Robert Burns

WEE, modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonie gem. Alas! it’s

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where’er he go, where’er he stray, May heaven be his

Is there, for honest Poverty That hings his head, and a’ that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure,

Chorus.-Ca’the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonie Dearie. HARK the mavis’ e’ening sang, Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang,

I COFT a stane o’ haslock woo’, To mak a wab to Johnie o’t; For Johnie is my only jo, I loe him best of onie yet. Chorus.-The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, The

“HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir.” “One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it Man

NO 1 sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, “No storied urn nor animated bust;” This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way, To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust. ADDITIONAL STANZASShe mourns, sweet tuneful

AS I was a-wand’ring ae morning in spring, I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing; And as he was singin’, thir words he did say,- There’s nae life like the ploughman’s in

WHOE’ER he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God, His Grace. There’s naething here but Highland pride, And Highland scab and hunger:

LOUIS, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean? Dyvor, beggar louns to me, I reign in Jeanie’s bosom! Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me,

IT is na, Jean, thy bonie face, Nor shape that I admire; Altho’ thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awauk desire. Something, in ilka part o’ thee, To praise, to love, I find,

GUDEWIFE, I MIND it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh; An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet

THE LAZY mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear! As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The

ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood, Who for her favour oft

AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams, Whom kingdoms on this day should hail; An inmate in the casual shed, On transient pity’s bounty fed, Haunted by busy memory’s bitter tale! Beasts of the forest

SIR, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu’ list, O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith, To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,

ALTHO’ my back be at the wa’, And tho’ he be the fautor; Altho’ my back be at the wa’, Yet, here’s his health in water. O wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae

PEG NICHOLSON was a good bay mare, As ever trod on airn; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o’ Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An’ rode

AULD NEIBOUR, I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor, For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter; Tho’ I maun say’t I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less

AH, Chloris, since it may not be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear. Altho’ I love my Chloris mair Than ever

O THOU, who in the heavens does dwell, Who, as it pleases best Thysel’, Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell, A’ for Thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They’ve

Chor.-Green grow the rashes, O; Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O. THERE’S nought but care on ev’ry han’, In ev’ry hour that

CAULD blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shill’s I hear the blast- I’m sure it’s winter fairly. Chorus.-Up in the morning’s no for me, Up

KIND Sir, I’ve read your paper through, And faith, to me, ’twas really new! How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted, To ken what French

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw;

O THAT I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care, Now I’ve gotten wife an’ weans, An’ they cry “Crowdie” evermair. Chorus. —Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, Three times crowdie in a

SEARCHING auld wives’ barrels, Ochon the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels: But-what’ll ye say? These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans, Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes!

DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry; And dire the discord Langside saw For beauteous, hapless Mary: But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot, Or were more

FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn, E’en let them die-for that they’re born: But oh! prodigious to reflec’! A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space, What dire

RAVING winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray’d deploring- “Farewell, hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee; Or did misfortune’s bitter storms Around thee blaw, around

WHAT can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her puir Jenny

THERE was once a day, but old Time wasythen young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine?) From Tweed

HAIL, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie! Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback’d filly, Proud o’ her speed. When, idly goavin’, whiles

BY yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears doon came,- There’ll never be peace

HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O! There’s nought but care on every han’ In every hour that

Chorus.-Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me, If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. IF thou should ask my love, Could I deny thee? If thou would win my love,

THE BAIRNS gat out wi’ an unco shout, The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O! The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin’ body, O! He paidles out, and he

THOU, Liberty, thou art my theme; Not such as idle poets dream, Who trick thee up a heathen goddess That a fantastic cap and rod has; Such stale conceits are poor and silly; I

SLEEP’ST thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature? Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy. Now, to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain,

THEIR groves o’ sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella’s arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, Your bodkin’s bauld; I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld.

Chorus-We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door, Behint the door, behint the door, We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door, And cover him under a mawn, O. THE COOPER o’ Cuddy came here awa,

OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish Beyond comparison the worst are those By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:

GRANT me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live, To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air, Till Slave and Despot be but things that were.

MY Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form, The frost of hermit Age might warm; My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy’s angel air, Her face

I HAE been at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. There our foes that burnt and slew, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, There, at

O LEAVE novels, 1 ye Mauchline belles, Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel; Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful