There'll Never Be Peace.

Tune - "There art few gude fellows when Willie's awa."


I.

    By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
    I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
    And as he was singing the tears down came,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
    The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
    Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars:
    We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

II.

    My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
    And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.
    It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
    Now life is a burthen that bows me down,
    Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
    But till my last moments my words are the same,
    There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

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

Is There, For Honest Poverty.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Prayer For Adam Armour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Braw Lads Of Galla Water.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

    Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
    Heaven send your hear...

Robert Burns

Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain.

Tune - "The carlin o' the glen."


I.

    Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain,
    Sae gallant and sae gay a swain;
    Thro' a' our lasses he did rove,
    And reign'd resistless king of love:
    But now wi' sighs and starting tears,
    He strays amang the woods and briers;
    Or in the glens and rocky caves
    His sad complaining dowie raves.

II.

    I wha sae late did range and rove,
    And chang'd with every moon my love,
    I little thought the time was near,
    Repentance I should buy sae dear:
    The slighted maids my torment see,
    And laugh at a' the pangs I dree;
    While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair,
    Forbids me e'er to see her mair!

Robert Burns

Logan Water.

I.

    O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
    That day I was my Willie's bride!
    And years synsyne hae o'er us run
    Like Logan to the simmer sun.
    But now thy flow'ry banks appear
    Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
    While my dear lad maun face his faes,
    Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

II.

    Again the merry month o' May
    Has made our hills and valleys gay;
    The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
    The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
    Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
    And Evening's tears are tears of joy:
    My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
    While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

III.

    Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
    Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;

Robert Burns

Wandering Willie. (Last Version.)

I.

    Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
        Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
    Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
        Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

II.

    Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
        Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e;
    Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
        The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

III.

    Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
        How your dread howling a lover alarms!
    Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
        And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

IV.

    But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
        Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main;
    ...

Robert Burns

The Laddies By The Banks O' Nith.

    The laddies by the banks o' Nith,
        Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie,
    But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King,
        Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

    Up and waur them a', Jamie,
        Up and waur them a';
    The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't,
        Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

    The day he stude his country's friend,
        Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:
    Or frae puir man a blessin' wan,
        That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

    But wha is he, his country's boast?
        Like him there is na twa, Jamie,
    There's no a callant tents the kye,
        But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

    To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,^[1]
        Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;
    And Maxwell ...

Robert Burns

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

Robert Burns