The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,

      And still his precious self his dear delight;

      Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets

      Better than e’er the fairest she he meets:

      A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,

      Learn’d vive la bagatelle, et vive l’amour:

      So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve,

      Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies’ love.

      Much specious lore, but little understood;

      Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:

      His solid sense—by inches you must tell.

      But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;

      His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

      Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

      I mind it weel in early date,

      When I was beardless, young and blate,

      An’ first could thresh the barn;

      Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;

      An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough,

      Yet unco proud to learn:

      When first amang the yellow corn

      A man I reckon’d was,

      An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn

      Could rank my rig and lass,

      Still shearing, and clearing,

      The tither stooked raw,

      Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,

      Wearing the day awa.

      E’en then, a wish, I mind its pow’r,

      A wish that to my latest hour

      Shall strongly heave my breast,

      That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake

      Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make,

      Or sing a sang at least.

      The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide

      Amang the bearded bear,

      I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,

      An’ spar’d the symbol dear:

      No nation, no station,

      My envy e’er could raise,

      A Scot still, but blot still,

      I knew nae higher praise.

      But still the elements o’ sang

      In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,

      Wild floated in my brain;

      ’Till on that har’st I said before,

      My partner in the merry core,

      She rous’d the forming strain:

      I see her yet, the sonsie quean,

      That lighted up her jingle,

      Her witching smile, her pauky een

      That gart my heart-strings tingle:

      I fired, inspired,

      At every kindling keek,

      But bashing and dashing

      I feared aye to speak.

      Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,

      Wi’ merry dance in winter days,

      An’ we to share in common:

      The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,

      The saul o’ life, the heaven below,

      Is rapture-giving woman.

      Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,

      Be mindfu’ o’ your mither:

      She, honest woman, may think shame

      That ye’re connected with her.

      Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men

      That slight the lovely dears;

      To shame ye, disclaim ye,

      Ilk honest birkie swears.

      For you, no bred to barn and byre,

      Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

      Thanks to you for your line:

      The marled plaid ye kindly spare,

      By me should gratefully be ware;

      ’Twad please me to the nine.

      I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,

      Douce hingin’ owre my curple

      Than ony ermine ever lap,

      Or proud imperial purple.

      Fareweel then, lang heel then,

      An’ plenty be your fa’;

      May losses and crosses

      Ne’er at your hallan ca’.

      Auld chukie Reekie’s[69] sair distrest,

      Down droops her ance weel-burnisht 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 slight;

      Auld Reekie ay 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;

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