A Night Out with Burns by Robert Burns Page A

swarms,
    The scented groves,
    Or hounded forth, dishonor arms,
    In hungry droves.
    Their gun ’s a burden on their shouther;
    They downa bide the stink o’ powther ;
    Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither,
    To stan’ or rin,
    Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther,
    To save their skin.

    But bring a S COTCHMAN frae his hill,
    Clap in his cheek a highlan gill ,
    Say, such is royal G EORGE’S will,
    An’ there’s the foe,
    He has nae thought but how to kill
    Twa at a blow.

    Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
    Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him;
    Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
    An’ when he fa’s,
    His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
    In faint huzzas.

    Sages their solemn een may steek,
    An’ raise a philosophic reek,
    An’ physically causes seek,
    In clime an’ season ,
    But tell me Whisky ’s name in Greek,
    I’ll tell the reason.
    S COTLAND , my auld, respected Mither!
    Tho’ whyles ye moistify your leather,
    Till when ye speak, ye aiblins blether;
    Yet deil-mak-matter!
    F REEDOM and W HISKY gang thegither,
    Tak aff you whitter.

    â€˜L ove and Liberty’ is the ultimate secular cantata, set in an Ayrshire pub. A sequence of separate movements coralled into a spirited chamber piece, it might be considered a close relation of Bach’s Peasant Cantata , which features a pair of singers on their way to an inn and plays with notions of rustic accents. In its dramatic structure, the poem owes something to the musical form, but Burns politicises the conditions of these jolly beggars in a way that must have seemed shocking when it was eventually published in 1799. A touch of France hangs over the smoky parlour and that final chorus:
    A fig for those by law protected!
    L IBERTY’S a glorious feast!
    Courts for Cowards were erected,
    Churches built to please the P RIEST .

    Love and Liberty–A Cantata
    R ECITATIVO
    When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
    Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird, 1
    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 2 held the splore,
    To drink their orra dudies:
    Wi’ quaffing, and laughing,
    They ranted an’ they sang;
    Wi’ jumping, an’ thumping,
    The vera girdle rang.

    First, neist 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 an’ blankets warm,
    She blinket on her Sodger:
    An’ ay he gies the tozie drab
    The tither skelpan 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, an’ swaggering,
    He roar’d this ditty up—

    A IR
    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 past where my L EADER breath’d his last,
    When the bloody die was cast on the heights of A BRAM ;
    And I served out my T RADE when the gallant game was play’d,
    And the M ORO 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 E LLIOT 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 us’d in scarlet to follow a drum.
    What tho’, with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
    Beneath the woods and rocks