Robert Burns

On Creech the Bookseller

AULD chuckie Reekie’s sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel burnish’d crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
    Can yield ava,
Her darling bird that she lo’es best-
    Willie’s awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o’ things an unco sleight;
Auld Beekie aye he keepit tight,
    An’ trig an’ braw:
But now they’ll busk her like a fright-
    Willie’s awa!

The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d;
The bauldeat o’ them a’ he cow’d;
They durst nae mair than he allow’d,
    That was a law:
We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd,
    Willie’s awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
    In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them down to mools-
    Willie’s awa!

The brethren o’ the Commerce-Cham’er
May mourn their loss wi’ doolfu’ clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar
    Amang them a’;
I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer-
    Willie’s awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
    In bloody raw;
The adjutant o’ a’ the core,
    Willie’s awa!

Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face,
Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace
    As Rome ne’er saw;
They a’ maun meet some ither place-
    Willie’s awa!

Poor Burns e’en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken
Scar’d frae its minnie and the clockin’
    By hoodie-craw;
Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’-
    Willie’s awa!

Now ev’ry sour-mou’d grinnin’ blellum,
And Calvin’s folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic skellum
    His quill may draw;
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
    Willie’s awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,
    While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure’s fled-
    Willie’s awa!

May I be Slander’s common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach
    In winter snaw;
When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
    Tho’ far awa!

May never wicked Fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem
    He canty claw!
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem
    Fleet wing awa!