Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
41 . Epistle to John Rankine
O
The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin!
There’s mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick’s.
And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts, An’ fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants, Are a’ seen thro’. That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare’t for their sakes, wha aften wear it— The lads in black; But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives’t aff their back. It’s just the Blue-gown badge an’ claithing O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naething To ken them by Frae ony unregenerate heathen, Like you or I. A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair; Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, I will expect, Yon sang ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care, And no neglect. My muse dow scarcely spread her wing; I’ve play’d mysel a bonie spring, An’ danc’d my fill! I’d better gaen an’ sair’t the king, At Bunker’s Hill. I gaed a rovin’ wi’ the gun, An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’— A bonie hen; And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. I straikit it a wee for sport, Ne’er thinkin they wad fash me for’t; But, Deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn’d to lie; So gat the whissle o’ my groat, An’ pay’t the fee. An’ by my pouther an’ my hail, An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail, I vow an’ swear! The game shall pay, o’er muir an’ dale, For this, niest year. An’ the wee pouts begun to cry, Lord, I’se hae sporting by an’ by For my gowd guinea, Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye For’t in Virginia. ’Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame, Scarce thro’ the feathers; An’ baith a yellow George to claim, An’ thole their blethers! So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time’s expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient.