Part 83

Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock, To crush common-sense for her sins; If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance, Muirland Jock!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book, An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye; Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig, An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s—had o’ sma’ value, Andro Gowk!^15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death, For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark, Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull, When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor; The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, Holy Will!^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin’s sons! Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead, Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelpin turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy, She could ca’us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns! She could ca’us nae waur than we are.

Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents

Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone, And ne’er made anither, thy peer, Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard, He presents thee this token sincere, Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.

Afton’s Laird! Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared, A copy of this I bequeath, On the same sicker score as I mention’d before, To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith, Afton’s Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

Sonnet On Receiving A Favour

10 Aug., 1979.

Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns: Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gifts still dearer, as the giver you. Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! And all ye many sparkling stars of night! If aught that giver from my mind efface, If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace, Then roll to me along your wand’rig spheres, Only to number out a villain’s years! I lay my hand upon my swelling breast, And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Extemporaneous Effusion

On being appointed to an Excise division.

Searching auld wives’ barrels, Ochon the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels: But—what’ll ye say? These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans, Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes!

Song—Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut^1

O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, And Rob and Allen cam to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wadna found in Christendie.

Chorus.—We are na fou, we’re nae that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we’ve merry been, And mony mae we hope to be! We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee! We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa’, He is the King amang us three. We are na fou, &c.

Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes

Chorus.—Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonie dearie

As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad: He row’d me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca’d me his dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide, The moon it shines fu’ clearly. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, An’ ye sall be my dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.