Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/163

This page has been validated.
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
109
Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg,Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,As fast as onie in the dwalling.—I've nane in female servan' station,(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!)I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is,An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,I ken the devils dare na 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,B' the Lord, ye'se get them 'a thegither.And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,Nac kind of license 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 sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!—The Kirk an' 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 han' I wrote it,Day an' date as under notet:Then know all ye whom it concerns,Subscripsi huic,Robert BurnsMossgiel, February 22nd, 1786.

THE WHISTLE.

A Ballad.

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—'This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o'er,And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more!"
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd,Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew'd.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.