Poems of Robert Burns Page 7

  Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry;

  I’ll gie you my bonie black hen,

  Gif ye will advise me to marry

  The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

  Auld Lang Syne

  (TUNE: FOR OLD LONG SINE MY JO)

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot

  And never brought to mind?

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And auld lang syne!

  For auld lang syne my jo,

  For auld lang syne,

  We’ll tak a ∗ cup o’ kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.

  And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!

  And surely I’ll be mine!

  And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.

  For auld &c.

  We twa hae run about the braes,

  And pou’d the gowans fine;

  But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fitt,

  Sin auld lang syne.

  For auld &c.

  We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,

  Frae morning sun till dine;

  But seas between us braid hae roar’d,

  Sin auld lang syne.

  For auld &c.

  And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

  And gie’s a hand o’ thine!

  And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,

  For auld lang syne.

  For auld &c.

  Elegy on the Year 1788

  For Lords or kings I dinna mourn,

  E’en let them die – for that they’re born!

  But oh! prodigious to reflect,

  A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!

  O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space

  What dire events ha’e taken place!

  Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!

  In what a pickle thou has left us!

  The Spanish empire’s tint a head,

  An’ my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead;

  The toolzie’s teugh ‘tween Pitt an’ Fox,

  An’ our guidwife’s wee birdy cocks;

  The tane is game, a bluidy devil,

  But to the hen-birds unco civil;

  The tither’s dour, has nae sic breedin’,

  But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden!

  Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit,

  An’ cry till ye be haerse an’ rupit;

  For Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel,

  An’ gied you a’ baith gear an’ meal;

  E’en mony a plack, an’ mony a peck,

  Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

  Ye bonny lasses, dight your een,

  For some o’ you ha’e tint a frien’;

  In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en

  What ye’ll ne’er ha’e to gi’e again.

  Observe the very nowt an’ sheep,

  How dowff an’ dowie now they creep;

  Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry,

  For Embro’ wells are grutten dry.

  O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn,

  An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn!

  Thou beardless boy, I pray tak’ care,

  Thou now has got thy Daddy’s chair,

  Nae hand-cuff’d, mizl’d, haff-shackl’d Regent,

  But, like himsel’, a full free agent.

  Be sure ye follow out the plan

  Nae war than he did, honest man!

  As muckle better as you can.

  January 1, 1789

  Afton Water

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

  Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;

  My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

  Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,

  Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

  Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,

  I charge you disturb not my slumbering Fair.

  How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,

  Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;

  There daily I wander as noon rises high,

  My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

  How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,

  Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;

  There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,

  The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.

  Thy chrystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

  And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;

  How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

  As gath’ring sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave.

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

  Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

  My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,

  Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

  To a Gentleman Who Had Sent Him a

  Newspaper and Offered to Continue It Free

  of Expense

  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 mischief was brewin;

  Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;

  That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,

  If Venus yet had got his nose off;

  Or how the collieshangie works

  Atween the Russians and the Turks;

  Or if the Swede, before he halt,

  Would play anither Charles the twalt:

  If Denmark, any body spak o’t;

  Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t;

  How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;

  How libbet Italy was singin;

  If Spaniard, Portuguese or Swiss,

  Were sayin or takin aught amiss:

  Or how our merry lads at hame,

  In Britain’s court kept up the game:

  How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him!

  Was managing St Stephen’s quorum;

  If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,

  Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;

  How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,

  If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin;

  How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d,

  Or if bare arses yet were tax’d;

  The news o’ princes, dukes and earls,

  Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;

  If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,

  Was threshin still at hizzies’ tails,

  Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,

  And no a perfect kintra cooser,

  A’ this and mair I never heard of;

  And but for you I might despair’d of.

  So gratefu’, back your news I send you,

  And pray, a’ gude things may attend you!

  Ellisland, Monday-morning, 1790

  Lassie Lie Near Me

  (TUNE: LADDIE LIE NEAR ME)

  Lang hae we parted been,

  Lassie my dearie;

  Now we are met again,

  Lassie lie near me.

  Near me, near me,

  Lassie lie near me

  Lang hast thou lien thy lane,

  Lassie lie near me.

  A’ that I hae endur’d,

  Lassie, my dearie,

  Here in thy arms is cur’d,

  Lassie lie near me.

  Near me, &c.

  My Love She’s But a Lassie Yet

  My love she’s but a lassie yet,

  My love she’s but a lassie yet,

  We’ll let her stand a year or twa,

  She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.

  I rue the day I sought her O,

  I rue the day I sought her O,

  Wha gets her needs na say he’s woo’d,

  But he may say h
e’s bought her O.

  Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet,

  Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet:

  Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,

  But here I never misst it yet.

