The Rating of Poets • The Rating of Poems
Poem by Robert Burns
The Jolly Beggars
WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or, wavering like the baukie bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast;
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en a merry core
O’ randie gangrel bodies
In Poosie Nansie’s held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies.
Wi’ quaffing and laughing,
They ranted and they sang;
Wi’ jumping and thumping
The very girdle rang.
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’ in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi’ usquebae and blankets warm,
She blinket on her sodger;
An’ aye he gies the tosy drab
The tither skelpin’ kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
Just like an aumous dish:
Ilk smack still did crack still
Just like a cadger’s whip;
Then staggering, and swaggering,
He roar’d this ditty up-
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My ‘prenticeship I pass’d where my leader breath’d his last,
When the bloody die was east on the heights of Abram;
And I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb:
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
What tho’ with hoary locks I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home?
When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum.
He ended; and the kebars sheuk
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
And seek the benmost bore.
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirled out "Encore!"
But up arose the martial chuck,
And laid the loud uproar.
I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de dal, &c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body,-
‘Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
Prom the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair,
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair;
His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d-I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup or a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!
Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk
Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie;
They mind’t us wha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they were sae busy.
At length, wi’ drink and courting dizzy,
He stoitered up an’ made a face;
Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzy,
Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.
Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk,
And I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft;
But what could ye other expect,
Of ane that’s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffing;
I ance was abused i’ the kirk,
For touzling a lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There ‘s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court,
A tumbler ca’d the Premier.
Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
Maka faces to tickle the mob?
He rails at our mountebank squad-
It’s rivalship just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion I’ll tell,
For, faith! I’m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
Gude Lord! he’s far dafter than I.
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,
For mony a pursie she had hookit,
And had in mony a well been dookit;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!
WI’ sighs and sobs, she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman:-
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lawlan’ laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
CHORUS.
Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho, my bmw John Highlandman!
There’s no a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,
And gude claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lawlan’ face he feared nane,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
They banish’d him beyond the sea;
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
But oh! they catch’d him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one!
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.
And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne’er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,
Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,
Her strappin’ limb and gaucy middle
(He reach’d nae higher)
Had holed his heartie like a riddle,
And blawn’t on fire.
Wi’ hand on haunch, and upward ee,
He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then, in an arioso key,
The wee Apollo
Set aff, wi’ allegretto glee,
His giga solo.
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
And go wi’ me and be my dear,
And then your every care and fear
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
CHORUS.
I am a fiddler to my trade,
And a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.
At kirns and weddings we’ee be there,
And oh! sae nicely’s we will fare;
We’ll bouse about, till Daddie Care
Sings whistle owre the lave o’t.
Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,
And sun oursels about the dyke,
And at our leisure, when ye like,
We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.
But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
And while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger and cauld, and a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,
As well as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
And draws a roosty rapier-
He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
To spit him like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
And pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
And sae the quarrel ended.
But tho’ his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird address’d her :-
My bonnie lass, I work in brass,
A tinkler is my station;
I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I’ve taen the gold, I’ve been enroll’d
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d, when off I march’d
To go and clout the cauldron.
Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,
Wi’ a’ his noise and caperin’;
And tak a share wi’ those that bear
The budget and the apron;
And, by that stoup, my faith, and houp!
And by that dear Kilbaigie,
If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,
May I ne’er west my craigie.
The caird prevail’d-th’ unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi’ love o’ercome aae sair,
And partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino, with an air
That show’d a man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison between the pair,
And made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But urchin Cupid shot a shaft
That play’d a dame a shavie;
The fiddler rak’d her fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,
Tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie,
He hirpled up, and lap like daft,
And shor’d them "_Dainty Davie"
O’ boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed;
Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever miss’d it.
He had nae wish, but to be glad,
Nor want but when he thirsted;
He hated nought but to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested
His sang that night.
I am a bard of no regard
Wi’ gentlefolks, and a’ that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin’ byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.
CHORUS.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
And twice as meikle ‘s a’ that;
I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.
I never drank the Muses’ stank,
Castalia’s burn, and a’ that;
But there it streams, and richly reams!
My Helicon I ca’ that.
Great love I bear to a’ the fair,
Their humble slave, and a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
In raptures sweet this hour we meet
Wi’ mutual love, and a’ that;
But for how lang the flee may stang,
Let inclination law that.
Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,
They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;
But clear your decks, and "Here’s the sex!"
I like the jads for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
And twice as meikle ‘s a’ that,
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They’re welcome till’t, for a’ that.
So sung the bard-and Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Be-echo’d from each mouth;
They toom’d their pooks, an’ pawn’d their duds.
They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,
To quench their lowin’ drouth.
Then owre again the jovial thrang
The poet did request
To lowse his pack, an’ wale a sang,
A ballad o’ the best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an’ found them
Impatient for the chorus.
See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring;
Bound and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing-
CHORUS.
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation’s care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
‘Tis no matter how or where!
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
Does the train-attended carriage
Thro’ the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.
Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged brats and callets!
One and all cry out "Amen!"
Robert Burns
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