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Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
      And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
      The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
      The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
      And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
      The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
      The Lord forgie me for liein!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
      And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
      But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
      But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
      (The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
      Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
      Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
      I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
      I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
      I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.

But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
      Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
      And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
      And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
      Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
      But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
      But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.

He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
      Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
      I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
      I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
A note of seeming truth and trust
                      Hid crafty observation;
                And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
                      The dirk of defamation:
                A mask that like the gorget show’d
                      Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
                And for a mantle large and broad,
              He wrapt him in Religion.
                   (Hypocrisy-à-la-Mode)


Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
     When Nature’s face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn
     An’ ***** the caller air.
The risin’ sun owre Galston muirs
     Wi’ glorious light was glintin,
The hares were hirplin down the furrs,
     The lav’rocks they were chantin
          Fu’ sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad
     To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
     Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black,
     But ane wi’ lyart linin;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
     Was in the fashion shining
          Fu’ gay that day.

The twa appear’d like sisters twin
     In feature, form, an’ claes;
Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin,
     An’ sour as ony slaes.
The third cam up, hap-step-an’-lowp,
     As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop,
     As soon as e’er she saw me,
          Fu’ kind that day.

Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
     I think ye seem to ken me;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face,
     But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, an’ laughin as she spak,
     An’ taks me by the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake, hae gien the ****
     Of a’ the ten comman’s
          A screed some day.

“My name is Fun—your cronie dear,
     The nearest friend ye hae;
An’ this is Superstition here,
     An’ that’s Hypocrisy.
I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
     To spend an hour in daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there, you runkl’d pair,
     We will get famous laughin
          At them this day.”

Quoth I, “With a’ my heart, I’ll do’t:
     I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on,
An’ meet you on the holy spot;
     Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time
     An’ soon I made me ready;
For roads were clad frae side to side
     Wi’ monie a wearie body
          In droves that day.

Here, farmers ****, in ridin graith,
     Gaed hoddin by their cotters,
There swankies young, in braw braidclaith
     Are springin owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
     In silks an’ scarlets glitter,
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese in mony a whang,
     An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter,
          Fu’ crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
     Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
     An’ we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show:
     On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin,
Some carryin dails, some chairs an’ stools,
     An’ some are busy bleth’rin
          Right loud that day.


Here some are thinkin on their sins,
     An’ some upo’ their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
     Anither sighs an’ prays:
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
     Wi’ *****’d-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’ chaps at watch,
     Thrang winkin on the lasses
          To chairs that day.

O happy is that man and blest!
     Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass that he likes best,
     Comes clinkin down beside him!
Wi’ arm repos’d on the chair back,
     He sweetly does compose him;
Which by degrees slips round her neck,
     An’s loof upon her *****,
          Unken’d that day.

Now a’ the congregation o’er
     Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door,
     Wi’ tidings o’ salvation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
     ‘Mang sons o’ God present him,
The vera sight o’ Moodie’s face
     To’s ain het hame had sent him
          Wi’ fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o’ faith
     Wi’ rattlin an’ wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath
     He’s stampin, an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,
     His eldritch squeal and gestures,
Oh, how they fire the heart devout
     Like cantharidian plaisters,
          On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice:
     There’s peace and rest nae langer;
For a’ the real judges rise,
     They canna sit for anger.
Smith opens out his cauld harangues,
     On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs,
     To gie the jars an’ barrels
          A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine
     Of moral pow’rs and reason?
His English style an’ gesture fine
     Are a’ clean out o’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine
     Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
     But ne’er a word o’ faith in
          That’s right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
     Against sic poison’d nostrum;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
     Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got the word o’ God
     An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it,
While Common Sense has ta’en the road,
     An’s aff, an’ up the Cowgate
          Fast, fast that day.

Wee Miller niest the Guard relieves,
     An’ Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho’ in his heart he weel believes
     An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie wants a Manse,
     So cannilie he hums them;
Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense
     Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him
          At times that day.

