Free Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) by Robert Burns

only son for Hornbook sets,
              An’ pays him well:    160 The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
              Was laird himsel’.
     
    “A bonie lass — ye kend her name —Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;She trusts hersel’, to hide the shame,    165
              In Hornbook’s care;Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
              To hide it there.
     
    “That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;Thus goes he on from day to day,    170 Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,
              An’s weel paid for’t;Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
              Wi’ his d — n’d dirt:
     
    “But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,    175 Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,
              As dead’s a herrin;Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
              He gets his fairin!”    180
     
    But just as he began to tell,The auld kirk-hammer strak the bellSome wee short hour ayont the twal’,
              Which rais’d us baith:I took the way that pleas’d mysel’,    185
              And sae did Death.
     
     
     
    Chronological List of Poems
     
    Alphabetical List of Poems
     

60.
     
    Epistle on J. Lapraik
     
    An Old Scottish Bard. — April 1, 1785
     
    WHILE briers an’ woodbines budding green,An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,
              Inspire my muse,This freedom, in an unknown frien’,    5
               I pray excuse.
     
    On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin,To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;And there was muckle fun and jokin,
              Ye need na doubt;    10 At length we had a hearty yokin
              At sang about.
     
    There was ae sang, amang the rest,Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,That some kind husband had addrest    15
              To some sweet wife;It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
              A’ to the life.
     
    I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;    20 Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,
              Or Beattie’s wark?”They tauld me ‘twas an odd kind chiel
              About Muirkirk.
     
    It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,    25 An’ sae about him there I speir’t;Then a’ that kent him round declar’d
              He had ingine;That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,
              It was sae fine:    30
     
    That, set him to a pint of ale,An’ either douce or merry tale,Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
              Or witty catches —‘Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale,    35
              He had few matches.
     
    Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith,Or die a cadger pownie’s death,
              At some dyke-back,    40 A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith,
               To hear your crack.
     
    But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,Amaist as soon as I could spell,I to the crambo-jingle fell;    45
              Tho’ rude an’ rough —Yet crooning to a body’s sel’
              Does weel eneugh.
     
    I am nae poet, in a sense;But just a rhymer like by chance,    50 An’ hae to learning nae pretence;
              Yet, what the matter?Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
              I jingle at her.
     
    Your critic-folk may cock their nose,    55 And say, “How can you e’er propose,You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
              To mak a sang?”But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
              Ye’re maybe wrang.    60
     
    What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools