Robert Burns

[trinkie]

A POET’S GRACE.

Before meat.

O Thou, who kindly dost provide
For ev’ry creature’s want !
We bless the God of Nature wide
For all Thy goodness lent.
And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content.


After meat.

O Thou, in whom we live and move,
Who made the sea and shore,
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And, grateful, would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us with such store
The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.

[Shabbychic]

Up In The Morning Early


Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly,
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

[Shabbychic]

Scotch Drink

Let other poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;
But oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear,
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,
The poor man's wine:
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts:
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saints,
By thee inspired,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin
In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
I' th' lugget caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou make the gossips clatter bright,
How fumbling cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-brie
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter season,
E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O' half his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless deils like mysel!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi a glunch
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch
Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotlands lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is taen awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

[Lavenderblue2]

Apologies as this wasn't written by Burns...

Kate O’Shanter



And where do you suppose, was Kate
When market days were wearing late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
And fooled around with landlords’ wives
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
And had an eye for handsome witches,
Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there, amid the din
And Maggie barely saved his skin??

Not where you think!

Kate slaved away, the livelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tammie spent so much on booze.
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
And what all else, God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim,
And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
Who does Tam’s work, while Tam’s away.


She herds the sheep and cattle, too
Feeds hens, milks cows, and when that’s through
Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs –
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away!
In harvest time, from early morn,
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
And many a sunny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
When they got home, that night, at four
And Maggie’d found the stable door
Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
To sleep it off, eight hours or more –
He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
Went through that nightmare ride again.


About the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say;
The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
Said we want food, and want it Now
Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
And saw Meg’s stump above his head.
An awful thought ran through his brain.
Oh Lord! That wasn’t hail and rain

Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
He was not clean, he was not neat
He scraped off what he could, but when
He’d found his way, from but to ben
Tam stood dumfounded: ‘What the hell’
Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.


But Kate had left a note for him:
I’ve sailed for Montreal, with Jim
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
Forgive me Tam, and don’t be sore –
I couldn’t take it anymore
I had to find a better way
Before I’d slaved my youth away.
I had to try to save myself –
You’ll find the oatmeal on the shelf –
Don’t fash yoursell’ about the twins
I might as well confess, they’re Jim’s….


Written by
Seanair
Melbourne Australia
Published in Scottish Field January 1993