friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,
backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid?
i know my need, i know thy giving hand,
i crave thy friendship at thy kindmand;
but there are such who court the tuneful nine—
heavens! should the branded character be mine!
whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,
yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
mark, how their lofty independent spirit
soars on the spurning wing of injured merit!
seek not the proofs in private life to find
pity the best of words should be but wind!
so, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends,
but grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
in all the clam'rous cry of starving want,
they dun benevolence with shameless front;
oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays—
they persecute you all your future days!
ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
my horny fist assume the plough again,
the pie-bald jacket let me patch once more,
on eighteenpence a week i've liv'd before.
tho', thanks to heaven, i dare even that last shift,
i trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:
that, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height,
where, man and nature fairer in her sight,
my muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song.—the day returns song.—the day returns
tune—“seventh of november.”
the day returns, my bosom burns,
the blissful day we twa did meet:
tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
than a' the pride that loads the tide,
and crosses o'er the sultry line;
than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
heav'n gave me more—it made thee mine!
while day and night can bring delight,
or nature aught of pleasure give;
while joys above my mind can move,
for thee, and thee alone, i live.
when that grim foe of life below
es in between to make us part,
the iron hand that breaks our band,
it breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song.—o, were i on parnassus hill song.—o, were i on parnassus hill
tune—“my love is lost to me.”
o, were i on parnassus hill,
or had o' helicon my fill,
that i might catch poetic skill,
to sing how dear i love thee!
but nith maun be my muse's well,
my muse maun be thy bonie sel',
on corsincon i'll glowr and spell,
and write how dear i love thee.
thene, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
for a' the lee-lang simmer's day
i couldna sing, i couldna say,
how much, how dear, i love thee,
i see thee dancing o'er the green,
thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—
by heaven and earth i love thee!
by night, by day, a-field, at hame,
the thoughts o' thee my breast inflame:
and aye i muse and sing thy name—
i only live to love thee.
tho' i were doom'd to wander on,
beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
till my last weary sand was run;
till then—and then i love thee!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns a mothers lament a mother's lament
for the death of her son.
fate gave the word, the arrow sped,
and pierc'd my darling's heart;
and with him all the joys are fled
life can to me impart.
by cruel hands the sapling drops,
in dust dishonour'd laid;
so fell the pride of all my hopes,
my age's future shade.
the mother-linnet in the brake
bewails her ravish'd young;
so i, for my lost darling's sake,
lament the live-day long.
death, oft i've feared thy fatal blow.
now, fond, i bare my breast;
o, do thou kindly lay me low
with him i love, at rest!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the fall of the leaf the fall of the leaf
the lamist hangs from the brow of the hill,
concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
how languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
as autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
the forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
and all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
how quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues!
how long i have liv'd—but how much liv'd in vain,
how little of life's scanty span may remain,
what aspects old time in his progress has worn,
what ties cruel fate, in my bosom has torn.
how foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
and downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!
life is not worth having with all it can give—
for something beyond it poor man sure must live.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns i reign in jeanies bosom i reign in jeanie's bosom
louis, what reck i by thee,
or geordie on his ocean?
dyvor, beggar louns to me,
i reign in jeanie's bosom!
let her crown my love her law,
and in her breast enthrone me,
kings and nations—swith awa'!
reif randies, i disown ye!
it is na, jean, thy bonie face
it is na, jean, thy bonie face,
nor shape that i admire;
altho' thy beauty and thy grace
might weel awauk desire.
something, in ilka part o' thee,
to praise, to love, i find,
but dear as is thy form to me,
still dearer is thy mind.
nae mair ungenerous wish i hae,
nor stronger in my breast,
than, if i canna make thee sae,
at least to see thee blest.
content am i, if heaven shall give
but happiness, to thee;
and as wi' thee i'd wish to live,
for thee i'd bear to die.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns auld lang syne auld lang syne
should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne!
chorus.—for auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne.
we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
and surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
and surely i'll be mine!
and we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
for auld, c.
we twa hae run about the braes,
and pou'd the gowans fine;
but we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
sin' auld lang syne.
for auld, c.
we twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine;
but seas between us braid hae roar'd
sin' auld lang syne.
for auld, c.
and there's a hand, my trusty fere!
and gie's a hand o' thine!
and we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.
for auld, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns my bonie mary my bonie mary
go, fetch to me a pint o' wine,
and fill it in a silver tassie;
that i may drink before i go,
a service to my bonie lassie.
the boat rocks at the pier o' leith;
fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;
the ship rides by the berwick-law,
and i maun leave my bonie mary.
the trumpets sound, the banners fly,
the glittering spears are ranked ready:
the shouts o' war are heard afar,
the battle closes deep and bloody;
it's not the roar o' sea or shore,
wad mak me langer wish to tarry!
nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—
it's leaving thee, my bonie mary!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the parting kiss the parting kiss
humid seal of soft affections,
tenderest pledge of future bliss,
dearest tie of young connections,
love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!
speaking silence, dumb confession,
passion's birth, and infant's play,