Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/187
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
133
Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief,
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed him,
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.
And monie a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel,
There's Smith for ane,
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel,
There's Smith for ane,
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.
O! a' ye flocks, ow're a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,
And get the brutes the power themsels
To choose their herds.
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come join your counsels and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,
And get the brutes the power themsels
To choose their herds.
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banish'd owre the seas to France;
Let him bark there.
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,
Be banish'd owre the seas to France;
Let him bark there.
Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence.
M'Quhey's pathetic manly sense,
And guid M'Math,
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.
M'Gill's close nervous excellence.
M'Quhey's pathetic manly sense,
And guid M'Math,
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,
May a' pack aff.
TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.
ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED.
Sept. 17th, 1785.
While at the stook the shearers cowr
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,
Or in gulravage rinnin scour
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
While at the stook the shearers cowr
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,
Or in gulravage rinnin scour
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they shou'd blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem her.
On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they shou'd blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem her.
I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy,
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Loose hell upon me.
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Loose hell upon me.