i see the sire of love on high,
and own his work indeed divine!
there, watching high the least alarms,
thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
like some bold veteran, grey in arms,
and mark'd with many a seamy scar:
the pond'rous wall and massy bar,
grim—rising o'er the rugged rock,
have oft withstood assailing war,
and oft repell'd th' invader's shock.
with awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
i view that noble, stately dome,
where scotia's kings of other years,
fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
alas, how chang'd the times toe!
their royal name low in the dust!
their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
tho' rigid law cries out 'twas just!
wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
whose ancestors, in days of yore,
thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
old scotia's bloody lion bore:
ev'n i who sing in rustic lore,
haply my sires have left their shed,
and fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,
bold-following where your fathers led!
edina! scotia's darling seat!
all hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
where once, beneath a monarch's feet,
sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
from marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
as on the banks of ayr i stray'd,
and singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
i shelter in thy honour'd shade.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns address to a haggis address to a haggis
fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
aboon them a' yet tak your place,
painch, tripe, or thairm:
weel are ye wordy o'a grace
as lang's my arm.
the groaning trencher there ye fill,
your hurdies like a distant hill,
your pin was help to mend a mill
in time o'need,
while thro' your pores the dews distil
like amber bead.
his knife see rustic labour dight,
an' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
trenching your gushing entrails bright,
like ony ditch;
and then, o what a glorious sight,
warm-reekin', rich!
then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
are bent like drums;
then auld guidman, maist like to rive,
bethankit! hums.
is there that owre his french ragout
or olio that wad staw a sow,
or fricassee wad make her spew
wi' perfect sconner,
looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
on sic a dinner?
poor devil! see him owre his trash,
as feckles as wither'd rash,
his spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
his nieve a nit;
thro' blody flood or field to dash,
o how unfit!
but mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
the trembling earth resounds his tread.
clap in his walie nieve a blade,
he'll mak it whissle;
an' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
like taps o' trissle.
ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
and dish them out their bill o' fare,
auld scotland wants nae skinking ware
that jaups in luggies;
but, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
gie her a haggis!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to miss logan, with beatties poems, for a new-years gift, jan. 1, 1787. 1787
to miss logan, with beattie's poems, for a new-year's gift, jan. 1, 1787.
again the silent wheels of time
their annual round have driven,
and you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
are so much nearer heaven.
no gifts have i from indian coasts
the infant year to hail;
i send you more than india boasts,
in edwin's simple tale.
our sex with guile, and faithless love,
is charg'd, perhaps too true;
but may, dear maid, each lover prove
an edwin still to you.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns mr. william smellie—a sketch mr. william smellie—a sketch
shrewd willie smellie to crochallan came;
the old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same;
his bristling beard just rising in its might,
'twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
his ub'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd
a head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;
yet tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude,
his heart was warm, benevolent, and good.
rattlin', roarin' willie
as i cam by crochallan,
i cannilie keekit ben;
rattlin', roarin' willie
was sittin at yon boord-en';
sittin at yon boord-en,
and amang gudepanie;
rattlin', roarin' willie,
you're wee hame to me!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—bonie dundee song—bonie dundee
my blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie!
my blessin's upon thy e'e-brie!
thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
thou's aye the dearer, and dearer to me!
but i'll big a bow'r on yon bonie banks,
whare tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
an' i'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
and mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns extempore in the court of session extempore in the court of session
tune—“killiercrankie.”
lord advocate
he clenched his pamphlet in his fist,
he &
ed and he hinted,
till, in a declamation-mist,
his argument he tint it:
he gaped for't, he graped for't,
he fand it was awa, man;
but what hismon sense came short,
he eked out wi' law, man.
mr. erskine
collected, harry stood awee,
then open'd out his arm, man;
his lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,
and ey'd the gathering storm, man:
like wind-driven hail it did assail'
or torrents owre a lin, man:
the bench sae wise, lift up their eyes,
half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns inscription for the headstone of fergusson the poet inscription for the headstone of fergusson the poet 注释标题 the stone was erected at burns' expenses in february—march, 1789.
no sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
“no storied urn nor animated bust;”
this simple stone directs pale scotia's way,
to pour her sorrows o'er the poet's dust.
additional stanzas
she mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;
tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
yet luxury and wealth lay by in state,
and, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.
this tribute, with a tear, now gives
a brother bard—he can no more bestow:
but dear to fame thy song immortal lives,
a nobler monument than art can shew.
inscribed under fergusson's portrait
curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
and yet can starve the author of the pleasure.
o thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
by far my elder brother in the muses,
with tears i pity thy unhappy fate!
why is the bard unpitied by the world,
yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to mrs. scott epistle to mrs. scott
gudewife of wauchope—house, roxburghshire.
gudewife,
i mind it weel in early date,
when i was bardless, young, and blate,
an' first could thresh the barn,
or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
an, tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
yet unco proud to learn:
when first amang the yellow corn
a man i reckon'd was,
an' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
could rank my rig and lass,
still shearing, and clearing
the tither stooked raw,
wi' claivers, an' haivers,
wearing the day awa.
e'en then, a wish, (i mind its pow'r),
a wish that to my latest hour