Oh, Tullochgorum's my delight,
gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blythe and merry we's be a',
Blythe and merry, blythe and merry,
Blythe and merry we's be a',
And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blythe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.
There needs na' be sae great a phraise,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fears of want and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
At the reel of Tullochgorum ?
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious blot!
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the dirty, fawning fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum!
It is related that the author of this song was at dinner at the house of a lady named Montgomery, that the guests became excited on a political dispute, and that Mrs. Montgomery asked Mr. Skinner for a song, to put an end to it; expressing at the same time her surprise that so capital a tune as the "Reel of Tullochgorum" had no words to which it could be sung. Mr. Skinner afterwards produced this celebrated effusion, which, in Burns's opinion, was entitled to rank “as the first of songs."
The Rev. John Skinner, being asked by Mr. Fergusson, of Pitfour, what he could do to make him comfortable, gave the following answer:
"Lodged in a canty cell of nine feet square,
Bare bread and sowans and milk my belly's fare;
Shoes for my feet, soft clothing for my back-
If warm, no matter whether blue or black:
In such a sober, low, contented state,
What comfort now need I from rich or great?
Now in my eightieth year, my thread near spun,
My race through poverty and labour run,
Wishing to be by all my flock beloved,
And for long service by my Judge approved;
Death at my door and heaven in my eye,
From rich or great what comfort now need I?
Let but our sacred edifice go on
With cheerfulness until the work be done;
Let but my flock be faithfully supplied,
My friends all with their lot well satisfied;
Then, oh, with joy and comfort from on high
Let me in Christian quiet calmly die,
And lay my ashes in my Grizel's grave,
'Tis all I wish upon the earth to have!
Thus lifted up above all vain desire,
And quench'd each foolish spark of passion's fire,
Deprived of her I justly held so dear,
Nor plagued with idle hope or idle fear,
The smiles or frowns of fortune I defy;
From rich or great what comfort now need I?"
THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.
Он, were I able to rehearse
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw!
A' that kenn'd her would hae sworn
Sic a ewie ne'er was born
Thereabouts, nor far awa'.
She neither needed tar nor keel
To mark her upon hip or heel,
Her crookit hornie did as weel
To ken her by amang them a'.
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot;
Both to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.
A better nor a thriftier beast
Nae honest man need e'er hae wish'd;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now the laddie has a flock
Of mair than thretty head and twa.
The neist I gae to Jean, and now
The bairn sae braw has fauls sae fu',
That lads sae thick come her to woo,
They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind or rain could never wrang her;
Ance she lay an ouk and langer
Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.
When other ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kail for a' the tyke,
My ewie never play'd the like,
But teesed about the barn wa'.
I lookit aye at even for her,
Lest mishanter should come ower her,
Or the fumart micht devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa'.
Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can tell o't without greeting?)
A villain cam', when I was sleeping,
Stow my ewie, horn and a'.
I socht her sair upon the morn,
And down aneath a bush o' thorn,
There I found her crookit horn,
But my ewie was awa'.
But gin I had the loon that did it,
I hae sworn as weel as said it,
Although the laird himsel' forbid it,
I sall gie his neck a thraw.
I never met wi' sic a turn,
At e'en I had baith ewe and horn,
Safe steekit up; but gin the morn
Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'.
A' the claes that we hae worn
Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn;
The loss o' her we could hae borne
Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'.
Oh, had she died o' croup or cauld,
As ewies die when they grow auld,
It hadna been by mony fauld
Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'.
But thus, puir thing, to lose her life
Beneath a bluidy villain's knife,—
In troth I fear that our gudewife
Will never get abune't ava.
Oh, a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call up your Muses, let them mourn,
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn
Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'.
THE AULD MINISTER'S SONG.
REV. JOHN SKINNER. Air-" Auld lang syne."
SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
Or friendship e'er grow cauld?
Should we nae tighter draw the knot,
Aye as we're growing auld?
How comes it then, my worthy frien',
Who used to be sae kin',
We dinna for each ither speer,
As we did langsyne?
What though I am some aulder grown,
An' ablins nae sae gay;
What though these locks, ance hazel brown, Are now well mix'd wi' gray:
I'm sure my heart nae caulder grows,
But as my years decline,
Still friendship's flame as warmly glows
Sae well's I min' upo' the days
That we in youthfu' pride
Had used to ramble up the braes
On bonny Boggie's side.
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