how nimrod first the trade began
of binding slavery's chains on man;
how fell semiramis—god damn her!
did first, with sacrilegious hammer,
(all ills till then were trivial matters)
for man dethron'd forge hen-peck fetters;
how xerxes, that abandoned tory,
thought cutting throats was reaping glory,
until the stubborn whigs of sparta
taught him great nature's magna charta;
how mighty rome her fiat hurl'd
resistless o'er a bowing world,
and, kinder than they did desire,
polish'd mankind with sword and fire;
with much, too tedious to relate,
of ancient and of modern date,
but ending still, how billy pitt
(unlucky boy!) with wicked wit,
has gagg'd old britain, drain'd her coffer,
as butchers bind and bleed a heifer,
thus wily reynard by degrees,
in kennel listening at his ease,
suck'd in a mighty stock of knowledge,
as much as some folks at a college;
knew britain's rights and constitution,
her aggrandisement, diminution,
how fortune wrought us good from evil;
let no man, then, despise the devil,
as who should say, 'i never can need him,'
since we to scoundrels owe our freedom.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns poem on pastoral poetry poem on pastoral poetry
hail, poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
in chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
fraemon sense, or sunk enerv'd
'mang heaps o' clavers:
and och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,
'mid a' thy favours!
say, lassie, why, thy train amang,
while loud the trump's heroic clang,
and sock or buskin skelp alang
to death or marriage;
scarce ane has tried the shepherd—sang
but wi' miscarriage?
in homer's craft jock milton thrives;
eschylus' pen will shakespeare drives;
wee pope, the knurlin', till him rives
horatian fame;
in thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives
even sappho's flame.
but thee, theocritus, wha matches?
they're no herd's ballats, maro's catches;
squire pope but busks his skinklin' patches
o' heathen tatters:
i pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
that ape their betters.
in this braw age o' wit and lear,
will nane the shepherd's whistle mair
blaw sweetly in its native air,
and rural grace;
and, wi' the far-fam'd grecian, share
a rival place?
yes! there is ane—a scottish callan!
there's ane;e forrit, honest allan!
thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
a chiel sae clever;
the teeth o' time may gnaw tantallan,
but thou's for ever.
thou paints auld nature to the nines,
in thy sweet caledonian lines;
nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines,
where philomel,
while nightly breezes sweep the vines,
her griefs will tell!
in gowany glens thy burnie strays,
where bonie lasses bleach their claes,
or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
wi' hawthorns gray,
where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,
at close o' day.
thy rural loves are nature's sel';
nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
o' witchin love,
that charm that can the strongest quell,
the sternest move.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns verses on the destruction of the ds near drumlanrig verses on the destruction of the woods near drumlanrig
as on the banks o' wandering nith,
ae smiling simmer morn i stray'd,
and traced its bonie howes and haughs,
where linties sang and lammies play'd,
i sat me down upon a craig,
and drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
when from the eddying deep below,
up rose the genius of the stream.
dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
and troubled, like his wintry wave,
and deep, as sughs the boding wind
amang his caves, the sigh he gave—
“ande ye here, my son,” he cried,
“to wander in my birken shade?
to muse some favourite scottish theme,
or sing some favourite scottish maid?
“there was a time, it's nae lang syne,
ye might hae seen me in my pride,
when a' my banks sae bravely saw
their woody pictures in my tide;
when hanging beech and spreading elm
shaded my stream sae clear and cool:
and stately oaks their twisted arms
threw broad and dark across the pool;
“when, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd
the wee white cot aboon the mill,
and peacefu' rose its ingle reek,
that, slowly curling, clamb the hill.
but now the cot is bare and cauld,
its leafy bield for ever gane,
and scarce a stinted birk is left
to shiver in the blast its lane.”
“alas!” &
h i, “what ruefu' chance
has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?
has laid your rocky bosom bare—
has stripped the cleeding o' your braes?
was it the bitter eastern blast,
that scatters blight in early spring?
or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,
or canker-worm wi' secret sting?”
“nae eastlin blast,” the sprite replied;
“it blaws na here sae fierce and fell,
and on my dry and halesome banks
nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
man! cruel man!” the genius sighed—
as through the cliffs he sank him down—
“the worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,
that reptile wears a ducal crown.”
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the gallant weaver the gallant weaver
where cart rins rowin' to the sea,
by mony a flower and spreading tree,
there lives a lad, the lad for me,
he is a gallant weaver.
o, i had wooers aught or nine,
they gied me rings and ribbons fine;
and i was fear'd my heart wad tine,
and i gied it to the weaver.
my daddie sign'd my tocher-band,
to gie the lad that has the land,
but to my heart i'll add my hand,
and give it to the weaver.
while birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
while bees delight in opening flowers,
while corn grows green in summer showers,
i love my gallant weaver.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epigram at brownhill inn epigram at brownhill inn 注释标题 bacon was the name of a presumably intrusive host. the lines are said to have “afforded much amusement.”—lang
at brownhill we always get dainty good cheer,
and plenty of bacon each day in the year;
we've a' thing that's nice, and mostly in season,
but why always bacone, tell me a reason?
you're wee, willie stewart
chorus.—you're wee, willie stewart,
you're wee, willie stewart,
there's ne'er a flower that blooms in may,
that's half sae wee's thou art!
e, bumpers high, express your joy,
the bowl we maun renew it,
the tappet hen, gae bring her ben,
to wee willie stewart,
you're wee, willie stewart, c.
may foes be strang, and friends be slack
ilk action, may he rue it,
may woman on him turn her back
that wrangs thee, willie stewart,
you're wee, willie stewart, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns lovely polly stewart lovely polly stewart
chorus.—o lovely polly stewart,
o charming polly stewart,
there's ne'er a flower that blooms in may,
that's half so fair as thou art!
the flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's,
and art can ne'er renew it;
but worth and truth, eternal youth
will gie to polly stewart,
o lovely polly stewart, c.
may he whase arms shall fauld thy charms
possess a leal and true heart!
to him be given to ken the heaven
he grasps in polly stewart!
o lovely polly stewart, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns fragment,—damon and sylvia fragment,—damon and sylvia