round we wander all the day;
and at night in barn or stable,
hug our doxies on the hay.
a fig for, c.
does the train-attended carriage
thro' the country lighter rove?
does the sober bed of marriage
witness brighter scenes of love?
a fig for, c.
life is al a variorum,
we regard not how it goes;
let them cant about decorum,
who have character to lose.
a fig for, c.
here's to budgets, bags and wallets!
here's to all the wandering train.
here's our ragged brats and callets,
one and all cry out, amen!
chorus
a fig for those by law protected!
liberty's a glorious feast!
courts for cowards were erected,
churches built to please the priest.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—for a that song—for a' that 注释标题 a later version of “i am a bard of no regard” in “the jolly beggars.”
tune—“for a' that.”
tho' women's minds, like winter winds,
may shift, and turn, an' a' that,
the noblest breast adores them maist—
a consequence i draw that.
chorus
for a' that, an' a' that,
and twice as meikle's a' that;
the bonie lass that i loe best
she'll be my ain for a' that.
great love i bear to a' the fair,
their humble slave, an' a' that;
but lordly will, i hold it still
a mortal sin to thraw that.
for a' that, c.
but there is ane aboon the lave,
has wit, and sense, an' a' that;
a bonie lass, i like her best,
and wha a crime dare ca' that?
for a' that, c.
in rapture sweet this hour we meet,
wi' mutual love an' a' that,
but for how lang the flie may stang,
let inclination law that.
for a' that, c.
their tricks an' craft hae put me daft.
they've taen me in, an' a' that;
but clear your decks, and here's—“the sex!”
i like the jads for a' that.
for a' that, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—merry hae i been teethin a heckle song—merry hae i been teethin a heckle
tune—“the bob o' dumblane.”
o merry hae i been teethin' a heckle,
an' merry hae i been shapin' a spoon;
o merry hae i been cloutin' a kettle,
an' kissin' my katie when a' was done.
o a' the lang day i ca' at my hammer,
an' a' the lang day i whistle and sing;
o a' the lang night i cuddle my kimmer,
an' a' the lang night as happy's a king.
bitter in idol i lickit my winnins
o' marrying bess, to gie her a slave:
blest be the hour she cool'd in her linnens,
and blythe be the bird that sings on her grave!
e to my arms, my katie, my katie;
oe to my arms and kiss me again!
drucken or sober, here's to thee, katie!
an' blest be the day i did it again.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the cotters saturday night the cotter's saturday night
inscribed to r. aiken, esq., of ayr.
let not ambition mock their useful toil,
their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
the short and simple annals of the poor.
gray.
my lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
no mercenary bard his homage pays;
with honest pride, i scorn each selfish end,
my dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
to you i sing, in simple scottish lays,
the lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,
the native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
what aiken in a cottage would have been;
ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there i ween!
november chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
the short'ning winter-day is near a close;
the miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
the black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
the toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,—
this night his weekly moil is at an end,
collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
and weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
at length his lonely cot appears in view,
beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
to meet their dead, wi' flichterin noise and glee.
his wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
his clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,
the lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
and makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
belyve, the elder bairnse drapping in,
at service out, amang the farmers roun';
some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
a cannie errand to a neibor town:
their eldest hope, their jenny, woman-grown,
in youthfu' bloom-love sparkling in her e'e—
es hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
to help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
with joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
and each for other's weelfare kindly speirs:
the social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet:
each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
the parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
anticipation forward points the view;
the mother, wi' her needle and her shears,
gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
the father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
their master's and their mistress'mand,
the younkers a' are warned to obey;
and mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
and ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
“and o! be sure to fear the lord alway,
and mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
implore his counsel and assisting might:
they never sought in vain that sought the lord aright.”
but hark! a rapes gently to the door;
jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor,
to do some errands, and convoy her hame.
the wily mother sees the conscious flame
sparkle in jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;
with heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
while jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
weel-pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake.
wi' kindly wee, jenny brings him ben;
a strappin youth, he takes the mother's eye;
blythe jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
the father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
the youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
but blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
the mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
what makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave,
weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
o happy love! where love like this is found:
o heart-felt raptures! bliss beyondpare!
i've paced much this weary, mortal round,
and sage experience bids me this declare,—
“if heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare—
one cordial in this melancholy vale,
'tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
in other'sarms, breathe out the tender tale,
beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.”
is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
a wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
that can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
betray sweet jenny's unsuspecting youth?
curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild?
but now the supper crowns their simple board,
the halesome parritch, chief of scotia's food;