wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
an' sklent on poverty their joke,
wi' bitter sneer,
wi' you nae friendship i will troke,
nor cheap nor dear.
but if, as i'm informed weel,
ye hate as ill's the very deil
the flinty heart that canna feel—
e, sir, here's to you!
hae, there's my haun', i wiss you weel,
an' gude be wi' you.
robt. burness.
mossgiel, 3rd march, 1786.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to mr. madam, of craigen-gillan to mr. m'adam, of craigen-gillan
in answer to an obliging letter he sent
in themencement of my poetic career.
sir, o'er a gill i gat your card,
i trow it made me proud;
“see wha taks notice o' the bard!”
i lap and cried fu' loud.
now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
the senseless, gawky million;
i'll cock my nose abune them a',
i'm roos'd by craigen-gillan!
'twas noble, sir; 'twas like yourself',
to grant your high protection:
a great man's smile ye ken fu' well
is aye a blest infection.
tho', by his banes wha in a tub
match'd macedonian sandy!
on my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
i independent stand aye,—
and when those legs to gude, warm kail,
wi' wee canna bear me,
a lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
an' barley-scone shall cheer me.
heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
o' mony flow'ry simmers!
an' bless your bonie lasses baith,
i'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!
an' god bless young dunaskin's laird,
the blossom of our gentry!
an' may he wear and auld man's beard,
a credit to his country.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to a louse, on seeing one on a ladys bonnet, at church to a louse, on seeing one on a lady's bonnet, at church
ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
your impudence protects you sairly;
i canna say but ye strunt rarely,
owre gauze and lace;
tho', faith! i fear ye dine but sparely
on sic a place.
ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
how daur ye set your fit upon her—
sae fine a lady?
gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
on some poor body.
swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
there ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
in shoals and nations;
whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
your thick plantations.
now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
till ye've got on it—
the verra tapmost, tow'rin height
o' miss' bonnet.
my sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
as plump an' grey as ony groset:
o for some rank, mercurial rozet,
or fell, red smeddum,
i'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
wad dress your droddum.
i wad na been surpris'd to spy
you on an auld wife's flainen toy;
or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
on's wyliecoat;
but miss' fine lunardi! fye!
how daur ye do't?
o jeany, dinna toss your head,
an' set your beauties a' abread!
ye little ken what cursed speed
the blastie's makin:
thae winks an' finger-ends, i dread,
are notice takin.
o wad some power the giftie gie us
to see oursels as ithers see us!
it wad frae mony a blunder free us,
an' foolish notion:
what airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
an' ev'n devotion!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns inscribed on a work of hannah mores inscribed on a work of hannah more's
presented to the author by a lady.
thou flatt'ring mark of friendship kind,
still may thy pages call to mind
the dear, the beauteous donor;
tho' sweetly female ev'ry part,
yet such a head, and more the heart
does both the sexes honour:
she show'd her taste refin'd and just,
when she selected thee;
yet deviating, own i must,
for sae approving me:
but kind still i'll mind still
the giver in the gift;
i'll bless her, an' wiss her
a friend aboon the lift.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song, composed in spring song,posed in spring
tune—“jockey's grey breeks.”
again rejoicing nature sees
her robe assume its vernal hues:
her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
all freshly steep'd in morning dews.
chorus.—and maun i still on menie doat,
and bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
for it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
an' it winna let a body be.
in vain to me the cowslips blaw,
in vain to me the vi'lets spring;
in vain to me in glen or shaw,
the mavis and the lintwhite sing.
and maun i still, c.
the merry ploughboy cheers his team,
wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
but life to me's a weary dream,
a dream of ane that never wauks.
and maun i still, c.
the wanton coot the water skims,
amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
the stately swan majestic swims,
and ev'ry thing is blest but i.
and maun i still, c.
the sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
and o'er the moorlands whistles shill:
wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
i meet him on the dewy hill.
and maun i still, c.
and when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
and mounts and sings on flittering wings,
a woe-worn ghaist i hameward glide.
and maun i still, c.
e winter, with thine angry howl,
and raging, bend the naked tree;
thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
when nature all is sad like me!
and maun i still, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to a mountain daisy, to a mountain daisy,
on turning down with the plough, in april, 1786.
wee, modest crimson-tipped 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 no thy neibor sweet,
the bonie lark,panion meet,
bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
wi' spreckl'd breast!
when upward-springing, blythe, to greet
the purpling east.
cauld blew the bitter-biting north
upon thy early, humble birth;
yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
amid the storm,
scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
thy tender form.
the flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
high shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
but thou, beneath the random bield
o' clod or stane,
adorns the histie stibble field,
unseen, alane.
there, in thy scanty mantle clad,
thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
thou lifts thy unassuming head
in humble guise;
but now the share uptears thy bed,
and low thou lies!
such is the fate of artless maid,
sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
by love's simplicity betray'd,
and guileless trust;
till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
low i' the dust.
such is the fate of simple bard,
on life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
unskilful he to note the card
of prudent lore,
till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
and whelm him o'er!
such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
by human pride or cunning driv'n
to mis'ry's brink;
till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but heav'n,
he, ruin'd, sink!
ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,