Now **** an’ ben the change-house fills
     Wi’ yill-caup commentators:
Here’s cryin out for bakes an gills,
     An’ there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
     Wi’ logic an’ wi’ Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
     Is like to breed a rupture
          O’ wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair
     Than either school or college
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,
     It pangs us fou o’ knowledge.
Be’t whisky-gill or penny-wheep,
     Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinkin deep,
     To kittle up our notion
          By night or day.

The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent
     To mind baith saul an’ body,
Sit round the table weel content,
     An’ steer about the toddy,
On this ane’s dress an’ that ane’s leuk
     They’re makin observations;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
     An’ forming assignations
          To meet some day.

But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts,
     Till a’ the hills rae rairin,
An’ echoes back return the shouts—
     Black Russell is na sparin.
His piercing words, like highlan’ swords,
     Divide the joints an’ marrow;
His talk o’ hell, whare devils dwell,
     Our vera “sauls does harrow”
          Wi’ fright that day.

A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
     Fill’d fou o’ lowin brunstane,
Whase ragin flame, an’ scorching heat
     *** melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half-asleep start up wi’ fear
     An’ think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear
     ’Twas but some neibor snorin,
          Asleep that day.

‘Twad be owre lang a tale to tell,
     How mony stories past,
An’ how they crouded to the yill,
     When they were a’ dismist:
How drink gaed round in cogs an’ caups
     Amang the furms an’ benches:
An’ cheese and bred frae women’s laps
     Was dealt about in lunches
          An’ dauds that day.

In comes a gausie, **** guidwife
     An’ sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife;
     The lasses they are shyer:
The auld guidmen, about the grace
     Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
     And gi’es them’t like a tether
          Fu’ lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
     Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has he to say a grace,
     Or melvie his braw clathing!
O wives, be mindfu’ ance yoursel
     How bonie lads ye wanted,
An’ dinna for a kebbuck-heel
     Let lasses be affronted
          On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin tow,
     Begins to jow an’ croon;
Some swagger hame the best they dow,
     Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
     Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink,
     They’re a’ in famous tune
          For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts
     O’ sinners and o’ lasses
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane
     As saft as ony flesh is.
There’s some are fou o’ love divine,
     There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ monie jobs that day begin,
     May end in houghmagandie
          Some ither day.
Old Deuteronomy’s lived a long time;
He’s a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria’s accession.
Old Deuteronomy’s buried nine wives
And more—I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED—
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy’s rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he’s engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight’s unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: “There’s just time for one more,”
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: “New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn’t be woken—

I’ll have the police if there’s any uproar”—
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline’s gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!”

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the
     Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great
     Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that’s a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat—
I don’t know the reason, but most people think
He’d slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink—
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
     feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap—
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn’t a single one left in the street.
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
      Some counsel unto me come ***’;
To anger them a’ is a pity,
      But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?

I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
      In poortith I might mak a fen’:
What care I in riches to wallow,
      If I mauna marry Tam Glen?

There’s Lowrie, the laird o’ Dumeller,
      “Guid-day to you,”—brute! he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,
      But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,
      And bids me beware o’ young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;
      But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,
      He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him,
      O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the valentines’ dealing,
      My heart to my mou gied a sten:
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
      And thrice it was written, “Tam Glen”!

The last Halloween I was waukin
      My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken:
His likeness cam up the house staukin,
      And the very gray breeks o’ Tam Glen!

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry;
      I’ll gie ye my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
      The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely *** I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake *** gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whose only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
martin Jan 2015
Once I lov'd a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu' mein,
The like I never saw.

A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e;
But, without some better qualities,
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
for Burns night
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
One Christmas Eve in Stranraer
I found mahsel' ****** in a bar
Wi' a fat Dumfries ****;
Ach, 'twas easy tae score,
Once I tell't her I'd kipped wi' her Ma.

I spent Christmas morn in Prestwick
Wi' a girl whose lips were aye thick
(not the ones on her face
but in t'other place).
Their hugeness fair crushed ma braw ****.

That night near auld Newton Stewart
Wi' a lass who declined aye tae do it,
I used all mah' charm
And twisted her arm,
But the smell in her breeks made me rue it.

