John Barleycorn: A Ballad.

I.

    There were three kings into the east,
        Three kings both great and high;
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn should die.

II.

    They took a plough and plough'd him down,
        Put clods upon his head;
    And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

    But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
        And show'rs began to fall;
    John Barleycorn got up again,
        And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

    The sultry suns of summer came,
        And he grew thick and strong;
    His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears
        That no one should him wrong.

V.

    The sober autumn enter'd mild,
        When he grew wan and pale;
    His beading joints and drooping head
        Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

    His colour sicken'd more and more,
        He faded into age;
    And then his enemies began
        To show their deadly rage.

VII.

    They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
        And cut him by the knee;
    Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
        Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

    They laid him down upon his back,
        And cudgell'd him full sore;
    They hung him up before the storm.
        And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.

    They filled up a darksome pit
        With water to the brim;
    They heaved in John Barleycorn,
        There let him sink or swim.

X.

    They laid him out upon the floor,
        To work him farther woe;
    And still, as signs of life appear'd,
        They toss'd him to and fro.

XI.

    They wasted o'er a scorching flame
        The marrow of his bones;
    But a miller us'd him worst of all,
        He crush'd him 'tween the stones.

XII.

    And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
        And drank it round and round;
    And still the more and more they drank,
        Their joy did more abound.

XIII.

    John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
        Of noble enterprise;
    For if you do but taste his blood,
        'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV.

    '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.

XV.

    Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
        Each man a glass in hand;
    And may his great posterity
        Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

To The Men And Brethren Of The Masonic Lodge At Tarbolton.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To John M'Murdo, Esq.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Bonnie Lesley.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O, For Ane-And-Twenty, Tam!

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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By the old tavern door on the causey there lay
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The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained
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The Great Calamity

MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst
When summer days were hot,
And bided there wi' Jock MacThirst,
A brawny brother Scot.
Good faith! They made the whisky fly
Like Highland chieftains true,
And when they'd drunk the beaker dry
They sang, "We are nae fou!
There's nae folk like oor ain folk,
Sae gallant and sae true."
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Which is, "We are nae fou".
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Aboot their great concerns,
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The Land o' Cakes and Burns,
The land of pairtridge, deer, and grouse;
Fill up your glass, I beg,
There's muckle whiskey i' the house,
Forbye what's in the keg."
And here a hearty laugh he laughed,
"Just come wi' me, I beg."
MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft

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The Whistle.

    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,^[1] still rueing the arm of Fingal,
    The god of the bottle sends down from his hall,
    "This 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 his whistle his requiem shrill.

    Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
    Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
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The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To The Scotch Representatives In The House Of Commons.

    'Dearest of distillation! last and best!----
    ------How art thou lost!--------'

Parody On Milton


    Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
    Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
    An' doucely manage our affairs
        In Parliament,
    To you a simple Bardie's prayers
        Are humbly sent.

    Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
    Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
    To see her sittin' on her a--e
        Low i' the dust,
    An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,
        An' like to brust!

    Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
    Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
    E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
        On aqua-vitæ;
    An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
  ...

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Scotch Drink.

    "Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
        That's sinking in despair;
    An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
        That's prest wi' grief an' care;
    There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
        Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
    Till he forgets his loves or debts,
        An' minds his griefs no more."

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.


    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,
        An' grate our lug,
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
        In glass or jug.

    O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
    Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
        In glorious faem,
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Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn.

I.

    The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
        By fits the sun's departing beam
    Look'd on the fading yellow woods
        That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
    Beneath a craggy steep, a bard,
        Laden with years and meikle pain,
    In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
        Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

II.

    He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
        Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
    His locks were bleached white with time,
        His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
    And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
        And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
    The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
        To echo bore the notes alang.

III.

    "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,<...

Robert Burns