The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns
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they maun thole a Factor’s snash:3 would suffer, abuse
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear
He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; seize & sell their goods
While they maun staun’, wi’ aspect humble, must stand
100 An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! all
I see how folk live that hae riches; have
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! must
LUATH
They’re nae sae wretched’s ane wad think: not so, as one would
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, poverty’s
105 They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, so
The view o’t gies them little fright. gives
Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided, so
They’re ay in less or mair provided; always, more
An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,
110 A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o’ their lives,
Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; thriving children
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a’ their fire-side.
115 An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy sometimes, ale
Can mak the bodies unco happy: folk, very
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk an’ State affairs;
They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
120 Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
An’ ferlie at the folk in LON’ON. wonder
As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, festival of All-Saints
They get the jovial, rantan Kirns, harvest homes
125 When rural life, of ev’ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
130 They bar the door on frosty win’s; winds
The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, ale, foaming froth
An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntan pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, smoking, snuff box
Are handed round wi’ right guid will; good
135 The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse, jolly old, chatting, cheerful
The young anes rantan thro’ the house — one, running
My heart has been sae fain to see them, so content
That I for joy hae barket wi’ them. have barked
Still it’s owre true that ye hae said over, have
140 Sic game is now owre aften play’d; such a, over often
There’s monie a creditable stock many
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, respectable
Are riven out baith root an’ branch, thrown out by force, both
Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
145 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster who
In favor wi’ some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin’, who, maybe crowd
For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’ — good, soul engaged
CAESAR
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: an exclamation, know
150 For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. good
Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him: go
An’ saying aye or no ’s they bid him:
At Operas an’ Plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
155 Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,
To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’. Fr. good breeding
There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,
160 He rives his father’s auld entails; splits, old
Or by MADRID he taks the rout, road
To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt; strum, guitars, fight with cattle
Or down Italian Vista startles, courses
Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: among
165 Then bowses drumlie German-water, drinks muddy
To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,
An’ clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.
for britain’s guid! for her destruction!
170 Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!
LUATH
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate way
They waste sae monie a braw estate! so many
Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d so troubled
For gear ta gang that gate at last! wealth to go
175 O would they stay aback frae courts, away from
An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports, country
It wad for ev’ry ane be better, would, every one
The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies, those, lads
180 Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; few of them are
Except for breakin o’ their timmer, timber
Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer, mistress
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne’era-bit they’re ill to poor folk.
185 But will ye tell me, master Caesar,
Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, no cold, touch
The vera thought o’t need na fear them. very, not
CAESAR
Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, whiles where
190 The Gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! would
It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, not
Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Simmer’s heat; cold, summer’s
They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes,