Monie a sair daurk1 we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we 're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',
Than now perhaps thou's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fow,2

A heapit stimpart,3 I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

4

Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether

To some hained rig,5

Whare ye may nobly rax"

your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

TO A LOUSE.

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie!"
Your impudence protects you sairly:

8

I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner

9

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet

10 squattle; 11 There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 12 Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle

' Day's work.

4 Move.

7 Wonder.

10 Temple.

Your thick plantations.

THE INVENTORY.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye 've got on it,

The vera tapmost, towering height

O' Miss's bonnet.

2

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and grey as onie grozet;
Oh, for some rank, mercurial rozet,3

Or fell, red smeddum,1

I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy,5
Or aiblins some bit duddie 6 boy,
On's wyliecoat;7
But Miss's fine Lunardie 8-fie!

How dare ye do't!

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss

your head,

An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's' makin'!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin'!

Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us

And foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

And e'en Devotion !

THE INVENTORY.

57

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES, REQUIR

ING A RETURN FOR THE ASSESSED TAXES.

The fashionable bonnet, so named after Lunardi, the aeronaut, who

was celebrated in 1785.

9 The withered dwarf.

10 This return was made to Mr. Aiken, the friend to whom "The Cotter's Saturday Night" was inscribed.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.'

3

My han'-afore's2 a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been.
My han'-ahin's a weel-gaun filly,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,*
And your auld burro' mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, when in my wooing pride,
I, like a blockhead boost 5 to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
(Lord, pardon a' my sins, and that too!)
I played my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.
My furr-ahin's 7 a worthy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damned red-wud Kilburnie blastie !
Forbye a cowte,8 o' cowte's the wale,9
As ever ran afore a tail;

6

If he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.

Wheel-carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly
10 new;
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin' and for noise;
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other;
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother."
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And aften labour them completely;
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the question targe 12 them tightly,
Till, faith, wee Davoc's turned sae gleg,13
Though scarcely langer than my leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling
As fast as ony in the dwalling.

'A plough-spade.

2 The foremost horse on the left hand in the plough.-BURNS. 3 The hindmost horse on the left hand in the plough.-BURNS. 4 Kilmarnock.

5 Must needs.

6 A trick.

7 The hindmost horse on the right hand in the plough.-BURNS.

8 A colt.

11 Plough-driver.

9 Best.

12 Task.

10 Nearly.
13 So sharp.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

I've nane in female servan' station,
(Lord, keep me aye frae a' temptation!)
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
And then, if kirk folks dinna touch me,
I ken the devils darena touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted,
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddy in her face,
Enough of ought you like but grace;
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already,
And gin ye tax her or her mither,
B' the Lord! ye'se get them a' thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm takin';
Frae this time forth I do declare,
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Through dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!
The kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat;

Sae dinna put me in

your buke,

Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under noted;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,

Mossgiel, February 22, 1786.

ROBERT BURNS.

59

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure2

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Comely.

2 Dust.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth,
Yet cheerfully thou glinted' forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce reared above the parent earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou beneath the random bield"

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie 3 stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruined, sink!

1

Peeped.

2 Shelter.

3 Barren.