'twould vamp my bill, said i, if nothing better;
so sought a poet, roosted near the skies,
told him i came to feast my curious eyes;
said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
and last, my prologue-business slily hinted.
“ma'am, let me tell you,” &
h my man of rhymes,
“i know your bent—these are no laughing times:
can you—but, miss, i own i have my fears—
dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;
with laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell repentance;
paint vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
waving on high the desolating brand,
calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?”
i could no more—askance the creature eyeing,
“d'ye think,” said i, “this face was made for crying?
i'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it;
and so, your servant! gloomy master poet!”
firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
that misery's another word for grief:
i also think—so may i be a bride!
that so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
thou man of cracare and ceaseless sigh,
still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye;
doom'd to that sorest task of man alive—
to make three guineas do the work of five:
laugh in misfortune's face—the beldam witch!
say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.
thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove;
who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
measur'st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—
or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
peerest to meditate the healing leap:
would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
laugh at her follies—laugh e'en at thyself:
learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
and love a kinder—that's your grand specific.
to sum up all, be merry, i advise;
and as we're merry, may we still be wise.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns complimentary epigram on maria riddell plimentary epigram on maria riddell
“praise woman still,” his lordship roars,
“deserv'd or not, no matter?”
but thee, whom all my soul adores,
ev'n flattery cannot flatter:
maria, all my thought and dream,
inspires my vocal shell;
the more i praise my lovely theme,
the more the truth i tell.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns remorseful apology 1794
remorseful apology
the friend whom, wild from wisdom's way,
the fumes of wine infuriate send,
(not moony madness more astray)
who but deplores that hapless friend?
mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
ah! why should i such scenes outlive?
scenes so abhorrent to my heart!—
'tis thine to pity and forgive.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns wilt thou be my dearie? wilt thou be my dearie?
tune—“the sutor's dochter.”
wilt thou be my dearie?
when sorrow wring thy gentle heart,
o wilt thou let me cheer thee!
by the treasure of my soul,
that's the love i bear thee:
i swear and vow that only thou
shall ever be my dearie!
only thou, i swear and vow,
shall ever be my dearie!
lassie, say thou lo'es me;
or, if thou wilt na be my ain,
o say na thou'lt refuse me!
if it winna, canna be,
thou for thine may choose me,
let me, lassie, quickly die,
still trusting that thou lo'es me!
lassie, let me quickly die,
still trusting that thou lo'es me!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns a fiddler in the north a fiddler in the north
tune—“the king o' france he rade a race.”
amang the trees, where humming bees,
at buds and flowers were hinging, o,
auld caledon drew out her drone,
and to her pipe was singing, o:
'twas pibroch, sang, strathspeys, and reels,
she dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, o:
when there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels,
that dang her tapsalteerie, o.
their capon craws an' queer “ha, ha's,”
they made our lugs grow eerie, o;
the hungry bike did scrape and fyke,
till we were wae and weary, o:
but a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd,
a prisoner, aughteen year awa',
he fir'd a fiddler in the north,
that dang them tapsalteerie, o.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the minstrel at lincluden the minstrel at lincluden
tune—“cumnock psalms.”
as i stood by yon roofless tower,
where the wa'flow'r scents the dery air,
where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
and tells the midnight moon her care.
chorus—a lassie all alone, was making her moan,
lamenting our lads beyond the sea:
in the bluidy wars they fa', and our honour's gane an' a',
and broken-hearted we maun die.
the winds were laid, the air was till,
the stars they shot along the sky;
the tod was howling on the hill,
and the distant-echoing glens reply.
a lassie all alone, c.
the burn, adown its hazelly path,
was rushing by the ruin'd wa',
hasting to join the sweeping nith,
whase roarings seem'd to rise and fa'.
a lassie all alone, c.
the cauld blae north was streaming forth
her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din,
athort the lift they start and shift,
like fortune's favours, tint as win.
a lassie all alone, c.
now, looking over firth and fauld,
her horn the pale-faced cynthia rear'd,
when lo! in form of minstrel auld,
a stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd.
a lassie all alone, c.
and frae his harp sic strains did flow,
might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear;
but oh, it was a tale of woe,
as ever met a briton's ear!
a lassie all alone, c.
he sang wi' joy his former day,
he, weeping, wail'd his latter times;
but what he said—it was nae play,
i winna venture't in my rhymes.
a lassie all alone, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns a vision a vision
as i stood by yon roofless tower,
where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,
where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
and tells the midnight moon her care.
the winds were laid, the air was still,
the stars they shot alang the sky;
the fox was howling on the hill,
and the distant echoing glens reply.
the stream, adown its hazelly path,
was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
hasting to join the sweeping nith,
whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
the cauld blae north was streaming forth
her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din;
athwart the lift they start and shift,
like fortune's favors, tint as win.
by heedless chance i turn'd mine eyes,
and, by the moonbeam, shook to see
a stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
had i a statue been o' stane,
his daring look had daunted me;
and on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
the sacred posy—“libertie!”
and frae his harp sic strains did flow,
might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;
but oh, it was a tale of woe,
as ever met a briton's ear!
he sang wi' joy his former day,
he, weeping, wailed his latter times;
but what he said—it was nae play,
i winna venture't in my rhymes.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns a red, red rose a red, red rose
[hear red, red rose]
o my luve's like a red, red rose,
that's newly sprung in june:
o my luve's like the melodie,
that's sweetly play'd in tune.
as fair art thou, my bonie lass,
so deep in luve am i;
and i will luve thee still, my dear,
till a' the seas gang dry.
till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,