altho' i say't, he's gleg enough,
an' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough,
the boy might learn to swear;
but then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught,
an' get sic fair example straught,
i hae na ony fear.
ye'll catechise him, every quirk,
an' shore him weel wi' hell;
an' gar him follow to the kirk—
aye when ye gang yoursel.
if ye then maun be then
frae hame thisin' friday,
then please, sir, to lea'e, sir,
the orders wi' your lady.
my word of honour i hae gi'en,
in paisley john's, that night at e'en,
to meet the warld's worm;
to try to get the twa to gree,
an' name the airles an' the fee,
in legal mode an' form:
i ken he weel a snick can draw,
when simple bodies let him:
an' if a devil be at a',
in faith he's sure to get him.
to phrase you and praise you,
ye ken your laureat scorns:
the pray'r still you share still
of grateful minstrel burns.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns versified reply to an invitation versified reply to an invitation
sir,
yours this moment i unseal,
and faith i'm gay and hearty!
to tell the truth and shame the deil,
i am as fou as bartie:
but foorsday, sir, my promise leal,
expect me o' your partie,
if on a beastie i can speel,
or hurl in a cartie.
yours,
robert burns.
mauchlin, monday night, 10 o'clock.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—will ye go to the indies, my mary? song—will ye go to the indies, my mary?
tune—“will ye go to the ewe-bughts, marion.”
will ye go to the indies, my mary,
and leave auld scotia's shore?
will ye go to the indies, my mary,
across th' atlantic roar?
o sweet grows the lime and the orange,
and the apple on the pine;
but a' the charms o' the indies
can never equal thine.
i hae sworn by the heavens to my mary,
i hae sworn by the heavens to be true;
and sae may the heavens forget me,
when i forget my vow!
o plight me your faith, my mary,
and plight me your lily-white hand;
o plight me your faith, my mary,
before i leave scotia's strand.
we hae plighted our troth, my mary,
in mutual affection to join;
and curst be the cause that shall part us!
the hour and the moment o' time!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—my highland lassie, o song—my highland lassie, o
tune—“the deuks dang o'er my daddy.”
nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
shall ever be my muse's care:
their titles a' arc empty show;
gie me my highland lassie, o.
chorus.—within the glen sae bushy, o,
aboon the plain sae rashy, o,
i set me down wi' right guid will,
to sing my highland lassie, o.
o were yon hills and vallies mine,
yon palace and yon gardens fine!
the world then the love should know
i bear my highland lassie, o.
but fickle fortune frowns on me,
and i maun cross the raging sea!
but while my crimson currents flow,
i'll love my highland lassie, o.
altho' thro' foreign climes i range,
i know her heart will never change,
for her bosom burns with honour's glow,
my faithful highland lassie, o.
for her i'll dare the billow's roar,
for her i'll trace a distant shore,
that indian wealth may lustre throw
around my highland lassie, o.
she has my heart, she has my hand,
by secret troth and honour's band!
till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
i'm thine, my highland lassie, o.
farewell the glen sae bushy, o!
farewell the plain sae rashy, o!
to other lands i now must go,
to sing my highland lassie, o.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to a young friend epistle to a young friend
may __, 1786.
i lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
a something to have sent you,
tho' it should serve nae ither end
than just a kind memento:
but how the subject-theme may gang,
let time and chance determine;
perhaps it may turn out a sang:
perhaps turn out a sermon.
ye'll try the world soon, my lad;
and, andrew dear, believe me,
ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
and muckle they may grieve ye:
for care and trouble set your thought,
ev'n when your end's attained;
and a' your views maye to nought,
where ev'ry nerve is strained.
i'll no say, men are villains a';
the real, harden'd wicked,
wha hae nae check but human law,
are to a few restricked;
but, och! mankind are unco weak,
an' little to be trusted;
if self the wavering balance shake,
it's rarely right adjusted!
yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
their fate we shouldna censure;
for still, th' important end of life
they equally may answer;
a man may hae an honest heart,
tho' poortith hourly stare him;
a man may tak a neibor's part,
yet hae nae cash to spare him.
aye free, aff-han', your story tell,
when wi' a bosom crony;
but still keep something to yoursel',
ye scarcely tell to ony:
conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
frae critical dissection;
but keek thro' ev'ry other man,
wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
the sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
luxuriantly indulge it;
but never tempt th' illicit rove,
tho' naething should divulge it:
i waive the quantum o' the sin,
the hazard of concealing;
but, och! it hardens a' within,
and petrifies the feeling!
to catch dame fortune's golden smile,
assiduous wait upon her;
and gather gear by ev'ry wile
that's justified by honour;
not for to hide it in a hedge,
nor for a train attendant;
but for the glorious privilege
of being independent.
the fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
to haud the wretch in order;
but where ye feel your honour grip,
let that aye be your border;
its slightest touches, instant pause—
debar a' side-pretences;
and resolutely keep its laws,
uncaring consequences.
the great creator to revere,
must sure be the creature;
but still the preaching cant forbear,
and ev'n the rigid feature:
yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
beplaisance extended;
an atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
for deity offended!
when ranting round in pleasure's ring,
religion may be blinded;
or if she gie a random sting,
it may be little minded;
but when on life we're tempest driv'n—
a conscience but a canker—
a correspondence fix'd wi' heav'n,
is sure a noble anchor!
adieu, dear, amiable youth!
your heart can ne'er be wanting!
may prudence, fortitude, and truth,
erect your brow undaunting!
in ploughman phrase, “god send you speed,”
still daily to grow wiser;
and may ye better reck the rede,
then ever did th' adviser!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns address of beelzebub address of beelzebub
to the right honourable the earl of breadalbane, president of the right honourable and honourable the highland society, which met on the 23rd of may last at the shakespeare, covent garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred highlanders, who, as the society were informed by mr. m'kenzie of applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of mr. macdonald of glengary to the wilds of canada, in search of that fantastic thing—liberty.