The Complete Works. Robert Burns

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,

      The view o’t gies them little fright.

      Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,

      They’re ay in less or mair provided;

      An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,

      A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.

      The dearest comfort o’ their lives,

      Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives;

      The prattling things are just their pride,

      That sweetens a’ their fire-side;

      An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy

      Can mak’ the bodies unco happy;

      They lay aside their private cares,

      To mind the Kirk and State affairs:

      They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests;

      Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts;

      Or tell what new taxation’s comin’,

      And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.

      As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,

      They get the jovial, ranting kirns,

      When rural life, o’ ev’ry station,

      Unite in common recreation;

      Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth

      Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

      That merry day the year begins,

      They bar the door on frosty win’s;

      The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,

      An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;

      The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill,

      Are handed round wi’ right guid will;

      The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse,

      The young anes rantin’ thro’ the house,—

      My heart has been sae fain to see them,

      That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.

      Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,

      Sic game is now owre aften play’d.

      There’s monie a creditable stock

      O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,

      Are riven out baith root and branch,

      Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,

      Wha thinks to knit himsel’ the faster

      In favour wi’ some gentle master,

      Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin’,

      For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’—

      Cæsar.

      Haith, lad, ye little ken about it!

      For Britain’s guid! guid faith, I doubt it!

      Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,

      An’ saying, aye or no’s they bid him,

      At operas an’ plays parading,

      Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;

      Or may be, in a frolic daft,

      To Hague or Calais takes a waft,

      To mak a tour, an’ tak’ a whirl,

      To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’.

      There, at Vienna or Versailles,

      He rives his father’s auld entails;

      Or by Madrid he takes the rout,

      To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt;

      Or down Italian vista startles,

      Wh—re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles

      Then bouses drumly German water,

      To mak’ himsel’ look fair and fatter,

      An’ clear the consequential sorrows,

      Love-gifts of carnival signoras.

      For Britain’s guid!—for her destruction

      Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction.

      Luath.

      Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate

      They waste sae mony a braw estate!

      Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d

      For gear to gang that gate at last!

      O, would they stay aback frae courts,

      An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,

      It wad for ev’ry ane be better,

      The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!

      For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies,

      Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;

      Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer,

      Or speakin’ lightly o’ their limmer,

      Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock,

      The ne’er a bit they’re ill to poor folk.

      But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,

      Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?

      Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer them,

      The vera thought o’t need na fear them.

      Cæsar.

      L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,

      The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ‘em.

      It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,

      Thro’ winters cauld, or simmer’s heat;

      They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,

      An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes:

      But human bodies are sic fools,

      For a’ their colleges and schools,

      That when nae real ills perplex them,

      They mak enow themsels to vex them;

      An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,

      In like proportion, less will hurt them.

      A country fellow at the pleugh,

      His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh;

      A country girl at her wheel,

      Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel:

      But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,

      Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark are curst.

      They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy;

      Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;

      Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless;

      Their nights unquiet, lang an’ restless;

      An’ even their sports, their balls an’ races,

      Their galloping thro’ public places,

      There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,

      The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

      The men cast out in party matches,

      Then sowther a’ in deep debauches;

      Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and wh-ring,

      Niest day their life is past enduring.

      The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

      As great and gracious a’ as sisters;

      But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,

      They’re a’ run СКАЧАТЬ