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Poem by Robert Burns

Address to Beelzebub


LONG life, my Lord, an health be yours,
Unskaithd by hungerd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight!
I doubt na, they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
Theyll mak what ruled and laws they please;
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed;
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier oer the pack vile;
An where will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An save the honour o the nation?
They an be d-d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o day!
Far less to riches, powr, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord!  Glengarry, hear!
Your hands owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a tender mercies,
An tirl the haillons to the birses;
Yet while theyre only poindt and herriet,
Theyll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a to spails!
An rot the dyvors i the jails!
The yong dogs, swinge them to the labour!
Let wark an hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if theyre aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be Iessond!
An if the wives an dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an yetts,
Flaffin wi duds an grey wi beas,
Frightin awa your deucks an geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatterd gypsies pack
WI a their bastards on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han assignd your seat
Tween Herods hip an Polycrate;
Or (if you on your station tarrow)
Between Almagro and Pizarro,-
A seat, Im sure, yere weel deservint;
An till ye come-Your humble servant,

"June" I, "Anno Mundi" 579O.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Epitaph on Wee Johnny
  2. The Cairds Second Song
  3. The Sailors Song
  4. Prologue, Spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, on New Years Day Evening [1790]
  5. To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staigs Recovery

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