The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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BALLAD THIRD JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
BALLAD THIRD JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION
I
'Twas in the Seventeen Hunder yearO' grace, and Ninety-Five,
That year I was the wae'est man
Of onie man alive.
II
In March the three-an'-twentieth morn,The sun raise clear an' bright;
But O, I was a waefu' man,
Ere to-fa' o' the night!
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III
Yerl Galloway lang did rule this landWi' equal right and fame,
Fast knit in chaste and holy bands
With Broughton's noble name.
IV
Yerl Galloway's man o' men was I,And chief o' Broughton's host:
So twa blind beggars, on a string,
The faithfu' tyke will trust!
V
But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke,And Broughton's wi' the slain,
And I my ancient craft may try,
Sin' honesty is gane.
VI
'Twas by the banks o' bonie Dee,Beside Kirkcudbright's towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there
Did muster a' their powers.
VII
Then Murray on the auld grey yaudWi' wingèd spurs did ride:
That auld grey yaud a' Nidsdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.
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VIII
An' there had na been the Yerl himsel,O, there had been nae play!
But Garlies was to London gane,
And sae the kye might stray.
IX
And there was Balmaghie, I ween—In front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
Drinkin' Madeira wine.
X
And frae Glenkens cam to our aidA chief o' doughty deed:
In case that worth should wanted be,
O' Kenmure we had need.
XI
And by our banners march'd Muirhead,And Buittle was na slack,
Whase haly priesthood nane could stain,
For wha could dye the black?
XII
And there was grave Squire Cardoness,Look'd on till a' was done:
Sae in the tower o' Cardoness
A howlet sits at noon.
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XIII
And there led I the Bushby clan:My gamesome billie, Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
My footsteps follow'd still.
XIV
The Douglas and the Heron's name,We set nought to their score;
The Douglas and the Heron's name
Had felt our weight before.
XV
But Douglasses o' weight had we:The pair o' lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses sae fam'd,
And christenin kail-yards.
XVI
And then Redcastle drew his swordThat ne'er was stain'd wi' gore
Save on a wand'rer lame and blind,
To drive him frae his door.
XVII
And last cam creepin Collieston,Was mair in fear than wrath;
Ae knave was constant in his mind—
To keep that knave frae scaith.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |