Merry Muses of Caledonia by Robert Burns Sing, Up wi’t, Aily Sing, Up wi’t, Aily, Aily; Doun wi kimmerland jock; Deil ram their lugs, qo Willie, But I hae scoored her dock! Encore! They Teuk Me to the Haly Band hey teuk me to the haly band, For playin bye my wife, Sir; An lang an sair they lectur’d me, For hadin sic a life, Sir. I answered in na mony wirds, "What deel needs a’ this clatter; "As lang as she coud keep the grip "I aye was mowin at her." Ken ye na Oor Lass, Bess? ken ye na oor lass, Bess? An ken ye na oor lass, Bess? Between her lily white thies She’s biggit a magpie’s nest. An ken ye na oor lad, Tam? An ken ye na oor lad, Tam? He’s on o a three-fitted stool, An up to the nest he clamb. An what did he there, think ye? An what did he there, think ye? He brak a’ the eggs o the nest, An the white’s ran doun her thie Blythe Will an Bessie’s Weddin There was a weddin ower in Fife, An mony ane frae Lothian at it; Jean Vernor there maist lost her life, For love o Jamie Howden at it. Blythe Will an Bessie’s weddin, Blythe Will an Bessie’s weddin, Haed I been Will, Bess haed been mine, An Bess an I haed made the weddin. Richt sair she grat, an wet her cheeks, An naething pleased that we coud gie her; She tint her hert in Jeamie’s breeks, It cam nae back to Lothian wi her. Tammie Tamson too was there, Maggie Birnie was his dearie, He pat it in amang the hair, An puddled there till he was weary. When e’enin cam the toun was thrang, An beds were no to get for siller; When e’er they fand a want o room, They lay in pairs like breid an butter. Twa an twa they made the bed, An twa an twa they lay the gither; When they haed na room eneuch, Ilk ane lap on abuin the tither. The Reels o Bogie You lads an lasses a’ that dwell In the toun o Strathbogie, Whene’er you meet a pretty lass, Be shuir you tip her coggie. The lads an lasses toy an kiss, The lads ne’er think it is amiss To bang the holes whereout they piss, An that’s the reels o Bogie. There’s Kent, an Keen, an Aiberdeen, An the toun o Strathbogie, Where every lad mey have his lass, Nou that I’ve got my coggie. They spreid wide their snaw-white thies An rowe aboot their wanton een, An when they see your pintle rise They’ll dance the reels o Bogie. A trooper gaun ower the lea, He swore that he wad steer me, An lang before the brak o day, He giggled, goggled near me. He put a stiff thing in my hand, I could not bear the bangin o’t But lang before he went awa I suppled baith the ends o’t. His pintle was o largest size, Indeed it was a banger, He socht a prize between my thies Till it became a hanger. Haed you but seen the wee bit skin - He haed to put his pintle in, You’d sworn it was a chitterlin Dancin the reels o Bogie. He turned aboot to fire again An gie me t’other sally, An as he fired I ne’er retired But received him in my alley. His pebbles they went thump, thump, Against my little wanton rump, But suin I left him but the stump To dance the reels o Bogie. Said I, young man, mair you can’t dae, I think I’ve granted your desire, By bobbin on my wanton clue, You see your pintle’s a’ on fire. When on my back I work like steel An bar the door wi my left heel, The mair you fuck the less I feel, An that’s the reels o Bogie. The Bonniest Lass The bonniest lass that ye meet neist Gie her a kiss an a’ that, In spite o ilka pairish priest, Repentin stool, an a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, Their mim-mou’d sangs an a’ that, In time an place convenient, They’ll do’t themsels for a’ that. Your patriarchs in days o yore, Haed their handmaids an a’ that; O bastard gets, some haed a score An some haed mair than a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, Your langsyne saunts, an a’ that, Were fonder o a bonnie lass, Than you or I, for a’ that. King Davie, when he waxed auld, An’s bluid ran thin, an a’ that, An fand his cods were growin cauld, Could not refrain, for a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, To keep him warm an a’ that, The dochters o Jerusalem Were waled for him, an a’ that. Wha wadna peety thae sweet dames He fumbled at, an a’ that, An raised their bluid up into flames He couldna droun, for a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, He wanted pith, an a’ that; For, as to what we shall not name, What could he dae but claw that. King Solomon, prince o divines, Wha proverbs made, an a’ that, Baith mistresses an concubines In hundreds haed, for a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, Tho a preacher wice an a’ that, The smuttiest sang that e’er was sung His Sang o Sangs is a’ that. Then still I swear, a clever chiel Should kiss a lass, an a’ that, Tho priests consign him to the deil, As reprobate, an a’ that. For a’ that an a’ that, Their cantin stuff, an a’ that, They ken nae mair wha’s reprobate Than you or I, for a’ that. Oor John’s Brak Yestreen Twa neebor wifes sat i’ the sun, A twynin at their rocks, An they an airgument began, An a’ the plea was cocks. ’twas whether they were sinnens strang, Or whether they were bane? An how they rowed aboot your thoum, An how they stan’t themlane? First, Raichie gae her rock a rug, An syne she clawed her tail; When oor Tam draws on his breeks, It waigles like a flail. " Says Bess, "they’re bane I will maintain, "An pruif in haun I’ll gie; "For oor John’s it brak yestreen, "An the margh ran doun my thie." Brose an Butter Brose an Butter Gie my Love brose, brose, Gie my Love brose an butter; An gie my Love brose, brose, Yestreen he wanted his supper. Jenny sits up i’ the laft, Jocky wad fain a been at her; There cam a win’ oot o the wast Made a’ the windaes to clatter. Gie my Love brose &c. A dow’s a denty dish; A goose is hollow within; A sicht wad mak you blush, But a’ the fun’s to fin’. Gie my &c. My Dadie sent me to the hill, To powe my minnie some heather; An drive it in your fill, Ye’re welcome to the leather. Gie my &c. A moose is a merry wee beast; A modewurck wants the een; An O for the touch o the thing I haed i’ my nieve yestreen. Gie my Love &c. The lark she loes the gress; The hen she loes the stibble; An hey for the Gar’ner lad, To gully awa wi his dibble.-- There Cam a Cadger There cam a cadger oot o Fife, I watna how they ca’d him; He played a trick to oor gudewife, When fient a body bad him. Fal, lal, &c. He teuk a lang thing stoot an strang, An strack it in her gyvel; An ay she swore she fand the thing Ge borin by her nyvel. Fal, lal, &c. Cuddy the Cooper There was a cooper they ca’d him Cuddy, He was the best cooper that ever I saw; He cam to girth oor landlady’s tubbie, He banged her buttocks again the wa’. Cooper qo she, hae ye ony money? The deevil a penny, qo Cuddy, at a’! She teuk oot her purse, an she gied him a guinea, For bangin her buttocks again the wa’. Comin Ower the Hills o Coupar Donald Brodie met a lass, Comin ower the hills o Coupar, Donald wi his Hieland hand Graipit a’ the bits aboot her. Comin ower the hills o Coupar, Comin ower the hills o Coupar, Donald in a sudden wrath He ran his Hieland durk into her. Weel I wat she was a quine, Wad made a body’s mooth to watter; Oor Mess John, wi’s auld grey pow, His haly lips wad licket at her. Up she started in a fricht, Throu the braes what she could bicker: Let her gang, qo Donald, nou For in him’s nerse my shot is siccar. Kate Mackie cam frae Parlon craigs, The road was foul tweesh that an Couper; She shaw’d a pair o handsome legs, When Hieland Donald he owertook her. Comin ower the muir o Couper, Comin ower the muir o Couper, Donald fell in love wi her An rowed his Hieland plaid aboot her. They teuk them to the Logan steps An set them doun to rest thegither, Donald laid her on her back An fired a Hieland pistol at her. Lochleven Castle heard the rair, An Falkland-hoose the echo sounded; Hieland Donald gae a stare, The lassie siched, but was nae wounded. Denty Davie Bein pursued by the dragoons, Within my bed he was laid doun An weel I wat he was worth his room, My ain dear denty Davie. O leeze me on his curly pow, Bonnie Davie, denty Davie; Leeze me on his curly pow, He was my denty Davie. My minnie laid him at my back, I trow he lay na lang at that, But turned, an in a vera crack Produced a denty Davie. Then in the field amang the pease, Behin’ the hoose o Cherrytrees, Again he wan atweesh my thies, An, splash! gaed oot his gravy. But haed I gowd, or haed I land, It should be a’ at his command; I’ll ne’er forget what he pat i’ my hand , It was a denty Davie. Put Butter In My Donald’s Brose Put butter in my Donald’s brose, For weel dis Donald fa’ that; I loe my Donald’s tartans weel His naked erse an a’ that. For a’ that, an a’ that, An twice as meikle’s a’ that, The lassie gat a skelpit doup, But wan the day for a’ that. For Donald swore a solemn aith, By his first hairy gravat! That he wad fecht the battle there, An stick the lass, an a’ that. His hairy ballocks, side an wide, Hang like a beggar’s wallet; A pentle like a roarin-pin, She nichered when she saw that!!! Then she turned up her hairy cunt, An she bade Donald claw that; The deevil’s dizzen Donald drew, An Donald gied her a’ that. Duncan Macleerie Duncan Macleerie an Janet his wife, They gaed to Kilmarnock to buy a new knife; But insteed o a knife they coft but a bleerie; We’re very weel saird. qo Duncan Macleerie. Duncan Macleerie haes got a new fiddle, It’s a’ strung wi hair, an a hole in the middle; An ay when he plays on’t, his wife leuks sae cheary, Very weel duin, Duncan, qo Janet Macleerie. Duncan he played till his bow it grew greasy; Janet grew fretfu, an unco uneasy. Hoot, qo she, Duncan, ye’re unco suin weary; Play us a pibroch, qo Janet Macleerie. Duncan Macleerie played on the herp, An Janet Macleerie danced in her sark; Her sark it was short, her cunt it was hairy, Very weel danced, Janet, qo Duncan Macleerie. Epitaph for Johannes Fuscus Hic Jacet Quondam Horologiorum Faber In Mauchline Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’, He aften did assist ye! Tho ye haed bidden years awa Your wifes wad ne’er hae miss’t ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as bye ye pass To schuil in bands thegither, O tread but lichtly on the gress, Perhaps he was your faither! Key: Johannes Fuscus: "Dark-avisit John", ie John Broun Epitaph for Hugh Logan, esq., o Laight Here lyes Squire Hugh--ye harlot crew, Come mak your watter on him, I’m shuir that he weel pleased wad be To think ye pished upon him. Errock Brae O Errock stane, mey never maid, A maiden by thee gae, Nor e’er a stane o stanin graith, Gae stanin ower the brae. An tillin Errock brae, young man, An tillin Errock brae, An open fur an stanin graith, Maun till the Errock brae. As I sat by the Errock stane, Surveyin far an near, Up cam a Cameronian, Wi a’ his preachin gear. He flang the Bible ower the brae, Amang the rashy gerse; But the solemn league an covenant He laid below my erse. But on the edge o Errock brae, He gae me sic a sten, That ower, an ower, an ower we rowed, Till we cam to the glen. Yet still his pentle held the grip, An still his ballocks hang; That a Synod coud na tell the erse To wham they did belang. A Prelate he lowps on before, A Catholic behin’, But gie me a Cameronian, He’ll mowe a body blin’. Gie the Lass Her Fairin O gie the lass her fairin lad, O gie the lass her fairin, An something else she’ll gie to you, That’s waly worth the wearin; Syne cowp her ower amang the creels, When ye hae taen your brandy, The mair she bangs the less she squeels, An hey for houghmagandie. Then gie the lass a fairin, lad, O gie the lass her fairin, An she’ll gie you a hairy thing, An o it be na sparin; But cowp her ower amang the creels, An bar the door wi baith your heels, The mair she bangs the less she squeels, An hey for houghmagandie. To Alexander Findlater Dear Sir, oor Lucky humbly begs Ye’ll pree her caller, new-laid eggs: Lord grant the Cock mey keep his legs, Abuin the Chuckies; An wi his kittle, forket clegs, Claw weel their dockies! Haed Fate that curst me in her ledger, A Poet puir, & poorer Gager, Created me that feathered Sodger, A generous Cock, How I wad craw & strut an roger My kecklin Flock! Burkit wi mony a bien, braw feather, I wad defied the warst o weather: When corn or bear I could na gaither To gie my burdies; I’d treated them wi caller heather, An weel-knoozed hurdies. Nae cursed CLERICAL EXCISE On honest Natur’s laws & ties; Free as the vernal breeze that flees At early day, We’d tasted Natur’s richest joys, But stint or stey.-- But as this subject’s something kittle, Oor wicest way’s to say but little; An while my Muse is at her mettle, I am, maist fervent, Or mey I dee upon a whittle! Your Freend & Servant