The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ whiles they’re like to be my dead

      (O sad disease!)

      I kittle up my rustic reed,

      It gies me ease.

      Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain,

      She’s gotten poets o’ her ain,

      Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

      But tune their lays,

      Till echoes a’ resound again

      Her weel-sung praise.

      Nae poet thought her worth his while,

      To set her name in measur’d stile;

      She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle

      Beside New-Holland,

      Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

      Besouth Magellan.

      Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson

      Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;

      Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,

      Owre Scotland rings,

      While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon,

      Nae body sings.

      Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,

      Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line!

      But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

      An’ cock your crest,

      We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine

      Up wi’ the best.

      We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,

      Her moor’s red-brown wi’ heather bells,

      Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells,

      Where glorious Wallace

      Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

      Frae southron billies.

      At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood

      But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

      Oft have our fearless fathers strode

      By Wallace’ side,

      Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,

      Or glorious dy’d.

      O sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,

      When lintwhites chant amang the buds,

      And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids

      Their loves enjoy,

      While thro’ the braes the cushat croods

      With wailfu’ cry!

      Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me

      When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;

      Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

      Are hoary gray:

      Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

      Dark’ning the day.

      O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms

      To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

      Whether the summer kindly warms,

      Wi’ life an’ light,

      Or winter howls, in gusty storms,

      The lang, dark night!

      The muse, nae Poet ever fand her,

      ’Till by himsel’ he learn’d to wander,

      Adown some trotting burn’s meander,

      An’ no think lang;

      O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder

      A heart-felt sang!

      The warly race may drudge an’ drive,

      Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an’ strive,

      Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,

      And I, wi’ pleasure,

      Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

      Bum owre their treasure.

      Fareweel, my “rhyme-composing brither!”

      We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:

      Now let us lay our heads thegither,

      In love fraternal;

      May envy wallop in a tether,

      Black fiend, infernal!

      While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ taxes;

      While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies;

      While terra firma, on her axes

      Diurnal turns,

      Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,

      In Robert Burns.

      POSTSCRIPT

      My memory’s no worth a preen:

      I had amaist forgotten clean,

      Ye bade me write you what they mean,

      By this New Light,

      ‘Bout which our herds sae aft hae been,

      Maist like to fight.

      In days when mankind were but callans,

      At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,

      They took nae pains their speech to balance,

      Or rules to gie,

      But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,

      Like you or me.

      In thae auld times, they thought the moon,

      Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,

      Wore by degrees, ’till her last roon,

      Gaed past their viewing,

      An’ shortly after she was done,

      They gat a new one.

      This past for certain—undisputed;

      It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,

      ’Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,

      An’ ca’d it wrang;

      An’ muckle din there was about it,

      Baith loud an’ lang.

      Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,

      Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;

      For ’twas the auld moon turned a neuk,

      An’ out o’ sight,

      An’ backlins-comin’, to the leuk,

      She grew mair bright.

      This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;

      The herds an’ hissels were alarm’d:

      The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d and storm’d

      That beardless laddies

      Should think they better were inform’d

      Than their auld daddies.

      Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;

      Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks,

      An’ monie a fallow gat his licks,

      Wi’ hearty crunt;

      An’ some, to learn them for their tricks,

      Were hang’d an’ brunt.

      This game was play’d in monie lands,

      An’ Auld Light caddies bure sic hands,

      That, faith, the youngsters took the sands

      Wi’ nimble shanks,

      ’Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,

      Sic bluidy pranks.

      But New Light herds gat sic a cowe,

      Folk СКАЧАТЬ