The Inventory of the Poet's Goods and Chattels

Sir, as your mandate did request,

I send you here a faithfu' list,

O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,

To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

Imprimis then, for carriage cattle,

I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,

As ever drew afore a pettle;

My han' afore's a gude auld has-been,

An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been;

My han' ahin's a weel gaun fillie,

That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,

An' your auld burrough monie a time,

In days when riding was nae crime—

But ance whan in my wooing pride

I like a blockhead boost to ride,

The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,

(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too!)

I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,

She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.

My furr-ahin's a wordy beast,

As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd,—

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,

A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie.

Foreby a Cowte, o' Cowte's the wale,

As ever ran afore a tail;

If he be spar'd to be a beast,

He'll draw me fifteen pun at least.—

Wheel carriages I ha'e but few,

Three carts, an' twa are feckly new;

Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,

Ae leg, an' baith the trams, are broken;

I made a poker o' the spin'le,

An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys,

Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise;

A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,

Wee Davock hauds the nowte in fother.

I rule them as I ought discreetly,

An' often labour them completely.

An' ay on Sundays duly nightly,

I on the questions tairge them tightly;

Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg,

Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,

He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,

As fast as onie in the dwalling.—

I've nane in female servan' station,

(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!)

I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is,

An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;

An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,

I ken the devils dare na touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,

Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted.

My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,

She stares the daddy in her face,

Enough of ought ye like but grace.

But her, my bonie sweet wee lady,

I've paid enough for her already,

An' gin ye tax her or her mither,

B' the Lord, ye'se get them 'a thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,

Nac kind of license out I'm takin';

Frae this time forth, I do declare,

I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;

My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,

I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!—

The Kirk an' you may tak' you that,

It puts but little in your pat;

Sae dinna put me in your buke,

Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it,

Day an' date as under notet:

Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic,

Robert Burns.

Mossgiel, February 22nd, 1786.