Poem by Robert Burns

The Auld Farmer’s New-Year Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare Maggie

On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn 
to hansel in the New Year.

A GUID New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
    I’ve seen the day,
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie
    Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, Stiff, an’ crazy,
An’ thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisie,
I’ve seen thee dappled, sleek an’ glaizie,
    A bonnie gray:
He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee,
    Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank,
An’ set weel down a shapely shank,
    As e’er tread yird;
An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank,
    Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year,
Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere;
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
    An’ fifty mark;
Tho’ it was sma’, ‘twas weel-won gear,
    An’ thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin’ wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funnie,
    Ye ne’er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie,
    An’ unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride;
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride,
    Wi’ maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide
    For Sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An’ wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble
    For heels an’ win’!
An’ ran them till they a’ did wobble
    Far, far behin’.

When thou an’ I were young and skeigh,
An’ stable-meals at fairs were driegh,
How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ skriegh
    An’ tak the road!
Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
    An’ ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow
    For pith an’ speed;
But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow,
    Where’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpled, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur’d thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle,
    An’ gart them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
    O’ saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’,
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an’ I, in aucht hours’ gaun,
    On guid March-weather,
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’,
    For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an’ fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An’ spread abreed thy weel-flll’d brisket,
    Wi’ pith an’ pow’r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit,
    An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were deep,
An’ threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
    Aboon the timmer;
I kenn’d my Maggie wad na sleep
    For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;
Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit,
    Then stood to blaw;
But, just thy step a wee thing hastit,
    Thou snoov’t awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’,
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;
Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa
    That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa,
    The very warst.

Mony a sair darg we twa has wrought,
An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought!
An’ mony an anxious day I thought
    We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
    Wi’ something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan’,
That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’,
An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’;
    For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane
    Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither;
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither;
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether
    To some hain’d rig,
Where ye may nobly rax your leather,
    Wi’ sma’ fatigue.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Lines Written under the Picture of Miss Burns
5. Young Jamie, Pride of A’ the Plain

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