Prologue Spoken By Mr. Woods On His Benefit Night, Monday, 16 April, 1787.

    When by a generous Public's kind acclaim,
    That dearest meed is granted, honest fame;
    When here your favour is the actor's lot,
    Nor even the man in private life forgot;
    What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
    But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?

    Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
    It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song;
    But here an ancient nation fam'd afar,
    For genius, learning high, as great in war,
    Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear!
    Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear!
    Where every science, every nobler art,
    That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
    Is known; as grateful nations oft have found
    Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
    Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,
    Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
    Here History paints, with elegance and force,
    The tide of Empires' fluctuating course;
    Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
    And Harley^[1] rouses all the god in man.
    When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite,
    With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
    (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
    Can only charm as in the second place,)
    Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
    As on this night, I've met these judges here!
    But still the hope Experience taught to live,
    Equal to judge, you're candid to forgive.
    Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
    With decency and law beneath his feet:
    Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
    Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.

    O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand
    Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land!
    Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire:
    May every son be worthy of his sire;
    Firm may she rise with generous disdain
    At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;
    Still self-dependent in her native shore,
    Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
    Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

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

Elegy On Miss Burnet, Of Monboddo.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Dr. Blacklock, In Answer To A Letter.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Banks Of The Devon.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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Scots Prologue, For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries.

        What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
    How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
    Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
    Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
    Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
    Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
    For comedy abroad he need nae toil,
    A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
    Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
    To gather matter for a serious piece;
    There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
    Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

    Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
    How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
    Where are the muses fled that could produce
    A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
    How...

Robert Burns

Prologue, To Public Readings At A Young Gentlemen's Academy.

Once more we venture here, to prove our worth,
And ask indulgence kind, to tempt us forth:
Seek not perfection from our essays green,
That, in man's noblest works, has never been,
Nor is, nor e'er will be; a work exempt
From fault to form, as well might man attempt
T'explore the vast infinity of space,
Or fix mechanic boundaries to grace.
Hard is the finish'd Speaker's task; what then
Must be our danger, to pursue the pen
Of the 'rapt Bard, through all his varied turns,
Where joy extatic smiles, or sorrow mourns?
Where Richard's soul, red in the murtherous lave,
Shrinks from the night-yawn'd tenants of the grave,
While coward conscience still affrights his eye,
Still groans the dagger'd sound, "despair and die."
And hapless Juliet's unextinguish'd flame,
...

Thomas Gent

The Vision.

Duan First.^[1]


    The sun had clos'd the winter day,
    The curlers quat their roaring play,
    An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way
        To kail-yards green,
    While faithless snaws ilk step betray
        Whare she has been.

    The thresher's weary flingin'-tree
    The lee-lang day had tired me;
    And when the day had closed his e'e
        Far i' the west,
    Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
        I gaed to rest.

    There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
    I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
    That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
        The auld clay biggin';
    An' heard the restless rattons squeak
        About the riggin'.

    All in this mottie, misty clime,
    I backward m...

Robert Burns

The Cotter's Saturday Night. - Inscribed To Robert Aiken, Esq.

    "Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
    Their homely joys, and destiny obscure:
    Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
    The short and simple annals of the poor."

Gray


I.

        My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
            No mercenary bard his homage pays;
        With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
            My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
        To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
            The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
        The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
            What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
    Ah! tho' his work unknown, far happier there, I ween!

II.

        November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

Robert Burns

Fragment Inscribed To The Right Hon. C.J. Fox.

    How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite;
    How virtue and vice blend their black and their white;
    How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction,
    Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,
    I sing: 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 mere lucky hits;
    With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
    No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong;
    With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
    No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;
    A sorry, poor mis...

Robert Burns

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water To The Noble Duke Of Athole.

I.

    My Lord, I know your noble ear
        Woe ne'er assails in vain;
    Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
        Your humble slave complain,
    How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams
        In flaming summer-pride,
    Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
        And drink my crystal tide.

II.

    The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
        That thro' my waters play,
    If, in their random, wanton spouts,
        They near the margin stray;
    If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
        I'm scorching up so shallow,
    They're left the whitening stanes amang,
        In gasping death to wallow.

III.

    Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
        As Poet Burns came by,
    That to a bard I shou...

Robert Burns