If music be the feud

If music be the food of love, play on.

So say thee, Shakespeare, England's favoured son.

Ah Burns, dear fellow poet, you're well met.

Nay, Sassen: goodwill, never shall thee get.

Why Rabbie, whither went thy auld lang syne?

Belay it beard, or hurley-burley shall be thine.

Thou sayest freedom’s sword will strongly draw?

Aye, Fra Afon! Fa Wallace, king and law.

Thou presseth me thou Caledonian cur.

For injuries thou doest, turn and draw.

As you like it, so you will regret.

Call here, I’ll unarm thee again, varlet.

So set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide.

You, old man, best flee to save thy hide.

Wha daur bring in a boy whose claims are wide.

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee. Bide!

Wi’ murd’ring pattle? Thou sayest, verily?

Come, dear friend, perhaps I spoke hasty.

And you a wee cowrin, tim'rous beastie?

Ha! ha! You wag, forsooth you make me chortle.

Let us embrace, then, sit and raise a bottle.

Indeed your English ale will slake a thirst.

Then to it, bardic comradeship come first.

We'll drink the night away then full day next.

At length to cross the sword wi bladders vexed.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere! And gie’s a hand o’ thine!

And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne.

Translation notes