but luckless fortune's northern storms
laid a' my blossoms low, o!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns impromptu—“ill go and be a sodger” impromptu—“i'll go and be a sodger”
o why the deuce should i repine,
and be an ill foreboder?
i'm twenty-three, and five feet nine,
i'll go and be a sodger!
i gat some gear wi' mickle care,
i held it weel thegither;
but now it's gane, and something mair—
i'll go and be a sodger!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—“no churchman am i” song—“no churchman am i”
tune—“prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”
no churchman am i for to rail and to write,
no statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
no sly man of business contriving a snare,
for a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.
the peer i don't envy, i give him his bow;
i scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
but a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
and a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;
there centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
but see you the crown how it waves in the air?
there a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
the wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
for sweet consolation to church i did fly;
i found that old solomon proved it fair,
that a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
i once was persuaded a venture to make;
a letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
but the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,
with a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
“life's cares they areforts”—a maxim laid down
by the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;
and faith i agree with th' old prig to a hair,
for a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns a stanza added in a mason lodge a stanza added in a mason lodge
then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
and honours masonic prepare for to throw;
may ev'ry true brother of thepass and square
have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns my father was a farmer my father was a farmer
tune—“the weaver and his shuttle, o.”
my father was a farmer upon the carrick border, o,
and carefully he bred me in decency and order, o;
he bade me act a manly part, though i had ne'er a farthing, o;
for without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, o.
then out into the world my course i did determine, o;
tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, o;
my talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, o:
resolv'd was i at least to try to mend my situation, o.
in many a way, and vain essay, i courted fortune's favour, o;
some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, o;
sometimes by foes i was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, o;
and when my hope was at the top, i still was worst mistaken, o.
then sore harass'd and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion, o,
i dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, o;
the past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, o;
but the present hour was in my pow'r, and so i would enjoy it, o.
no help, nor hope, nor view had i, nor person to befriend me, o;
so i must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, o;
to plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, o;
for one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, o.
thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life i'm doom'd to wander, o,
till down my weary bones i lay in everlasting slumber, o:
no view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, o;
i live to-day as well's i may, regardless of to-morrow, o.
but cheerful still, i am as well as a monarch in his palace, o,
tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, o:
i make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, o:
but as daily bread is all i need, i do not much regard her, o.
when sometimes by my labour, i earn a little money, o,
some unforeseen misfortunees gen'rally upon me, o;
mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd folly, o:
bute what will, i've sworn it still, i'll ne'er be melancholy, o.
all you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, o,
the more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, o:
had you the wealth potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, o,
a cheerful honest-hearted clown i will prefer before you, o.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns john barleycorn: a ballad john barleycorn: a ballad
there was three kings into the east,
three kings both great and high,
and they hae sworn a solemn oath
john barleycorn should die.
they took a plough and plough'd him down,
put clods upon his head,
and they hae sworn a solemn oath
john barleycorn was dead.
but the cheerful spring came kindly on,
and show'rs began to fall;
john barleycorn got up again,
and sore surpris'd them all.
the sultry suns of summer came,
and he grew thick and strong;
his head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
that no one should him wrong.
the sober autumn enter'd mild,
when he grew wan and pale;
his bending joints and drooping head
show'd he began to fail.
his colour sicken'd more and more,
he faded into age;
and then his enemies began
to show their deadly rage.
they've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
and cut him by the knee;
then tied him fast upon a cart,
like a rogue for forgerie.
they laid him down upon his back,
and cudgell'd him full sore;
they hung him up before the storm,
and turned him o'er and o'er.
they filled up a darksome pit
with water to the brim;
they heaved in john barleycorn,
there let him sink or swim.
they laid him out upon the floor,
to work him farther woe;
and still, as signs of life appear'd,
they toss'd him to and fro.
they wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
the marrow of his bones;
but a miller us'd him worst of all,
for he crush'd him between two stones.
and they hae taen his very heart's blood,
and drank it round and round;
and still the more and more they drank,
their joy did more abound.
john barleycorn was a hero bold,
of noble enterprise;
for if you do but taste his blood,
'twill make your courage rise.
'twill make a man forget his woe;
'twill heighten all his joy;
'twill make the widow's heart to sing,
tho' the tear were in her eye.
then let us toast john barleycorn,
each man a glass in hand;
and may his great posterity
ne'er fail in old scotland!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns death and dying words of poor mailie, the authors only pet yowe., the 1783
death and dying words of poor mailie, the author's only pet yowe., the
an unco mournfu' tale
as mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
was ae day nibbling on the tether,
upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
an' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
there, groaning, dying, she did lie,
when hughoc he cam doytin by.
wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's
poor hughoc like a statue stan's;
he saw her days were near-hand ended,
but, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
he gaped wide, but naething spak,
at langth poor mailie silence brak.
“o thou, whase lamentable face
appears to mourn my woefu' case!