Epitaph For James Smith

     Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,
     He aften did assist ye;
     For had ye staid hale weeks awa,
     Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.

     Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
     To school in bands thegither,
     O tread ye lightly on his grass,—­
     Perhaps he was your father!

Adam Armour’s Prayer

     Gude pity me, because I’m little! 
     For though I am an elf o’ mettle,
     An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,
     Jink there or here,
     Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,
     I’m unco queer.

     An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;
     For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,
     Because we stang’d her through the place,
     An’ hurt her spleuchan;
     For whilk we daurna show our face
     Within the clachan.

     An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows,
     And hunted, as was William Wallace,
     Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows,
     An’ sodgers baith;
     But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
     That shamefu’ death!

     Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’—­
     O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell! 
     There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell
     Wi’ hideous din,
     And if he offers to rebel,
     Then heave him in.

     When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink,
     An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
     May Sautan gie her doup a clink
     Within his yett,
     An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
     Red-reekin het.

     Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry—­
     Some devil seize them in a hurry,
     An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry
     Straught through the lake,
     An’ gie their hides a noble curry
     Wi’ oil of aik!

     As for the jurr-puir worthless body! 
     She’s got mischief enough already;
     Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy
     She’s suffer’d sair;
     But, may she wintle in a woody,
     If she wh-e mair!

The Jolly Beggars:  A Cantata^1

     [Footnote 1:  Not published by Burns.]

     Recitativo

     When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
     Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
     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 held the splore,
     To drink their orra duddies;
     Wi’ quaffing an’ 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,