Poem by Robert Burns

On a Scotch Bard, Gone to the West Indies

A’ YE wha live by sowps o’ drink,
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A’ ye wha live an’ never think,
    Come mourn wi’ me!
Our billie’s gi’en us a’ a jink,
    An’ owre the sea.

Lament him, a’ ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore;
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar,
    In social key;
For now he’s taen anither shore,
    An’ owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him;
The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him,
    Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;
For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him
    That’s owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble,
    ‘Twad been nae plea;
But he was gleg as ony wumble,
    That’s owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An’ stain them wi’ the saut saut tear:
‘Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
    In flinders flee;
He was her Laureat mony a year,
    That’s owre the sea!

He saw misfortune’s cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last-
    Ill may she be!
So took a berth afore the mast,
    An’ owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune’s cummock
On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,
Wi’ his proud independent stomach,
    Could ill agree;
So row’d his hurdies in a hammock,
    An’ owre the sea.

He ne’er was gi’en to great misguidin’,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi’ him it ne’er was under hidin’,
    He dealt it free:
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
    That’s owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An’ hap him in a cozie biel;
Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel,
    And fu’ o’ glee;
He wad ma wrang’d the vera deil,
    That’s owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
    Now bonnilie!
I’ll toast ye in my hindmost guile,
    Tho’ owre the sea!

1. Mark Yonder Pomp
2. By Allan Stream
3. There’s News, Lasses
4. Scroggam
5. There’s a Youth in This City

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