Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 12

Go bring that tuther whisky in,

   An’ put no watter to it;

Fur I mun drink a bumper off,

   To Scotland’s darlin’ poet.

It’s just one hunderd year to-day,

   This Jenewarry morn,

Sin’ in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,

   A rustic bard wur born.

He kittled up his muirland harp,

   To ivvery rustic scene;

An’ sung the ways o’ honest men,

   His Davey an’ his Jean.

There wur nivver a bonny flaar that grew

   Bud what he could admire;

There wur nivver lovely hill or dale

   That suited not his lyre.

At last owd Coilia sed enough,

   Mi bardy thah did sing,

Then gently tuke his muirland harp,

   And brack it ivvery string.

An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,

   Wi’ all its berries red,

Shoo placed it on his noble brow,

   An’ pensively shoo said: —

“So long as Willies brew ther malt,

   An’ Robs and Allans spree;

Mi Burns’s songs an’ Burns’s name,

   Remember’d they shall be.”