On Boxing Day evening in Ayr,
I met a girl who had a huge pair
Of bonnie fat ****;
They thrilled me tae bits
Before I explored her "doon there".

Galloway lassies are corkers
And Girvan girls are laud squawkers;
But for suckin o' the ****
Tak' yersel' tae Cumnock,
If ye dinnae mind fat spotty porkers.

You're no wondering doubt, in this poem,
Why no lassies have met a fell doom
(so I'll mention the death
of poor ugly Beth
Who got squashed in a ******* in Troon).
Lucy Oct 2013
Day
Today.

Calm wind cooling
Warm chills brewing
Animation of friends and houses
And tickled thoughts of the delusional
Small talk has becomes real talk
Chores and sleep and obligation
Braw-less day, we hang around
calling on death, to save our illusion

Tomorrow.

Yesterday.

Today.

Mind now solution
Contemplations gone away
Lives of pretend and boxes
I serve breakfast all day
I see no evil
I hear no good
Sweet child run wild
You’ll think you never could.
Step over, check over
No thoughts for the tame
Calm music, quiet closer
Failed liken
No pay
My feet hurt
Your mouth hurts
Go away, no please stay
Slow me slow me down now
*******
How’s your day?
And turn down your sunny day!
Joe smiled the other way!
Ill love you tomorrow and not today!
Consider it my way
It’s the least I can do.

Tomorrow.

Yesterday.

Today.
Jay Jimenez Feb 2013
I remember I was scared to death
the first time I had a girl alone with me
I remember thinking
do I just pull it out and present it
Or do I wait for her to ask to see it
or do I just sit here and talk untill she says "are we gonna do this"
Or do I go "are we gonna do this"
instead we watched like 2 hours of random tv, talked, I showed my Tattoos
she Showed me ones that she will be getting someday on her body.
And then it Happened the sign
The flip of the hair
The little Flutter of the eyes
I knew I had to make my move
So I said "I've been looking at you since I first saw you and wondered what'd be like to kiss you"
she says "well are you gonna keep wondering or do it"
We begin to make out in the back of my head im praying she doesnt start using tounge
because im horrible at french kissing. Luckily it didn't happen
As I begin to rub her back I unsnap her braw with one hand
which I never did before that.
The shirt came off smoothly and I looked at a set of amazing little perky *******.
I tasted her flesh surrounding this tender area
and took my shirt off
revealing my skrany tatted up body.
She began to push down on me and soon as  was on my back and she was Hovered over me.
I remember thinking to myself THIS IS AWESOME.
just as she thought she was in controll I flipped her over brushed my hands down her hips.
AND IT HAPPENED the moment you know your getting laid (my brother told me this before)
The slight arch of her back just enough for me to remove her pants in a swift motion.
The rest is history
or should I say Herstory.
I remember the next day going to school
and later on seeing her at parties
and eventually I never seen her again
somehow or another she just vanished
to this day I dont Know where she is
but **** can I remember everything about that night
her outfit down to her ear rings
what song I had playing (Tupac How do You Want It)
the nervous tick  I do with my thumb nails clicking them haha.
she asked me if This was my first time ( I replied yes)
She told me that I was her first also (not like first)
but first time actaully being made love too.
she said I knew exactly what to do
and that she never had a man actaully take his time with her.
I brushed her hair back
and whispered in her ear ( in all the seas and all the lakes I found  mermaid by mistake)
my little way of saying she was speacil.
I've never found another mermaid is what im getting at
and honestly after all the girls past present a future
I'll never have another night like that
so if your out there Aubrey
this writings for you
Ana Aug 2021
I’ll always remember tonight,
Dressed in your old white t shirt,
I’ll remember the shape of your fingers
Running along my skin,
I’ll remember your lips
Upon my braw,
I’ll remember telling you to stop
Even tho you never did.

I’ll remember still loving you,
Despite what you did to me
I’ll remember that you said you loved me too,
And what you did to me, is what you had to do
to prove it to me
tw: s*xual assault…
Whare ripples
trickles
dreeps awa,
Tha fluid run
tha water braw.

