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TONE-POETRY OF ROBERT BURNS |
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There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man ; But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.
The charms o' the min', the langer they shine The mair admiration they draw, man ;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies, They fade and they wither awa, man.
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival or twa, man; The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.
The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed For mair than a towmond or twa, man ;
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board, If he canna get her at a', man.
Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man ; Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.
If I should detail the pick and the wale
O' lasses that live here awa, man, The faut wad be mine, if they didna shine
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.
I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man, For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.
Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, Nor hae't in her power to say na, man ;
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, My stomach's as proud as them a', man.
Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride, And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed, Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best;
O' pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man, And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'eF a wrang steek in them a', man. |
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