Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
10 . The Ronalds of the Bennals
I
And proper young lasses and a’, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a’, man.
Braid money to tocher them a’, man; To proper young men, he’ll clink in the hand Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man. As bonie a lass or as braw, man; But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best, And a conduct that beautifies a’, man. The mair admiration they draw, man; While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies, They fade and they wither awa, man, A hint o’ a rival or twa, man; The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gang through the fire, If that wad entice her awa, man. For mair than a towmond or twa, man; The Laird o’ the Ford will straught on a board, If he canna get her at a’, man. The boast of our bachelors a’, man: Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete, She steals our affections awa, man. O’ lasses that live here awa, man, The fau’t wad be mine if they didna shine The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man. My poverty keeps me in awe, man; For making o’ rhymes, and working at times, Does little or naething at a’, man. Nor hae’t in her power to say na, man: For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man. And flee o’er the hills like a craw, man, I can haud up my head wi’ the best o’ the breed, Though fluttering ever so braw, man. O’ pairs o’ guid breeks I hae twa, man; And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps, And ne’er a wrang steek in them a’, man. Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man, A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat; There are no mony poets sae braw, man. To leave me a hundred or twa, man; Nae weel-tocher’d aunts, to wait on their drants, And wish them in hell for it a’, man. Or claughtin’t together at a’, man; I’ve little to spend, and naething to lend, But deevil a shilling I awe, man.