  We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t,

  We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t:

  The minister kisst the fidler’s wife,

  He could na preach for thinkin o’t.

  Farewell to the Highlands

  (TUNE: FAILTE NA MIOSG – THE MUSKET SALUTE)

  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

  My heart’s in the Highlands a chasing the deer;

  A chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

  My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

  Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the north,

  The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth,

  Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

  The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

  Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;

  Farewell to the straths and green vallies below:

  Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods;

  Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods.

  My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

  My heart’s in the Highlands, a chasing the deer:

  Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

  My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

  John Anderson My Jo

  John Anderson my jo, John,

  When we were first acquent;

  Your locks were like the raven,

  Your bony brow was brent;

  But now your brow is beld, John,

  Your locks are like the snaw;

  But blessings on your frosty pow,

  John Anderson my jo.

  John Anderson my jo, John,

  We clamb the hill the gither;

  And mony a canty day, John,

  We’ve had wi’ ane anither:

  Now we maun totter down, John,

  And hand in hand we’ll go:

  And sleep the gither at the foot,

  John Anderson my jo.

  Tam o’ Shanter. A Tale

  Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.

  Gawin Douglas

  When chapman billies leave the street,

  And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,

  As market-days are wearing late,

  An’ folk begin to tak the gate;

  While we sit bousing at the nappy,

  An’ getting fou and unco happy,

  We think na on the lang Scots miles,

  The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,

  That lie between us and our hame,

  Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,

  Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

  Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

  This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,

  As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,

  (Auld Ayr wham ne’er a town surpasses,

  For honest men and bonny lasses.)

  O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,

  As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!

  She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

  A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;

  That frae November till October,

  Ae market day thou was nae sober;

  That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,

  Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

  That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on,

  The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

  That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,

  Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.

  She prophesy’d that late or soon,

  Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon;

  Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,

  By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.

  Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

  To think how mony counsels sweet,

  How mony lengthen’d, sage advices,

  The husband frae the wife despises!

  But to our tale: Ae market night,

  Ta m had got planted unco right;

  Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

  Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely;

  And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,

  His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;

  Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;

  They had been fou for weeks thegither.

  The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter;

  And ay the ale was growing better:

  The landlady and Tam grew gracious,

  Wi’ favours, secret, sweet, and precious:

  The Souter tauld his queerest stories;

  The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:

  The storm without might rair and rustle,

  Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

  Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

  E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy,

  As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,

  The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:

  Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,

  O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!

  But pleasures are like poppies spread,

  You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed:

  Or like the snow falls in the river,

  A moment white – then melts forever;

  Or like the borealis race,

  That flit ere you can point their place;

  Or like the rainbow’s lovely form

  Evanishing amid the storm. –

  Nae man can tether time nor tide;

  The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

  That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,

  That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

  And sic a night he taks the road in,

  As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

  The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;

  The rattling show’rs rose on the blast;

  The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;

  Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:

  That night, a child might understand,

  The Deil had business on his hand.

  Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,

  A better never lifted leg,

  Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,

  Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

  Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;

  Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;

  Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares,

  Lest bogles catch him unawares:

  Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

  Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. –

  By this time he was cross the ford,

  Where in the snaw, the chapman smoor’d;

  And past the birks and meikle stane,

  Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;

  And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,

  Whare hunters fand the murder’d bairn;

  And near the thorn, aboon the well,

  Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel. –

  Before him Doon pours all his floods:

  The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods:

  The lightnings flash from pole to pole;

  Near and more near the thunders roll:

  When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,

  Kirk Alloway seem’d in a bleeze;

  Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing;

  And loud resounded mirth and dancing. –

  Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

  What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

  Wi’ tipenny, we fear nae evil;

  Wi’ usquebae we’ll face the devil! –

  The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,

  Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle.

  But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,<
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  Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,

  She ventur’d forward on the light;

  And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!

  Warlocks and witches in a dance;

  Nae cotillion brent new frae France,

  But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

  Put life and mettle in their heels,

  A winnock-bunker in the east,

  There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;

  A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

  To gie them music was his charge:

  He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,

  Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. –

  Coffins stood round, like open presses,

  That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;

  And by some devilish cantraip slight

  Each in its cauld hand held a light. –

  By which heroic Tam was able

  To note upon the haly table,

  A murderer’s banes in gibbet airns;

  Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns;

  A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

  Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;

  Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted;

  Five scymitars, wi’ murder crusted;

  A garter, which a babe had strangled;

  A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,

  Whom his ain son o’ life bereft,

  The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;

  Wi’ mair o’ horrible an’ awefu’,

  Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.

  As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious,

  The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;

  The piper loud and louder blew;

  The dancers quick and quicker flew;

  They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,

  Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

  And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!