[Footnote 14: Orangefield.--R.B.]

O wha will own he did the faut?

O wha will buy the groanin maut?

O wha will tell me how to ca't?

The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

When I mount the creepie-chair, Wha will sit beside me there?

Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

Wha will crack to me my lane?

Wha will mak me fidgin' fain?

Wha will kiss me o'er again?

The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

Here's His Health In Water

Tune--"The Job of Journey-work."

Altho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa', Yet, here's his health in water.

O wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie's he could flatter; Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter: But tho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; But tho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water!

Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous

My Son, these maxims make a rule, An' lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that ere was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin.

(Solomon.--Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16.)

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibours' fauts and folly!

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water; The heaped happer's ebbing still, An' still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pa.s.s douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals: I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences-- Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ; Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in; And (what's aft mair than a' the lave), Your better art o' hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop!

What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop!

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It maks a unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded h.e.l.l to state, d.a.m.nation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in G.o.dly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treach'rous inclination-- But let me whisper i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark,-- The moving Why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

The Inventory^1

In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes

Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

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

My hand-afore 's a guid auld has-been, An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been: My hand-ahin 's a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie.^2 An' your auld borough mony a time In days when riding was nae crime.

But ance, when in my wooing pride I, like a blockhead, boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (Lord pardon a' my sins, an' that too!) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.

My furr-ahin 's a wordy beast, As e'er in tug or tow was traced.

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastle, A d.a.m.n'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie!

Foreby a cowt, o' cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail: Gin he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.

Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are f.e.c.kly new; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o' the spin'le, An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

[Footnote 1: The "Inventory" was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the district.]

[Footnote 2: Kilmarnock.--R. B.]

For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for ranting an' for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other: Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.

I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith! wee Davock's grown sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling.

I've nane in female servant station, (Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!) I hae nae wife--and thay my bliss is, An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the deevils darena touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted!

My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonie, sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already; An' gin ye tax her or her mither, By the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither!

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I'm takin: Frae this time forth, I do declare I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' 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 st.u.r.dy bearers, Gude the thankit!

The kirk and you may tak you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your beuk, Nor for my ten white shillings leuk.

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

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, February 22, 1786.

To John Kennedy, Dumfries House

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E'er bring you in by Mauchlin corse, (Lord, man, there's la.s.ses there wad force A hermit's fancy; An' down the gate in faith they're worse, An' mair unchancy).

But as I'm sayin, please step to Dow's, An' taste sic gear as Johnie brews, Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there; An' if we dinna hae a bouze, I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow, Then like a swine to puke an' wallow; But gie me just a true good fallow, Wi' right ingine, And s.p.u.n.kie ance to mak us mellow, An' then we'll shine.