The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

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СКАЧАТЬ old, whisky still

      Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, wager, plough scraper

      Ye’ll see’t or lang, before long

      95 She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekan whittle, smoking knife

      Anither sang. another song

      This while she’s been in crankous mood, fretful

      Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; blood

      (Deil na they never mair do guid, not, more, good

      100 Play’d her that pliskie!) trick

      An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud run stark mad

      About her Whisky.

      An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, once, put her to it

      Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, tuck up

      105 An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt, blade

      She’ll tak the streets,

      An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, run her knife, handle

      I’ the first she meets!

      For God-sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,

      110 An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, stroke, carefully

      An’ to the Muckle House repair, great Parliament

      Wi’ instant speed,

      An’ strive, wi’ a’ your Wit an’ Lear, knowledge

      To get remead.

115 Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,10 gypsy

      May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks;

      But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! give him it hot

      E’en cowe the cadie! subdue, rascal

      An’ send him to his dicing box

      120 An’ sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid of auld Boconnock’s,11 good blood, old

      I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, mixed meal bannocks

An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s12 old

      Nine times a-week,

      125 If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, windows

      Wad kindly seek. would

      Could he some commutation broach,

      I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, oath, good broad

      He needna fear their foul reproach need not

      130 Nor erudition,

      Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, mixed up

      The Coalition.

      Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; old, rough

      She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; bludgeon

      135 An’ if she promise auld or young old

      To tak their part,

      Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,

      She’ll no desert.

      And now, ye chosen FIVE AND FORTY,

      140 May still your Mither’s heart support ye; mother’s

      Then, tho’ a Minister grow dorty, haughty

      An’ kick your place,

      Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,

      Before his face.

      145 God bless your Honors, a’ your days,

      Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claes, sups of broth, coarse cloth

      In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, jackdaws

      That haunt St. Jamie’s! parliament

      Your humble Bardie sings an’ prays,

      150 While Rab his name is.

      POSTSCRIPT

      Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies,

      See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;

      Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies, old

      But, blythe and frisky,

      155 She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

      Tak aff their Whisky. drink down

      What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms, sun

      While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!

      When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,

      160 The scented groves,

      Or hounded forth, dishonor arms

      In hungry droves.

      Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; shoulder

      They downa bide the stink o’ powther; do not, gun powder

      165 Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither boldest, uncertain doubt

      To stan’ or rin,

      Till skelp – a shot – they’re aff, a’ throw’ther, crack, off, pell-mell

      To save their skin.

      But bring a SCOTCHMAN frae his hill, from

      170 Clap in his cheek a Highlan gill, gill (measure)

      Say, such is royal GEORGE’S will,

      An’ there’s the foe!

      He has nae thought but how to kill no

      Twa at a blow. two

      175 Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; no cold

      Death comes, wi’ fearless eye СКАЧАТЬ