The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ 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-Chaumer[70]

      May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ 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,[71]

      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 n’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 cleckin

      By hoodie-craw;

      Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’,

      Willie’s awa!

      Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum,

      And Calvin’s fock are fit to fell him;

      And 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 man bamboozle him!

      Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem

      He canty claw!

      Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,

      Fleet wing awa!

      LXXXIV. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE

      [The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: “he threw himself,” said the Professor, “on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed.” His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]

      I.

      My Lord, I know your noble ear

      Woe ne’er assails in vain;

      Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear

      Your humble slave complain,

      How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams

      In flaming summer-pride,

      Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,

      And drink my crystal tide.

      II.

      The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts,

      That thro’ my waters play,

      If, in their random, wanton spouts,

      They near the margin stray;

      If, hapless chance! they linger lang,

      I’m scorching up so shallow,

      They’re left the whitening stanes amang,

      In gasping death to wallow.

      III.

      Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,

      As Poet Burns came by,

      That to a bard I should be seen

      Wi’ half my channel dry:

      A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

      Even as I was he shor’d me;

      But had I in my glory been,

      He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.

      IV.

      Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,

      In twisting strength I rin;

      There, high my boiling torrent smokes,

      Wild-roaring o’er a linn:

      Enjoying large each spring and well,

      As Nature gave them me,

      I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,

      Worth gaun a mile to see.

      V.

      Would then my noble master please

      To grant my highest wishes,

      He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,

      And bonnie spreading bushes.

      Delighted doubly then, my Lord,

      You’ll wander on my banks,

      And listen mony a grateful bird

      Return you tuneful thanks.

      VI.

      The sober laverock, warbling wild,

      Shall to the skies aspire;

      The gowdspink, music’s gayest child,

      Shall sweetly join the choir:

      The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,

      The mavis mild and mellow;

      The robin pensive autumn cheer,

      In all her locks of yellow.

      VII.

      This, too, a covert shall insure

      To shield them from the storm;

      And coward maukin sleep secure,

      Low in her grassy form:

      Here shall the shepherd make his seat,

      To weave his crown of flow’rs;

      Or find a shelt’ring safe retreat

      From prone-descending show’rs.

      VIII.

      And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,

      Shall СКАЧАТЬ