Robert Burns

Tune - *Laddie, lie near me.*


I.

    'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin;
    Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing:
    'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
    'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.

II.

    Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
    Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me!
    But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
    Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

III.

    Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
    And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
    And thou'rt the angel that never can alter -
    Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

    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, through the starting tear,
        Survey this grave.

    The poor inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn and wise to know,
    And keen...

    Expect na, Sir, in this narration,
    A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication,
    To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
    An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
    Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace;
    Perhaps related to the race;
    Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are ye,
    Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
    Set up a face, how I stop short,
    For fear your modesty be hurt.

    This may do, maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
    Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
    For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
    For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
    And when I downa yoke a naig,
    Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
    Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
    It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

    The Poet, some guid angel help him...

    "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;
    But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."

On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following "Address."


    Guid-mornin' to your Majesty!
        May Heaven augment your blisses,
    On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,
        A humble poet wishes!
    My bardship here, at your levee,
        On sic a day as this is,
    Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
        Amang thae birth-day dresses
        Sae fine this day.

    I see ye're complimented thrang,
        By many a lord an' lady;
   ...

Tune - "John Anderson my jo."


    One night as I did wander,
        When corn begins to shoot,
    I sat me down to ponder,
        Upon an auld tree root:
    Auld Ayr ran by before me,
        And bicker'd to the seas;
    A cushat crooded o'er me,
        That echoed thro' the braes.

    O thou, who kindly dost provide
        For every creature's want!
    We bless thee, God of Nature wide,
        For all thy goodness lent:
    And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,
        May never worse be sent;
    But, whether granted or denied,
        Lord bless us with content!
                    Amen.

    O thou in whom we live and move,
        Who mad'st the sea and shore,
    Thy goodness constantly we prove,
        And grateful would adore.
    And if it please thee, Power above,
        Still grant us with such store,
    The friend we trust, the fair we love,
        And we desire no more.

    Lord, we thank and thee adore,
        For temp'ral gifts we little merit;
    At present we will ask no more,
        Let William Hyslop give the spirit.

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,  
        And pierc'd my darling's heart;  
    And with him all the joys are fled  
        Life can to me impart.  
    By cruel hands the sapling drops,  
        In dust dishonour'd laid:  
    So fell the pride of all my hopes,  
        My age's future shade.

    The mother-linnet in the brake  
        Bewails her ravish'd young;  
    So I, for my lost darling's sake,  
        Lament the live day long.  
    Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,  
        Now, fond I bare my breast,  
    O, do thou kindly lay me low  
        With him I love, at rest!

    O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
        Of all my hope and fear?
    In whose dread presence, ere an hour
        Perhaps I must appear!

    If I have wander'd in those paths
        Of life I ought to shun;
    As something, loudly, in my breast,
        Remonstrates I have done;

    Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me,
        With passions wild and strong;
    And list'ning to their witching voice
        Has often led me wrong.

    Where human weakness has come short,
        Or frailty stept aside,
    Do Thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
        In shades of darkness hide.

    Where with intention I have err'd,
        No other plea I have,
    But, Thou art good; and goodness still
        Delighteth to forgi...

    O Thou Great Being! what Thou art
        Surpasses me to know;
    Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
        Are all Thy works below.

    Thy creature here before Thee stands,
        All wretched and distrest;
    Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
        Obey Thy high behest.

    Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
        From cruelty or wrath!
    O, free my weary eyes from tears,
        Or close them fast in death!

    But if I must afflicted be,
        To suit some wise design;
    Then, man my soul with firm resolves
        To bear and not repine!

Tune - "Graham's Strathspey."


I.

    O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
        That's newly sprung in June:
    O, my luve's like the melodie,
        That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
        So deep in luve am I:
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
        'Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

    'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
        And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
    I will luve thee still, my dear,
        While the sands o' life shall run.

IV.

    And fare thee weel, my only luve!
        And fare thee weel a-while!
    And I will come again, my luve,
        Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Tune - "*The Rose-bud.*"


I.

    A rose-bud by my early walk,
    Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
    Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
        All on a dewy morning.
    Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
    In a' its crimson glory spread,
    And drooping rich the dewy head,
        It scents the early morning.

II.

    Within the bush, her covert nest
    A little linnet fondly prest,
    The dew sat chilly on her breast
        Sae early in the morning.
    She soon shall see her tender brood,
    The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
    Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
        Awake the early morning.

III.

    So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
    On trembling string or vocal air,
    Shall sweetly pay the tender care
        That tends thy early morning.
    So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
    Shalt beauteous ...

    As I stood by yon roofless tower,
        Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
    Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower
        And tells the midnight moon her care;

    The winds were laid, the air was still,
        The Stars they shot along the sky;
    The fox was howling on the hill,
        And the distant echoing glens reply.

    The stream, adown its hazelly path,
        Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
    Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,[1]
        Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

    The cauld blue north was streaming forth
        Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
    Athort the lift they start and shift,
        Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

    By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,<...

    "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are
    That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!
    How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
    Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you
    From seasons such as these?"

Shakspeare.


    When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
    Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
    When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r
        Far south the lift,
    Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r,
        Or whirling drift:

    Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
    Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
    While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,
        Wild-eddying swirl.
    Or through the mining outlet bocked,
        Down headlong hurl.

    Listening, the doors an' win...

    Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
    Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
    Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,
    Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
    May twin auld Scotland o' a life
    She likes, as lambkins like a knife.
    Faith, you and A----s were right
    To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
    I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
    Than let them ance out owre the water;
    Then up among the lakes and seas
    They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
    Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin';
    May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
    Some Washington again may head them,
    Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
    Till God knows what may be effected
    When by such heads and hearts directed,
    P...

    Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me,
    If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
    Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,
        My sweet wee lady,
    Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
        Tit-ta or daddy.

    Wee image of my bonny Betty,
    I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,
    As dear and near my heart I set thee
        Wi' as gude will
    As a' the priests had seen me get thee
        That's out o' hell.

    What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
    An' tease my name in kintry clatter:
    The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
        E'en let them clash;
    An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
        To gie ane fash.

    Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
    My funny toil is now a' tint,
    Sin' t...

I.

    Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
        All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
    Where once beneath a monarch's feet
        Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!
    From marking wildly-scatter'd 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.

II.

    Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
        As busy Trade his labour plies;
    There Architecture's noble pride
        Bids elegance and splendour rise;
    Here Justice, from her native skies,
        High wields her balance and her rod;
    There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
        Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

    Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,
        With...