The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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THE INVENTORY
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
THE INVENTORY
IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES
Sir, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids an' gear an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids an' gear an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.
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Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle:—
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle
As ever drew before a pettle:
My lan'-afore's a guid auld ‘has been,’
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been.
My lan'-ahin's a weel-gaun fillie,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
An' your auld borough monie a time
In days when riding was nae crime.
(But ance, when in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to—
Lord, pardon a' my sins, an' that too!—
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.)
My fur-ahin's a wordy beast
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby, a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail:
If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle
As ever drew before a pettle:
My lan'-afore's a guid auld ‘has been,’
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been.
My lan'-ahin's a weel-gaun fillie,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
An' your auld borough monie a time
In days when riding was nae crime.
(But ance, when in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to—
Lord, pardon a' my sins, an' that too!—
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.)
My fur-ahin's a wordy beast
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Foreby, a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail:
If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel-carriages I hae but few:
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow—mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken:
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow—mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken:
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
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For men, I've three mischíevous boys,
Run-deils for fechtin an' for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
An' aften labour them completely;
An' ay on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the Questions tairge them tightly:
Till, faith! wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff ‘Effectual Calling’
As fast as onie in the dwalling.
Run-deils for fechtin an' for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
An' aften labour them completely;
An' ay on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the Questions tairge them tightly:
Till, faith! wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff ‘Effectual Calling’
As fast as onie in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servan' station
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!):
I hae nae wife—and that my bliss is—
An' ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the deevils darena touch me.
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!):
I hae nae wife—and that my bliss is—
An' ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the deevils darena touch me.
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented:
Heav'n sent me ane mair than I wanted!
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace:
But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already;
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,
By the Lord, ye 'se get them a' thegither!
Heav'n sent me ane mair than I wanted!
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace:
But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already;
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,
By the Lord, ye 'se get them a' thegither!
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But pray, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:
Frae this time forth, I do declare
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit,
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
The Kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat:
Sae dinna put me in your beuk,
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin:
Frae this time forth, I do declare
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit,
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
The Kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat:
Sae dinna put me in your beuk,
Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.
This list, wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under notit;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
The day and date as under notit;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic, Robert Burns.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |