Poems and Songs of Robert Burns inscription for an altar of independence inscription for an altar of independence
at kerroughtree, the seat of mr. heron.
thou of an independent mind,
with soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave,
who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
virtue alone who dost revere,
thy own reproach alone dost fear—
approach this shrine, and worship here.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the cardin ot, the spinnin ot the cardin o't, the spinnin o't
i coft a stane o' haslock woo',
to mak a wab to johnie o't;
for johnie is my only jo,
i loe him best of onie yet.
chorus—the cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
the warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
when ilka ell cost me a groat,
the tailor staw the lynin' o't.
for tho' his locks be lyart grey,
and tho' his brow be beld aboon,
yet i hae seen him on a day,
the pride of a' the parishen.
the cardin o't, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the cooper o cuddy the cooper o' cuddy
tune—“bab at the bowster.”
chorus—we'll hide the cooper behint the door,
behint the door, behint the door,
we'll hide the cooper behint the door,
and cover him under a mawn, o.
the cooper o' cuddy came here awa,
he ca'd the girrs out o'er us a';
an' our gudewife has gotten a ca',
that's anger'd the silly gudeman o.
we'll hide the cooper, c.
he sought them out, he sought them in,
wi' deil hae her! an', deil hae him!
but the body he was sae doited and blin',
he wist na where he was gaun o.
we'll hide the cooper, c.
they cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn,
till our gudeman has gotten the scorn;
on ilka brow she's planted a horn,
and swears that there they sall stan' o.
we'll hide the cooper, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the lass that made the bed to me the lass that made the bed to me
when januar' wind was blawing cauld,
as to the north i took my way,
the mirksome night did me enfauld,
i knew na where to lodge till day:
by my gude luck a maid i met,
just in the middle o' my care,
and kindly she did me invite
to walk into a chamber fair.
i bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
and thank'd her for her courtesie;
i bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
an' bade her make a bed to me;
she made the bed baith large and wide,
wi' twa white hands she spread it doun;
she put the cup to her rosy lips,
and drank—“young man, now sleep ye soun'.”
chorus—the bonie lass made the bed to me,
the braw lass made the bed to me,
i'll ne'er forget till the day i die,
the lass that made the bed to me.
she snatch'd the candle in her hand,
and frae my chamber went wi' speed;
but i call'd her quickly back again,
to lay some mair below my head:
a cod she laid below my head,
and served me with due respect,
and, to salute her wi' a kiss,
i put my arms about her neck.
the bonie lass, c.
“haud aff your hands, young man!” she said,
“and dinna sae uncivil be;
gif ye hae ony luve for me,
o wrang na my virginitie.”
her hair was like the links o' gowd,
her teeth were like the ivorie,
her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
the lass that made the bed to me:
the bonie lass, c.
her bosom was the driven snaw,
twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
the lass that made the bed to me.
i kiss'd her o'er and o'er again,
and aye she wist na what to say:
i laid her 'tween me and the wa';
the lassie thocht na lang till day.
the bonie lass, c.
upon the morrow when we raise,
i thank'd her for her courtesie;
but aye she blush'd and aye she sigh'd,
and said, “alas, ye've ruin'd me.”
i claps'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
while the tear stood twinkling in her e'e;
i said, my lassie, dinna cry.
for ye aye shall make the bed to me.
the bonie lass, c.
she took her mither's holland sheets,
an' made them a' in sarks to me;
blythe and merry may she be,
the lass that made the bed to me.
chorus—the bonie lass made the bed to me,
the braw lass made the bed to me.
i'll ne'er forget till the day i die,
the lass that made the bed to me.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns had i the wyte? she bade me had i the wyte? she bade me
had i the wyte, had i the wyte,
had i the wyte? she bade me;
she watch'd me by the hie-gate side,
and up the loan she shaw'd me.
and when i wadna venture in,
a coward loon she ca'd me:
had kirk an' state been in the gate,
i'd lighted when she bade me.
sae craftilie she took me ben,
and bade me mak nae clatter;
“for our ramgunshoch, glum gudeman
is o'er ayont the water.”
whae'er shall say i wanted grace,
when i did kiss and dawte her,
let him be planted in my place,
syne say, i was the fautor.
could i for shame, could i for shame,
could i for shame refus'd her;
and wadna manhood been to blame,
had i unkindly used her!
he claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame,
and blae and bluidy bruis'd her;
when sic a husband was frae hame,
what wife but wad excus'd her!
i dighted aye her e'en sae blue,
an' bann'd the cruel randy,
and weel i wat, her willin' mou
was sweet as sugar-candie.
at gloamin-shot, it was i wot,
i lighted on the monday;
but i cam thro' the tyseday's dew,
to wanton willie's brandy.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns does haughty gaul invasion threat? does haughty gaul invasion threat?
tune—“push about the jorum.”
does haughty gaul invasion threat?
then let the louns beware, sir;
there's wooden walls upon our seas,
and volunteers on shore, sir:
the nith shall run to corsincon,
and criffel sink in solway,
ere we permit a foreign foe
on british ground to rally!
we'll ne'er permit a foreign foe
on british ground to rally!
o let us not, like snarling curs,
in wrangling be divided,
till, slap!e in an unco loun,
and wi' a rung decide it!
be britain still to britain true,
amang ourselves united;
for never but by british hands
maun british wrangs be righted!
no! never but by british hands
shall british wrangs be righted!
the kettle o' the kirk and state,
perhaps a clout may fail in't;
but deil a foreign tinkler loun
shall ever ca'a nail in't.
our father's blude the kettle bought,
and wha wad dare to spoil it;
by heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog
shall fuel be to boil it!
by heav'ns! the sacrilegious dog
shall fuel be to boil it!
the wretch that would a tyrant own,
and the wretch, his true-born brother,
who would set the mob aboon the throne,
may they be damn'd together!
who will not sing “god save the king,”
shall hang as high's the steeple;
but while we sing “god save the king,”
we'll ne'er forget the people!
but while we sing “god save the king,”
we'll ne'er forget the people!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns address to the dlark address to the woodlark
tune—“loch erroch side.”
o stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
nor quit for me the trembling spray,