there was ae winsome wench and waulie
that night enlisted in the core,
lang after ken'd on carrick shore;
(for mony a beast to dead she shot,
and perish'd mony a bonie boat,
and shook baith meikle corn and bear,
and kept the country-side in fear);
her cutty sark, o' paisley harn,
that while a lassie she had worn,
in longitude tho' sorely scanty,
it was her best, and she was vauntie.
ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
that sark she coft for her wee nannie,
wi twa pund scots ('twas a' her riches),
wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
but here my muse her wing maun cour,
sic flights are far beyond her power;
to sing how nannie lap and flang,
(a souple jade she was and strang),
and how tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
and thought his very een enrich'd:
even satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
and hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
till first ae caper, syne anither,
tam tint his reason a thegither,
and roars out, “weel done, cutty-sark!”
and in an instant all was dark:
and scarcely had he maggie rallied.
when out the hellish legion sallied.
as bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
when plundering herds assail their byke;
as open pussie's mortal foes,
when, pop! she starts before their nose;
as eager runs the market-crowd,
when “catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
so maggie runs, the witches follow,
wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
ah, tam! ah, tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
in hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
in vain thy kate awaits thyin!
kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
now, do thy speedy-utmost, meg,
and win the key-stone o' the brig;
there, at them thou thy tail may toss,
a running stream they dare na cross.
but ere the keystane she could make,
the fient a tail she had to shake!
for nannie, far before the rest,
hard upon noble maggie prest,
and flew at tam wi' furious ettle;
but little wist she maggie's mettle!
ae spring brought off her master hale,
but left behind her ain grey tail:
the carlin claught her by the rump,
and left poor maggie scarce a stump.
now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
or cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
remember tam o' shanter's mare.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns on the birth of a posthumous child on the birth of a posthumous child
born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.
sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
and ward o' mony a prayer,
what heart o' stane wad thou na move,
sae helpless, sweet, and fair?
november hirples o'er the lea,
chil, on thy lovely form:
and gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
should shield thee frae the storm.
may he who gives the rain to pour,
and wings the blast to blaw,
protect thee frae the driving show'r,
the bitter frost and snaw.
may he, the friend o' woe and want,
who heals life's various stounds,
protect and guard the mother plant,
and heal her cruel wounds.
but late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
fair in the summer morn,
now feebly bends she in the blast,
unshelter'd and forlorn.
blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
unscath'd by ruffian hand!
and from thee many a parent stem
arise to deck our land!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns elegy on the late miss burnet of monboddo elegy on the late miss burnet of monboddo
life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,
as burnet, lovely from her native skies;
nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
as that which laid th' aplish'd burnet low.
thy form and mind, sweet maid, can i forget?
in richest ore the brightest jewel set!
in thee, high heaven above was truest shown,
as by his noblest work the godhead best is known.
in vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves,
ye cease to charm; eliza is no more.
ye healthy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd:
ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
to you i fly—ye with my soul accord.
princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
shall venal lays their pompous exit hail,
and thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
and not a muse with honest grief bewail?
we saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
and virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres;
but, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,
thou left us darkling in a world of tears.
the parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
that heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
so deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
so, from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns lament of mary, queen of scots, on the approach of spring 1791
lament of mary, queen of scots, on the approach of spring
now nature hangs her mantle green
on every blooming tree,
and spreads her sheets o' daisies white
out o'er the grassy lea;
now phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
and glads the azure skies;
but nought can glad the weary wight
that fast in durance lies.
now laverocks wake the merry morn
aloft on dewy wing;
the merle, in his noontide bow'r,
makes woodland echoes ring;
the mavis wild wi' mony a note,
sings drowsy day to rest:
in love and freedom they rejoice,
wi' care nor thrall opprest.
now blooms the lily by the bank,
the primrose down the brae;
the hawthorn's budding in the glen,
and milk-white is the slae:
the meanest hind in fair scotland
may rove their sweets amang;
but i, the queen of a' scotland,
maun lie in prison strang.
i was the queen o' bonie france,
where happy i hae been;
fu' lightly raise i in the morn,
as blythe lay down at e'en:
and i'm the sov'reign of scotland,
and mony a traitor there;
yet here i lie in foreign bands,
and never-ending care.
but as for thee, thou false woman,
my sister and my fae,
grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword
that thro' thy soul shall gae;
the weeping blood in woman's breast
was never known to thee;
nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe
frae woman's pitying e'e.
my son! my son! may kinder stars
upon thy fortune shine;
and may those pleasures gild thy reign,
that ne'er wad blink on mine!
god keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
or turn their hearts to thee:
and where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
remember him for me!
o! soon, to me, may summer suns
nae mair light up the morn!
nae mair to me the autumn winds
wave o'er the yellow corn?
and, in the narrow house of death,
let winter round me rave;
and the next flow'rs that deck the spring,
bloom on my peaceful grave!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns therell never be peace till jamie comes hame there'll never be peace till jamiees hame
by yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
i heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey:
and as he was singing, the tears doon came,—
there'll never be peace till jamiees hame.
the church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars,
we dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame,—
there'll never be peace till jamiees hame.