The Complete Works. Robert Burns
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Название: The Complete Works

Автор: Robert Burns

Издательство: Public Domain

Жанр: Зарубежная классика

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СКАЧАТЬ servant sae?

      Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,

      An’ jag-the-flae.

      King David o’ poetic brief,

      Wrought ‘mang the lasses sic mischief,

      As fill’d his after life wi’ grief,

      An’ bluidy rants,

      An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief

      O’ lang-syne saunts.

      And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,

      My wicked rhymes, an’ druken rants,

      I’ll gie auld cloven Clootie’s haunts

      An unco’ slip yet,

      An’ snugly sit among the saunts

      At Davie’s hip get.

      But fegs, the Session says I maun

      Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan,

      Than garrin lasses cowp the cran

      Clean heels owre body,

      And sairly thole their mither’s ban

      Afore the howdy.

      This leads me on, to tell for sport,

      How I did wi’ the Session sort,

      Auld Clinkum at the inner port

      Cried three times—“Robin!

      Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t,

      Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.”

      Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on,

      An’ snoov’d away before the Session;

      I made an open fair confession—

      I scorn’d to lee;

      An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,

      Fell foul o’ me.

      LXIII. TO J. RANKINE

      [With the Laird of Adamhill’s personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.]

      I am a keeper of the law

      In some sma’ points, altho’ not a’;

      Some people tell me gin I fa’

      Ae way or ither.

      The breaking of ae point, though sma’,

      Breaks a’ thegither

      I hae been in for’t once or twice,

      And winna say o’er far for thrice,

      Yet never met with that surprise

      That broke my rest,

      But now a rumour’s like to rise,

      A whaup’s i’ the nest.

      LXIV. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE

      [The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composition.]

      Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,

      Fell source o’ a’ my woe an’ grief;

      For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,

      For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass.

      I see the children of affliction

      Unaided, through thy cursed restriction

      I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile

      Amid his hapless victim’s spoil:

      And for thy potence vainly wished,

      To crush the villain in the dust.

      For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore,

      Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

      R. B.

      LXV. A DREAM

      “Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;

      But surely dreams were ne’er indicted treason.”

On reading, in the public papers, the “Laureate’s Ode,” with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following “Address.”

      [The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

      Guid-mornin’ to your Majesty!

      May Heaven augment your blisses,

      On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,

      A humble poet wishes!

      My bardship here, at your levee,

      On sic a day as this is,

      Is sure an uncouth sight to see,

      Amang thae birth-day dresses

      Sae fine this day.

      I see ye’re complimented thrang,

      By many a lord an’ lady;

      “God save the King!” ‘s a cuckoo sang

      That’s unco easy said ay;

      The poets, too, a venal gang,

      Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready,

      Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,

      But ay unerring steady,

      On sic a day.

      For me, before a monarch’s face,

      Ev’n there I winna flatter;

      For neither pension, post, nor place,

      Am I your humble debtor:

      So, nae reflection on your grace,

      Your kingship to bespatter;

      There’s monie waur been o’ the race,

      And aiblins ane been better

      Than you this day.

      ’Tis very true, my sov’reign king,

      My skill may weel be doubted:

      But facts are chiels that winna ding,

      An’ downa be disputed:

      Your royal nest beneath your wing,

      Is e’en right reft an’ clouted,

      And now the third part of the string,

      An’ less, will gang about it

      Than did ae day.

      Far be’t frae me that I aspire

      To blame your legislation,

      Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

      To rule this mighty nation.

      But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

      Ye’ve trusted ministration

      To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,

      Wad better fill’d their station

      Than courts yon day.

      And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,

      Her СКАЧАТЬ