The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

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      For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’ — good, soul engaged

      CAESAR

      Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: an exclamation, know

      150 For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. good

      Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him: go

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

      At Operas an’ Plays parading,

      Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:

      155 Or maybe, 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’. Fr. good breeding

      There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,

      160 He rives his father’s auld entails; splits, old

      Or by MADRID he taks the rout, road

      To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt; strum, guitars, fight with cattle

      Or down Italian Vista startles, courses

      Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: among

      165 Then bowses drumlie German-water, drinks muddy

      To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,

      An’ clear the consequential sorrows,

      Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.

      for britain’s guid! for her destruction!

      170 Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!

      LUATH

      Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate way

      They waste sae monie a braw estate! so many

      Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d so troubled

      For gear ta gang that gate at last! wealth to go

      175 O would they stay aback frae courts, away from

      An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports, country

      It wad for ev’ry ane be better, would, every one

      The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!

      For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies, those, lads

      180 Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; few of them are

      Except for breakin o’ their timmer, timber

      Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer, mistress

      Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,

      The ne’era-bit they’re ill to poor folk.

      185 But will ye tell me, master Caesar,

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

      Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, no cold, touch

      The vera thought o’t need na fear them. very, not

      CAESAR

      Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, whiles where

      190 The Gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! would

      It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, not

      Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Simmer’s heat; cold, summer’s

      They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes, no sore work, bones

      An’ fill auld-age wi’ grips an’ granes: old-age, gripes & groans

      195 But human bodies are sic fools, such

      For a’ their Colledges an’ Schools,

      That when nae real ills perplex them, no

      They mak enow themsels to vex them;

      An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them, always, have, fret

      200 In like proportion, less will hurt them.

      A countra fellow at the pleugh, country, plough

      His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; well enough

      A countra girl at her wheel, country

      Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel; dozens (yarn), very well

      205 But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst,

      Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark they’re curst: work

      They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;

      Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy: nothing

      Their days insipid, dull an’ tasteless;

      210 Their nights unquiet, lang an’ restless. long

      An’ ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,

      Their galloping thro’ public places,

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

      The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

      215 The Men cast out in party-matches, compete

      Then sowther a’ in deep debauches; patch up

      Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, one

      Niest day their life is past enduring. next

      The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

      220 As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; all

      But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,

      They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither. downright, together

      Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, whiles, over, plate

      They sip the scandal-potion pretty;

      225 Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbet leuks live-long, bad tempered looks

      Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; over, books СКАЧАТЬ