Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
86 . The Auld Farmers New-Year-Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie
A
Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, an’ knaggie,
I’ve seen the day
Out-owre the lay. An’ thy auld hide as white’s a daisie, I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ glaizie, A bonie gray: He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee, Ance in a day. A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank; An’ set weel down a shapely shank, As e’er tread yird; An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank, Like ony bird. Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mear; He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear, An’ fifty mark; Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear, An’ thou was stark. Ye then was trotting wi’ your minnie: Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, an’ funnie, Ye ne’er was donsie; But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, An’ unco sonsie. When ye bure hame my bonie bride: An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, Wi’ maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide For sic a pair. An’ wintle like a saumont coble, For heels an’ win’! An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble, Far, far, behin’! An’ stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, How thou wad prance, and snore, an’ skreigh An’ tak the road! Town’s-bodies ran, an’ stood abeigh, An’ ca’t thee mad. We took the road aye like a swallow: At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, For pith an’ speed; But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, Whare’er thou gaed. Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle; But sax Scotch mile, thou try’t their mettle, An’ gar’t them whaizle: Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O’ saugh or hazel. As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours’ gaun, In guid March-weather, Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han’, For days thegither. But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket, Wi’ pith an’ power; Till sprittie knowes wad rair’t an’ riskit An’ slypet owre. An’ threaten’d labour back to keep, Aboon the timmer: I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep, For that, or simmer. The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it; Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov’t awa. Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa, That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, The vera warst. An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! An’ mony an anxious day, I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, Wi’ something yet. That now perhaps thou’s less deservin, An’ thy auld days may end in starvin; For my last fow, A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane Laid by for you. We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether To some hain’d rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue.