e'en monc a plack, and mony a peck,
ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
ye bonie lasses, dight your e'en,
for some o' you hae tint a frien';
in eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen,
what ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
observe the very nowt an' sheep,
how dowff an' daviely they creep;
nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry,
for e'nburgh wells are grutten dry.
o eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
an' no owre auld, i hope, to learn!
thou beardless boy, i pray tak care,
thou now hast got thy daddy's chair;
nae handcuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd regent,
but, like himsel, a full free agent,
be sure ye follow out the plan
nae waur than he did, honest man!
as muckle better as you can.
january, 1, 1789.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the henpecked husband the henpecked husband
curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
the crouching vassal to a tyrant wife!
who has no will but by her high permission,
who has not sixpence but in her possession;
who must to he, his dear friend's secrets tell,
who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
were such the wife had fallen to my part,
i'd break her spirit or i'd break her heart;
i'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
i'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns versicles on sign-posts versicles on sign-posts
his face with smile eternal drest,
just like the landlord's to his guest's,
high as they hang with creaking din,
to index out the country inn.
he looked just as your sign-post lions do,
with aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too.
a head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul,
the very image of a barber's poll;
it shews a human face, and wears a wig,
and looks, when well preserv'd, amazing big.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns robin shure in hairst 1789
robin shure in hairst
chorus.—robin shure in hairst,
i shure wi' him.
fient a heuk had i,
yet i stack by him.
i gaed up to dunse,
to warp a wab o' plaiden,
at his daddie's yett,
wha met me but robin:
robin shure, c.
was na robin bauld,
tho' i was a cotter,
play'd me sic a trick,
an' me the el'er's dochter!
robin shure, c.
robin promis'd me
a' my winter vittle;
fient haet he had but three
guse-feathers and a whittle!
robin shure, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns ode, sacred to the memory of mrs. oswald of auchencruive ode, sacred to the memory of mrs. oswald of auchencruive
dweller in yon dungeon dark,
hangman of creation! mark,
who in widow-weeds appears,
laden with unhonour'd years,
noosing with care a bursting purse,
baited with many a deadly curse?
strophe
view the wither'd beldam's face;
can thy keen inspection trace
aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace?
note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows;
pity's flood there never rose,
see these hands ne'er stretched to save,
hands that took, but never gave:
keeper of mammon's iron chest,
lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,
she goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
antistrophe
plunderer of armies! lift thine eyes,
(a while forbear, ye torturing fiends;)
seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends?
no fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies;
'tis thy trusty quondam mate,
doom'd to share thy fiery fate;
she, tardy, hell-ward plies.
epode
and are they of no more avail,
ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?
in other worlds can mammon fail,
omnipotent as he is here!
o, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
while down the wretched vital part is driven!
the cave-lodged beggar,with a conscience clear,
expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heaven.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns pegasus at wanlockhead pegasus at wanlockhead
with pegasus upon a day,
apollo, weary flying,
through frosty hills the journey lay,
on foot the way was plying.
poor slipshod giddy pegasus
was but a sorry walker;
to vulcan then apollo goes,
to get a frosty caulker.
obliging vulcan fell to work,
threw by his coat and bonnet,
and did sol's business in a crack;
sol paid him with a sonnet.
ye vulcan's sons of wanlockhead,
pity my sad disaster;
my pegasus is poorly shod,
i'll pay you like my master.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns sappho redivivus—a fragment sappho redivivus—a fragment
by all i lov'd, neglected and forgot,
no friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot;
shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest,
the mock'd &
ation of the scorner's jest!
ev'n the poor support of my wretched life,
snatched by the violence of legal strife.
oft grateful for my very daily bread
to those my family's once large bounty fed;
a wee inmate at their homely fare,
my griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share:
(their vulgar souls unlike the souls refin'd,
the fashioned marble of the polished mind).
in vain would prudence, with decorous sneer,
point out a censuring world, and bid me fear;
above the world, on wings of love, i rise—
i know its worst, and can that worst despise;
let prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
m[ontgomer]y, rich reward, o'erpays them all!
mild zephyrs waft thee to life's farthest shore,
nor think of me and my distress more,—
falsehood accurst! no! still i beg a place,
still near thy heart some little, little trace:
for that dear trace the world i would resign:
o let me live, and die, and think it mine!
“i burn, i burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
by driving winds the crackling flames are borne;”
now raving-wild, i curse that fatal night,
then bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight:
in vain the laws their feeble force oppose,
chain'd at love's feet, they groan, his vanquish'd foes.
in vain religion meets my shrinking eye,
i dare notbat, but i turn and fly:
conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire,
love grasps her scorpions—stifled they expire!
reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,
your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone;
each thought intoxicated homage yields,
and riots wanton in forbidden fields.
by all on high adoring mortals know!
by all the conscious villain fears below!
by your dear self!—the last great oath i swear,
not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—shes fair and fause song—she's fair and fause
she's fair and fause that causes my smart,
i lo'ed her meikle and lang;
she's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
and i may e'en gae hang.
a coof cam in wi' routh o' gear,
and i hae tint my dearest dear;
but woman is but warld's gear,
sae let the bonie lass gang.
whae'er ye be that woman love,
to this be never blind;
nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,
a woman has't by kind.
o woman lovely, woman fair!
an angel form's faun to thy share,
'twad been o'er meikle to gi'en thee mair—
i mean an angel mind.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns impromptu lines to captain riddell impromptu lines to captain riddell
on returning a newspaper.
your news and review, sir.
i've read through and through, sir,
with little admiring or blaming;
the papers are barren