The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
176
EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS
I
O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin'
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to Auld Nick's.
II
Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,And in your wicked drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,
An' fill them fou';
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants
Are a' seen thro'.
III
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!That holy robe, O, dinna tear it!
177
The lads in black;
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.
IV
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing:It's just the Blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by
Frae onie unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.
V
I've sent you here some rhyming wareA' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,
Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.
VI
Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing:My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,
An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair't the King
At Bunker's Hill.
178
VII
'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,I gaed a rovin wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun'—
A bonie hen;
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.
VIII
The poor, wee thing was little hurt;I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;
But, Deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the Poacher-Court
The hale affair.
IX
Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.
X
But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,An' by my pouther an' my hail.
179
I vow an' swear!
The game shall pay, owre moor an' dale,
For this, niest year!
XI
As soon's the clockin-time is by,An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by
For my gowd guinea;
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't, in Virginia!
XII
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three chaps about the wame,
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim
An' thole their blethers!
XIII
It pits me ay as mad's a hare;So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time's expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |