Robert Burns

“ Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild: But woman, nature's darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain! Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. ”

“ As o'er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, And aye she set the wheel between: But Duncan swoor a haly aith, That Meg should be a bride the morn; Then Meg took up her spinning-graith, And flang them a' out o'er the burn. We will big a wee, wee house, And we will live like king and queen; Sae blythe and merry's we will be, When ye set by the wheel at e'en. A man may drink, and no be drunk; A man may fight, and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonie lass, And aye be welcome back again! ”

“ And aye the wild-wood echoes rang— “O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! “O, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my Dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, 'I'm thine for ever!' While mony a kiss the seal imprest— The sacred vow we ne'er should sever.” The haunt o' Spring's the primrose-brae, The Summer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her short'ning day, Is Autumn in her weeds o' yellow; But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? ”

“ In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree, And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the Lass of Albany. But there's a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We'll send him o'er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany. Alas the day, and woe the day, A false usurper wan the gree, Who now commands the towers and lands— The royal right of Albany. We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, On bended knees most fervently, The time may come, with pipe an' drum We'll welcome hame fair Albany. ”

“ Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! Mourn, Empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson! the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever! And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! ”

“ We'll ne'er forget The People!
Address To The Woodlark Tune—“Loch Erroch Side.” O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that wad touch her heart Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken! Thou tells o' never-ending care; O'speechless grief, and dark despair: For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! ”

“ There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! Here's Kenmure's health in wine! There's ne'er a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, O Kenmure's lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their foes shall ken. They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie; They'll live or die wi' fame; But sune, wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame! Here's him that's far awa, Willie! ”

“ Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lour; (And ne'er Misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind, Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow, Of conscious Honour's part; And (dearest gift of Heaven below) Thine Friendship's truest heart. The joys refin'd of Sense and Taste, With every Muse to rove: And doubly were the Poet blest, These joys could he improve. ”

“ The Kettle o' the Kirk and State, Perhaps a clout may fail in't; But deil a foreign tinkler loun Shall ever ca'a nail in't. Our father's blude the Kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By Heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it! By Heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it! The wretch that would a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-born brother, Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne, May they be damn'd together! Who will not sing “God save the King,” Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing “God save the King,” We'll ne'er forget The People! ”

“ Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!
Bonie Jean—A Ballad To its ain tune. There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk or market to be seen; When a' our fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And aye she sang sae merrilie; The blythest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest. ”

“ The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily! But fairer and purer her breast. Awa' wi' your belles, &c. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye. Awa' wi' your belles, &c. Her voice is the song o' the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa' wi' your belles, &c. But beauty, how frail and how fleeting! ”

“ But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me.
Open The Door To Me, Oh Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, oh, Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, oh. Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh: The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh. The wan Moon is setting beyond the white wave, And Time is setting with me, oh: False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh. ”

“ O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier O bonie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; And bonie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure, amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; But love is far a sweeter flower, Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless, wild and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the warld nor wish nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. ”

“ A Bard's Epitaph Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave, Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. ”

“ While thro' your sweets she holds her way, O tell me, does she muse on me?”
Thou Gloomy December Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember— Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair! Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure! Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown ”

“ Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! ”

“ As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is; Sae droops our heart, when we maun part Frae charming, lovely Davies. Her smile's a gift frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes; A sceptred hand, a king's command, Is in her darting glances; The man in arms 'gainst female charms Even he her willing slave is, He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My Muse, to dream of such a theme, Her feeble powers surrender: The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour. I wad in vain essay the strain, The deed too daring brave is ”

“ Address To The Toothache My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor's sympathy can ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee—thou hell o' a' diseases— Aye mocks our groan. Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup! ”

“ Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe; The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side; Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide That life a mother only can bestow! Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ”

“ O let me live, and die, and think it mine! “I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn By driving winds the crackling flames are borne;” Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night, Then bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight: In vain the laws their feeble force oppose, Chain'd at Love's feet, they groan, his vanquish'd foes. In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye, I dare not combat, but I turn and fly: Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire, Love grasps her scorpions—stifled they expire! Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone ”

“ Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led! Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs; Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs: From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. ”

“ The mavis wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae: The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang. I was the Queen o' bonie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there ”

“ Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care For thee is laughing Nature gay, For thee she pours the vernal day; For me in vain is Nature drest, While Joy's a stranger to my breast.
Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul Clarinda, mistres of my soul, The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy? We part—but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise! ”

“ Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie: There Simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last Farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden Hours on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my Dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender ”

“ If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I—let the Critics go whistle! But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory, At once may illustrate and honour my story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right; A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, For using thy name, offers fifty excuses. Good Lord, what is Man! ”

“ By my soul, I'll dance with you, Dumourier. Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till Freedom's spark be out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.
The Last Time I Came O'er The Moor The last time I came o'er the moor, And left Maria's dwelling, What throes, what tortures passing cure, Were in my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to see my rival's reign, While I in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my crime would cover ”

“ Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. “Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?” Began the rev'rend sage; “Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man. ”

“ To grant a heart is fairly civil, But to grant a maidenhead's the devil. An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, May guardian angels tak a spell, An' steer you seven miles south o' hell: But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get mony a merry story, Mony a laugh, and mony a drink, And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink. Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you: For my sake, this I beg it o' you, Assist poor Simson a' ye can, Ye'll fin; him just an honest man; Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your's, saint or sinner, Rob the Ranter. ”

“ He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our claud shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour, Till waukrife morn! ”

“ The chill blast passes swiftly by, And flits around thy bier. Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, And sad their house of rest: Low lies the head, by Death's cold arms In awful fold embrac'd. I saw the grim Avenger stand Incessant by thy side; Unseen by thee, his deadly breath Thy lingering frame destroy'd. Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, And wither'd was thy bloom, Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb. Thus wasted are the ranks of men— Youth, Health, and Beauty fall; The ruthless ruin spreads around, And overwhelms us all. ”

“ Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the Rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm.— Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, The hour approaches Tam maun ride ”

“ And they hae taen his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland! ”

“ Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe Her sorrows share, and make them less? Ye winged hours that o'er us pass'd, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd: That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom! The morn, that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe ”

“ But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of Age; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Sinks in Time's wintry rage. Oh, Age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain: Thou golden time, o' Youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again!
Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves Tune—“My lodging is on the cold ground.” Behold, my love, how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair; The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flowing hair. The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, And o'er the cottage sings: For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To Shepherds as to Kings. ”

“ The Whistle—A Ballad I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— “The Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!” Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell: The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. ”

“ Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life's gloomy foe! Go, frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know No terrors hast thou to the brave! Thou strik'st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero—a glorious mark; He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands, Our King and our country to save; While victory shines on Life's last ebbing sands,— O! who would not die with the brave! ”

“ Song Composed In August Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.” Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fruitful fells, The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains: Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it ”