A' triple race frae which it stems
aneath tha starry heevenly hem,
whare a' come an thereby pass
tha rivers edge wha gleams like glass.

Upon tha wintery echo , far weel I ken
tha cracklin tree like a bantom hen,
chuckles oot apun tha glen
aneith tha dark too'ering Ben.

This cul' dark an weary nicht
hulds tha worl' e'er sae ticht
tae tha lays tha lan' does spill
grasps yin an a' therein tae fill

Tae a' tha glory O winter's parade
tha tinsel show, its masqurade.
Fills us a' doun tae tha bane
tae tha spirit O winter's ain.


© Alisdaire O'Caoimph
in Scots
Scara Mouch Oct 2014
By twist and ties from ages past,
We are but Union bound
Ruled from afar by silver spoons,
'til hope and freedom found,
A fire in the belly of daughters and sons
Made a home in faces awash in blue,
With roaring thunder in voices loud, proclaim;
A Scot! Proud, free, canny and true.

Past leaders, past has-beens, past moguls and crooks,
The passion spreads, face to face,
Tangible static in the Square tonight,
The cone standing tall in it's place.
The fire of the people out in the streets,
Casting eyes to freedom's distant shores,
Their message clear and printed in bold,
With every paper passed through street-lit doors.
'Saor Alba! 'Alba gu Bràth!'
The spirit of Scotia is free.
'Bairns not Bombs!' 'Seize it with both hands!', they cry,
This Aye vote is for you, and for me.

With faith, with courage, with braw, gallus grace,
This word will nae weesht, but spread,
Not if but when, not now but again,
Independence is ne'er 'put to bed'.
How can I forget
Thou art the apple of mine eye
But live to regret
We're but apples and oranges

How can I forget
That night, that day
But live to regret
A smiling lie danced my way

How can I forget
Thou art a lass so braw
But live to regret
There broke a drunken brawl

How can I forget
Such a twisted malady
But live to regret
For it costed my lady


©
Kikodinho Alexandros**
30th August 2016
Vampyre Kato Jun 2016
Eye Of The Over Soul, Direction Injection Over Load,
I’m Over Here, Over Head , Under Toes,
Saving Under Dogs, Like Aw Oh My God My Hands In ******* Braw,
Pants Dance A lot, Numbers Right, Night Candle Hot,
Dark Forest, Spooky Sounds Wood Black,
Theres No Taking A Should Back,
Realitys A Hoax, I Know That I Should Laugh,
Emotions Are Explosions, On A Clone Mask,
I Said I Mean It, I Own That.
Gold Is The Greenest, I Bleed It, The Zone Shack,
Armor Pours From Open Doors,
You Nasty Tweaking 4 bodys Sleeping All Weeknd,
Joking Sure, Of Course,
6 Plus 2, The Way Of The Gate,
Every Day Is My Birthday , Eye In The Cake,
I Cant Take Much More Of The ****,
That Yall ****** Say,
I’m On A Cliff , With Yo Chick,
Kissing My Limbs,
Mornings Start With Night Shower, We White Owls & ******* 6,
Rather Have Girls With Game Sticks, In Sweaters Squirting, Like Rain Drips
We Came With The Bottle ***** Djinn, Mystery Dripping From My Chin,
D & Me , Have A Way With Sin, It’s Not Likely To To See Kites Nicely , Where Our Bikes Be,
****** Naught Psychedelic Heavy Weights, Astral Flight ****
3 Plus 3 Blooming Healthy Chai Seed,
Percieve Only What The Eye Sees,
2 Eyes Bleed ,
Dave Robertson Apr 2022
Gies a wee sookie
a wee swatch an aw

member a was braw,
pure braw

an a luv ye an aw
Jay Jimenez Aug 2014
I let you into my heart
Find a place to get comfy
Kick your shoes off
Take ya braw off
and pants
And get comfy
And just stay
Just stay
Please
Stay
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw
     (less concerned about being fair versus
     abominable, irrevocable, and execrable
     unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & *****)

cabinet of high priests,
     sans spelling chieftains ready to claw
your person to bits,
     and they presage remote clemency

     which decision told, when Jeff Sessions
     decides final punishment to draw
now, (see excerpted lines
     visited with glaring flaw

"Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh"
     where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
     and drawbacks, required a secret char),...
     intimates a "hee haw"

and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches
     square at yar triangular jaw
YES, on account misspelling,
     whence Grammarian Jude Law

at the least aims (to topple a prospective
     title of eminence grise), banning access
     to such undeserved
     catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch

laughing while ja plaintively call for maw
**** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw
can do, and hence paw
mister trumpeting

     "FAKE" wordsmith raw
flesh will turn into....
unreadable print until closing text
that elaborates how holiness felt vexed.

To ye (a freshly minted scalawag),
     these 20/20 eyes bulged agog
while steaming with invective
     at what attempted

     to pass as sacred poetic blog
when thee (Matthew Scott Harris),
     now pronounced, an illiterate,
     immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑

with a severe cerebral clog
(meaning prefrontal lobotomy
     not out of the question),
      you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog
     (my humble apologies to canines),

less deserving than being
     whipped near death's doorstep flog
after henchmen (strongly
     resembling Alaskan BullWorms
     guarding this royal hutch,
     herein Cupertino, California.
Pratik May 2019
You the girl, having morning splash,
Being short like a cutie brain,
Na Na Na it’s real dream,
Ha Ha Ha it’s happening again.

She’s the one, who woke me in rain,
Mourning high like an alarm ringing,
Well Well Well she’s my di’s friend,
Ohu Ohu Ohu she has done it again.

Little baby, rising eye braw in specs,
Making up for foreign aiming,
La La La it’s my sister girl,
He He He I forgot to regain.

Yeah, I like it, the way you move on the way,
Walking long like a saint urging,
Ahh Ahh Ahh she’s pretty on the floor,
Shh Shh Shh don’t tell it again.

She and I, having a synchro strain,
Being a bro like a well-wisher at shore,
Peep Peep Peep it’s coming in a shade,
All All All I am her admire speaking.
Feigning to emulate NON GMO
garden variety English major oh just so
**-hum, this ousted son and cingular bro
biological byproduct of papa's yoyo

after mama taut Peppy how to grow
big and become vein, her issuing blow
by blow stroke, thence pecker
imitated fountainhead

unleashing at apropos
time outburst analogous when an arrow
loosed from archer's bow
shooting off about hip height mo'

than bajillion microscopic
one celled lil longfellow
(Oh Henry...! *** art thou doing?)
just hmm... giving mutual sin O

Job whelp... subsequently
little squirt begot
sole son this all because sticky clot
hit bullseye right on the dot

nope, no where near size of ergot
spore, yet radiating
burning temperature more hot than...,
liquified gold prior

bitta bing bitta bang forged into ingot,
now just little more about fertilized
ova, I wanna jot
potential pluperfect parasite (me)

acquired, cultivated, fashioned...
one after another deft bon mot
while in utero until umbilical cord
severed than christened newborn tot.

Now fast forward blaw blaw blaw
when I began to clamor and claw
nope, cuz I ne'er learned how to draw,
the least significant genetic flaw,
cue laugh track and prerecorded guffaw
similar to popular nineteen
seventies television hee haw

laughter muted upon meeting
battle axe mother in law
another story... genre mccaw braw,
she excelled spewing vitriol out her maw,
thence I slowly must heard,
mixed metaphors and mastered...pshaw

modesty keeps me from bragging
yea - boot as a non sequitur
non secretor, yukon call me
the word wrangler outlaw
lo never cussing out anybody,
I can more easily whip out pistol

if captive audience
critiques mein arcane saw
jeering (matt speak feeble attempt
at wordplay - i.e. soldiering)
receiving affirmative nod
courtesy none other
than quick draw mcgraw

now ye butter listen (er... read) up
and don't blather and beast not shtupp
to conquer, when ya hear bit ching pup
that maybe be yipping faux ruse
to empty pocket inner empty cup.

— The End —