The Beauties of Burn's Poems/The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie.

THE AULD FARMER's

New-Year Morning Salutation

TO

His Auld Mare, MAGGIE,

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn,
to Hansel in the New Year.

A Gude New-Yer I wish thee, Maggie
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie,
Tho' thou's how-backit now, and knaggie,
I've seen the day,
Thou could hae gaen, like ony stoggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy,
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee duppl't, sleek, and glazie,
A bonny grey;
He shou'd been tight that daur't to raise thee
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank,
A set-weel-down, a shapely, shank,
As e'er tread yird;
And could hae flown out-owre a stank
Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-and-twenty year
Sin' thou was my Gude-father's Mare;
He gied me thee o' tocher clear,
And fifty mark;
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
And thou was stark,

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie;
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny,
Ye ne'er was donsie,
But hamely tawie, quiet, and cannie,
And unco sonsie.

That day ye pranc'd wi' pruske pride;
When ye bure hame my bonny Bride
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride,
Wi' maiden fair!
Kyle-Stewart I cou'd hae bragged wide,
For sio a pair,

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
And wintle like a saumont cobble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels and win',
And ran them till they a' did wauble
Far, far behin'.

When you and I were young and skiegh,
And stable-meals at Fair were driegh,
How thou wad prance, and snere, and skriegh,
And tak the road,
Town's bodies ran, and stood abiegh,
And ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow,
We took the road aye like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith and speed;
But every toil thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpit, hunter cattle,
Might ablins waur'd thee for a brattle,
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
And gart them whaizle;
Nae whip or spur, but just a wattle:
O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble Fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn;
Aft thou and I, in aught hours gaun,
In gude March weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood before our han',
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, and fetch't, and fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
And spread abreed thy weel fill'd briskit,
Wi' pith and power,
Till spretty knowes wad rair't and riskit,
And slippet owre.

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep,
And threaten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kend my Maggie wadna sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart nor car thou never reectit;
The stayest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, and stent, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a',
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw:
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund and twa,
The very warst.

Monie a sair darg we twa hae wrought,
And wi' the weary warl' fought;
And monie an anxious day I thought
We wad been beat;
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin,
And thy auld days may end in starvin,
For my last fou,
A heapit simpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for yon.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' aneanither,
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whar ye may nobly rax your leather
Wi' sma' fatigue.

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819