
IV
The charms o' the min', the langer they shineThe mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man.
V
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',A hint o' a rival or twa, man:
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.
VI
The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speedFor mair than a towmond or twa, man:
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a', man.
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VII
Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,The boast of our bachelors a', man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
VIII
If I should detail the pick and the waleO' lasses that live here awa, man,
The faut wad be mine, if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.
IX
I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.
X
Yet I wadna choose to let her refuseNor hae't in her power to say na, man:
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach's as proud as them a', man.
XI
Though I canna ride in well-booted pride,And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
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XII
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best;O' pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man,
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.
XIII
My sarks they are few, but five o' them new—Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man!
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat—
There are no monie Poets sae braw, man!
XIV
I never had frien's weel stockit in means,To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants
And wish them in hell for it a', man.
XV
I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,Or claughtin't together at a', man;
I've little to spend and naething to lend,
But devil a shilling I awe, man.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |