Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/231
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
175
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SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKINE, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DECEASE.
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead;
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!
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WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK.
Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give;
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give;
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.
THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND.
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart:
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.
EXTEMPORE LINES,
IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN.
The King's most humble servant I,
Can scarcely spare a minute;
But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye;
Or else the Deil's be in it.
My bottle is my holy pool,
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool,
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out.
Can scarcely spare a minute;
But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye;
Or else the Deil's be in it.
My bottle is my holy pool,
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool,
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out.