The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ o’ guid blue hair,

      I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,

      For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

      But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,

      Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,

      Lowping an’ flinging on a cummock,

      I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

      But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ brawlie,

      There was a winsome wench and walie,

      That night enlisted in the core,

      (Lang after kenn’d on Carrick shore;

      For mony a beast to dead she shot,

      And perish’d mony a bonnie boat,

      And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

      And kept the country-side in fear.)

      Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,

      That, while a lassie, she had worn,

      In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,

      It was her best, and she was vauntie—

      Ah! little kenn’d the reverend grannie,

      That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

      Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),

      Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

      But here my muse her wing maun cour;

      Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;

      To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

      (A souple jade she was and strung,)

      And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d;

      And thought his very een enrich’d;

      Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,

      And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main:

      ’Till first ae caper, syne anither,

      Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,

      And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!”

      And in an instant all was dark:

      And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

      When out the hellish legion sallied.

      As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,

      When plundering herds assail their byke;

      As open pussie’s mortal foes,

      When, pop! she starts before their nose;

      As eager runs the market-crowd,

      When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;

      So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

      Wi’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

      Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’!

      In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’!

      In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’!

      Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!

      Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

      And win the key-stane[107] of the brig;

      There at them thou thy tail may toss,

      A running stream they darena cross!

      But ere the key-stane she could make,

      The fient a tail she had to shake!

      For Nannie, far before the rest,

      Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

      And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;

      But little wist she Maggie’s mettle—

      Ae spring brought off her master hale,

      But left behind her ain gray tail:

      The carlin claught her by the rump,

      And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

      Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,

      Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:

      Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,

      Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

      Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear—

      Remember Tam O’ Shanter’s mare.

      CXIX. ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

      [This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, “To the Right honorable the Earl of Brendalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. –, of A–s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.” The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.]

      Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,

      Unskaith’d by hunger’d Highland boors;

      Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,

      Wi’ dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,

      May twin auld Scotland o’ a life

      She likes—as lambkins like a knife.

      Faith, you and A–s were right

      To keep the Highland hounds in sight;

      I doubt na! they wad bid nae better

      Than let them ance out owre the water;

      Then up among the lakes and seas

      They’ll mak’ what rules and laws they please;

      Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin’;

      May set their Highland bluid a ranklin’;

      Some Washington again may head them,

      Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,

      Till God knows what may be effected

      When by such heads and hearts directed—

      Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire

      May to Patrician rights aspire!

      Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,

      To watch and premier o’er the pack vile,

      An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons

      To bring them to a right repentance,

      To cowe the rebel generation,

      An’ save the honour o’ the nation?

      They an’ be d–d! what right hae they

      To meat or sleep, or light o’ day?

      Far less to riches, pow’r, or freedom,

      But what your lordship likes to gie them?

      But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!

      Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear;

      Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,

      I canna’ say but they do gaylies;

      They lay aside a’ tender mercies,

      An’ tirl the hallions to the birses;

      Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,

      They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;

      But smash them! crash them a’ to spails!

      An’ СКАЧАТЬ