The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
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SONGS
JOHN BARLEYCORN
A Ballad
I
There was three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
II
They took a plough and plough'd him down,Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
III
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
244
IV
The sultry suns of Summer came,And he grew thick and strong:
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
V
The sober Autumn enter'd mild,When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
VI
His colour sicken'd more and more,He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
VII
They've taen a weapon long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
VIII
They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell'd him full sore.
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
245
IX
They fillèd up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,
They heavèd in John Barleycorn—
There, let him sink or swim!
X
They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.
XI
They wasted o'er a scorching flameThe marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
XII
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
XIII
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
246
XIV
'Twill make a man forget his woe;'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
XV
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotlànd!
A FRAGMENT: WHEN GUILFORD GOOD
I
When Guilford good our pilot stood,An' did our hellim thraw, man;
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within Americà, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
247
II
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, whatreck, he at Quebec
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.
III
Poor Tammy Gage within a cageWas kept at Boston-ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphià, man;
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New-York wi' knife an' fork
Sir-Loin he hackèd sma', man.
IV
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
An' did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
248
V
Then Montague, an' Guilford too,Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
VI
Then Rockingham took up the game,Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa,' man.
VII
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes:He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew:
‘Up, Willie, waur them a', man!’
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VIII
Behind the throne then Granville's gone,A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man:
An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,
(Inspirèd bardies saw, man),
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd: ‘Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man?’
IX
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthron raise an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
MY NANIE, O
I
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nanie, O.
250
II
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill,The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.
III
My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O!
IV
Her face is fair, her heart is true;As spotless as she's bonie, O,
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
V
A country lad is my degree,An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be?
I'm welcome ay to Nanie, O.
VI
My riches a's my penny-fee,An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a'—my Nanie, O.
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VII
Our auld guidman delights to viewHis sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
VIII
Come weel, come woe, I care na by;I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O:
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O
Chorus
Green grow the rashes, O;Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
I
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
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II
The war'ly race may riches chase,An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
III
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,My arms about my dearie, O,
An' war'ly cares an' war'ly men
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
IV
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
V
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dearsHer noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Chorus
Green grow the rashes, O;Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
253
COMPOSED IN SPRING
I
Again rejoicing Nature seesHer robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
Chorus
And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet-black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be.
II
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
III
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
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IV
The wanton coot the water skims,Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev'ry thing is blest but I.
V
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,And o'er the moorlands whistles shill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
VI
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
VII
Come winter, with thine angry howl,And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
Chorus
And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet-black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be.
255
THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FAST
I
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is filled with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatt'red coveys meet secure;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
II
The Autumn mourns her rip'ning cornBy early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly;
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave:
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.
III
'Tis not the surging billows' roar,'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
256
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.
IV
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves!
Farewell my friends! farewell my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those—
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell, my bonie banks of Ayr.
NO CHURCHMAN AM I
I
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.
II
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
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III
Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse,There centum per centum, the cit with his purse,
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
IV
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
V
I once was persuaded a venture to make;A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddlèd up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI
‘Life's cares they are comforts’—a maxim laid downBy the Bard, what d'ye call him? that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th'old prig to a hair:
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,And honours Masonic prepare for to throw:
May ev'ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly'd bottle, when harass'd with care!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |