No More Learning

Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that
fantastic thing--LIBERTY. " The Poem was communicated by Burns
to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire. ]


Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes--as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and A----s were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up among the lakes and seas
They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin';
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed--
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d----d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tattered gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,--
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come--Your humble rervant,

BEELZEBUB.

_June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. _

* * * * *




CXX.

TO

JOHN TAYLOR.

[Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters,
likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with
ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths
of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence
in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem,
begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to
his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for
thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid but ance, and
that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid
him in verse. "]


With Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying,

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod--
I'll pay you like my master.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Ramages_, _3 o'clock_, (_no date. _)

* * * * *




CXXI.