---
title: "On a Scotch Bard, Gone to the West Indies"
author: "Robert Burns"
form: "Poem"
year: "1786"
location: "Mossgiel"
source: "Project Gutenberg #1279 — Poems and Songs of Robert Burns"
source_url: "https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1279/pg1279.txt"
canonical_url: "https://robert-burns.com/poems/on-a-scotch-bard-gone-to-the-west-indies/"
---

# On a Scotch Bard, Gone to the West Indies

## Poem
A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink,  
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,  
A’ ye wha live and never think,  
Come, mourn wi’ me!  
Our billie ’s gien us a’ a jink,  
An’ owre the sea!

Lament him a’ ye rantin core,  
Wha dearly like a random splore;  
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar;  
In social key;  
For now he’s taen anither shore.  
An’ owre the sea!

The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,  
And in their dear petitions place him:  
The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him  
Wi’ tearfu’ e’e;  
For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him  
That’s owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!  
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,  
Wha can do nought but fyke an’ fumble,  
’Twad been nae plea;  
But he was gleg as ony wumble,  
That’s owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,  
An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;  
’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,  
In flinders flee:  
He was her Laureat mony a year,  
That’s owre the sea!

He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west  
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;  
A jillet brak his heart at last,  
Ill may she be!  
So, took a berth afore the mast,  
An’ owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune’s cummock,  
On a scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,  
Wi’ his proud, independent stomach,  
Could ill agree;  
So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock,  
An’ owre the sea.

He ne’er was gien to great misguidin,  
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;  
Wi’ him it ne’er was under hiding;  
He dealt it free:  
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,  
That’s owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,  
An’ hap him in cozie biel:  
Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel,  
An’ fou o’ glee:  
He wad na wrang’d the vera deil,  
That’s owre the sea.

Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie!  
Your native soil was right ill-willie;  
But may ye flourish like a lily,  
Now bonilie!  
I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie,  
Tho’ owre the sea!

---

Source: [Project Gutenberg #1279 — Poems and Songs of Robert Burns](https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1279/pg1279.txt)  
Canonical HTML: https://robert-burns.com/poems/on-a-scotch-bard-gone-to-the-west-indies/