Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/87
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
39
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld, clay biggin;An' heard the restless rattons squeakAbout the riggin.
All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mus'd on wasted time,How I had spent my youthfu' prime,An' done nae-thing,But stringin blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.
Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit My cash-account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount.
I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! And heav'd on high my waukit loof, To swear by a' yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath—
When click! the string the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa'; And by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, Come full in sight.
Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben.
Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows,I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token; And come to stop these reckless vows, Would soon been broken.
A 'hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,' Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with Honour.
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else came near it.
Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threwA lustre grand; And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, A well known Land.
Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast With surging foam; There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome.
Here, Doon pour'd down his farfetch'd floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar.
Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient Borough rear'd her head; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a Race, To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace.