The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
I. |
THE AULD FARMERS NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE
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The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||
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THE AULD FARMERS NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE
ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW-YEAR
I
A Guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
I've seen the day
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie,
Out-owre the lay.
II
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
Ance in a day.
III
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank;
101
As e'er tread yird;
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank
Like onie bird.
IV
It's now some nine-an'-twenty yearSin' thou was my guid-father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
An' fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
An' thou was stark.
V
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie:
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.
VI
That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.
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VII
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,An' wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day, ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'!
VIII
When thou an' I were young and skiegh,An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh,
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abiegh,
An' ca't thee mad.
IX
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,We took the road ay like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.
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X
The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattleMight aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazle.
XI
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',As e'er in tug or tow was drawn.
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
On guid March-weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'
For days thegither.
XII
Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith an' pow'r;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't, an' riskit,
An' slypet owre.
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XIII
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer:
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
XIV
In cart or car thou never reestit;The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,
The stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
XV
My plengh is now thy bairntime a',Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.
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XVI
Monie a sair darg we twa hae wrought,An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
XVII
An' think na, my auld trusty servan',That now perhaps thou's less deservin,
An' thy auld days may end in starvin;
For my last fow,
A heapet stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
XVIII
We've worn to crazy years thegither;We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather
Wi' sma' fatigue.
The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||