Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/218
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
162
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
Poet Willie, Poet Willie,
Gie the doctor a volley,
Wi' your 'liberty's chain' and your wit:
O'er Pegasus' side,
Ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye only stood by when he sh—,
Poet Willie,
Ye only stood by when he sh—.
Gie the doctor a volley,
Wi' your 'liberty's chain' and your wit:
O'er Pegasus' side,
Ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye only stood by when he sh—,
Poet Willie,
Ye only stood by when he sh—.
Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence man,
To havins and sense man,
Wi' people that ken you nae better,
Bar Steenie,
Wi' people that ken you nae better.
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence man,
To havins and sense man,
Wi' people that ken you nae better,
Bar Steenie,
Wi' people that ken you nae better.
Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,
Ye hae made but toom roose,
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's holy ark,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't,
Jamie Goose,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.
Ye hae made but toom roose,
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's holy ark,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't,
Jamie Goose,
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.
Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,
For a saunt if ye muster,
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits,
Yet to worth let's be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass were the King o' the brutes.
Davie Bluster,
If the ass were the King o' the brutes,
For a saunt if ye muster,
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits,
Yet to worth let's be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass were the King o' the brutes.
Davie Bluster,
If the ass were the King o' the brutes,
Muirland George, Muirland George,
Whom the Lord made a scourge,
To claw common sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit,
To confound the poor doctor at ance,
Muirland George,
To confound the poor doctor at ance.
Whom the Lord made a scourge,
To claw common sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit,
To confound the poor doctor at ance,
Muirland George,
To confound the poor doctor at ance.
Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O' manhood but sma' is your share!
Ye've the figure, it's true,
Even our faes maun allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,
Cessnockside,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O' manhood but sma' is your share!
Ye've the figure, it's true,
Even our faes maun allow,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,
Cessnockside,
And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,
There's a tod i' the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho' ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark,
Daddie Auld,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark.
There's a tod i' the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho' ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark,
Daddie Auld,
And if ye canna bite ye can bark.
Poet Burns, Poet Burns,
Wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,
Yet were she even tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
Wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,
Yet were she even tipsy,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.
POSTSCRIPT.
Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird,
When your pen can be spared
A copy o' this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
I mentioned before,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,
Afton's Laird,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.
Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird,
When your pen can be spared
A copy o' this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score
I mentioned before,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,
Afton's Laird,
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.
THE SELKIRK GRACE.
Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.