Poem by John Beugo

To Robert Burns

Hale be your heart, my winsome BURNS, 
For a’ your canty hameald turns; 
Your sangs can lift the saul that mourns 
	Aboon its grief; 
Cauld be his cast the ever spurns 
	Sic sweet relief. 

But tell me, Rob (I’m no in scorn) 
Aneath what planet was ye born? 
’Tis pity you should thrash the corn, 
	Or till the rigs; 
Your kintry should your brows adorn 
	Wi’ laurel sprigs. 

In whate’er place o’ a’ the earth 
That has the honour o’ your birth, 
Weel may they craw wi’ muckle mirth, 
	And rooxe your sang; 
For nane on ilk side Fortha’s firth 
	Can e’er ye bang. 

Ye mind me ay o’ the twa callands * 
Wha’ gat sic praise thro’ a’ the Lallands 
For their weel worded Scottish ballands; 
	Atween ye three, 
To say whilk shows the glibbest tallents 
	Wha can agree? 

Some wrack their brains about Parnassus, 
And tell what unco things there passes 
Atwish them and the nine bra lasses, 
	In verse that’s flisky; 
No worth a privin o’ your “Haggies,” 
	Or “Gill o’ whiskey.” 

Gile me the muse that clad in tartan, 
That scoups o’er hills ayont Dumbarton, 
Wi’ haffet locks bund in a gartan, 
	What sings sae claarly; 
A fig for Roman maid or Spartan! 
	I’d hugg her dearly. 

This is the muse, lad, ye ha’ woo’d, 
And, lukie cheild! she has ye loo’d; 
Then daut her, Rob (she’s weel worth goud) 
	And tent her tale; 
She’ll lift your pow aboon the croud, 
	I’se be her bail. 

But, Robin, take this ae advice, 
In Reekie’s town be gayan nice 
Wi’ whatten birkies ye do splice 
	Whan it is dark, 
Or they’ll soon cleed ye by their vice 
	Wi’ wooden sark. 

Gin ye, man, had but some spare wook, 
To take a trip to Pennycuick, 
That stands aside a truntling brook 
	That ca’s our mill, 
Frae bottle out o’ my best nook 
	We’d drink our fill. 

‘Tis no that mickle I can boast 
To flee awa the auld year’s ghost; 
But yet I’d brag ye wi’ a roast 
	O’ lusty beef, 
And waughts o’ ale bra brown toast, 
	To banish grief. 

Meanwhile, my cock, I’m thinking lang 
To hear ye gi’s another sang; 
Then out your muse, and let her gang; 
	Cast up her head; 
O’er braes o’ rhyme she’ll loup and bang 
	Wi’ bir and speed. 

* Ramsay and Fergusson. 

Print

2126 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version