tho' mountains, rise, and deserts howl,
and oceans roar between;
yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
i still would love my jean.
. . . . . . .
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—rantin, rovin robin song—rantin', rovin' robin 注释标题 not published by burns.
tune—“daintie davie.”
there was a lad was born in kyle,
but whatna day o' whatna style,
i doubt it's hardly worth the while
to be sae nice wi' robin.
chor.—robin was a rovin' boy,
rantin', rovin', rantin', rovin',
robin was a rovin' boy,
rantin', rovin', robin!
our monarch's hindmost year but ane
was five-and-twenty days begun,
'twas then a blast o' janwar' win'
blew hansel in on robin.
robin was, c.
the gossip keekit in his loof,
quo' scho, “wha lives will see the proof,
this waly boy will be nae coof:
i think we'll ca' him robin.”
robin was, c.
“he'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',
but aye a heart aboon them a',
he'll be a credit till us a'—
we'll a' be proud o' robin.”
robin was, c.
“but sure as three times three mak nine,
i see by ilka score and line,
this chap will dearly like our kin',
so leeze me on thee! robin.”
robin was, c.
“guid faith,” quo', scho, “i doubt you gar
the bonie lasses lie aspar;
but twenty fauts ye may hae waur
so blessins on thee! robin.”
robin was, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns elegy on the death of robert ruisseaux elegy on the death of robert ruisseaux 注释标题 ruisseaux is french for rivulets or “burns,” a translation of his name.
now robin lies in his last lair,
he'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;
cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,
nae mair shall fear him;
nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
e'er maire near him.
to tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him,
except the moment that they crush'd him;
for sune as chance or fate had hush'd 'em
tho' e'er sae short.
then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em,
and thought it sport.
tho'he was bred to kintra-wark,
and counted was baith wight and stark,
yet that was never robin's mark
to mak a man;
but tell him, he was learn'd and clark,
ye roos'd him then!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to john goldie, in kilmarnock epistle to john goldie, in kilmarnock
author of the gospel recovered.—august, 1785
o gowdie, terror o' the whigs,
dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!
sour bigotry, on her last legs,
girns an' looks back,
wishing the ten egyptian plagues
may seize you quick.
poor gapin', glowrin' superstition!
wae's me, she's in a sad condition:
fye: bring black jock, her state physician,
to see her water;
alas, there's ground for great suspicion
she'll ne'er get better.
enthusiasm's past redemption,
gane in a gallopin' consumption:
not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
can ever mend her;
her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
she'll soon surrender.
auld orthodoxy lang did grapple,
for every hole to get a stapple;
but now she fetches at the thrapple,
an' fights for breath;
haste, gie her name up in the chapel,
near unto death.
it's you an' taylor are the chief
to blame for a' this black mischief;
but, could the lord's ain folk get leave,
a toom tar barrel
an' twa red peats wad bring relief,
and end the quarrel.
for me, my skill's but very sma',
an' skill in prose i've nane ava';
but quietlins-wise, between us twa,
weel may you speed!
and tho' they sud your sair misca',
ne'er fash your head.
e'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker!
the mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;
and still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
o' something stout;
it gars an owthor's pulse beat quicker,
and helps his wit.
there's naething like the honest nappy;
whare'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
or women sonsie, saft an' sappy,
'tween morn and morn,
as them wha like to taste the drappie,
in glass or horn?
i've seen me dazed upon a time,
i scarce could wink or see a styme;
just ae half-mutchkin does me prime,—
ought less is little—
then back i rattle on the rhyme,
as gleg's a whittle.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the holy fair the holy fair 注释标题 “holy fair” is amon phrase in the west of scotland for a sacramental occasion.—r. b.
a robe of seeming truth and trust
hid crafty observation;
and secret hung, with poison'd crust,
the dirk of defamation:
a mask that like the gorget show'd,
dye-varying on the pigeon;
and for a mantle large and broad,
he wrapt him in religion.
hypocrisy a-la-mode
upon a simmer sunday morn
when nature's face is fair,
i walked forth to view the corn,
an' snuff the caller air.
the rising sun owre galston muirs
wi' glorious light was glintin;
the hares were hirplin down the furrs,
the lav'rocks they were chantin
fu' sweet that day.
as lightsomely i glowr'd abroad,
to see a scene sae gay,
three hizzies, early at the road,
cam skelpin up the way.
twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
but ane wi' lyart lining;
the third, that gaed a wee a-back,
was in the fashion shining
fu' gay that day.
the twa appear'd like sisters twin,
in feature, form, an' claes;
their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
an' sour as only slaes:
the third cam up, hap-stap-an'-lowp,
as light as ony lambie,
an' wi'a curchie low did stoop,
as soon as e'er she saw me,
fu' kind that day.
wi' bonnet aff, &
h i, “sweet lass,
i think ye seem to ken me;
i'm sure i've seen that bonie face
but yet i canna name ye.”
quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
an' taks me by the han's,
“ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck
of a' the tenman's
a screed some day.”
“my name is fun—your cronie dear,
the nearest friend ye hae;
an' this is superstitution here,
an' that's hypocrisy.
i'm gaun to mauchline holy fair,
to spend an hour in daffin:
gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,
we will get famous laughin
at them this day.”
&
h i, “wi' a' my heart, i'll do't;
i'll get my sunday's sark on,
an' meet you on the holy spot;
faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!”
then i gaed hame at crowdie-time,
an' soon i made me ready;
for roads were clad, frae side to side,
wi' mony a weary body
in droves that day.
here farmers gash, in ridin graith,
gaed hoddin by their cotters;
there swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
are springing owre the gutters.
the lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
in silks an' scarlets glitter;
wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
an' farls, bak'd wi' butter,
fu' crump that day.
when by the plate we set our nose,
weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
a greedy glowr black-bonnet throws,
an' we maun draw our tippence.
then in we go to see the show:
on ev'ry side they're gath'rin;
some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools,
an' some are busy bleth'rin
right loud that day.
here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,