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    Selected Poetry
    Selected Poetry
    Selected Poetry
    Ebook362 pages2 hours

    Selected Poetry

    By Robert Burns

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    About this ebook

    Scotsman and poet Robert Burns was born in 1759. His family didn’t have much in terms of money, but Burns was still optimistic about life and love. His first poems were songs written to his many lovers, though those were not received well by the mistresses. In 1786, Burns’ first anthology “Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect” was released. It contained some of his best works, such as “The Twa Dogs” and “To a Mouse, On Turning Up Her Nest With The Plow”. Burns then moved around Scotland and even took up a short residence in Jamaica as a bookkeeper on a plantation. After returning to his native land, Burns settled down in Dumfries and devoted himself to his poems and lyrics. In this phase of his life, Burns became highly invested in collecting and preserving many of the local Scottish hymns and tunes. However, he was also famous for taking his own words and singing them with the melody of traditional Scottish songs. This is the case for “Auld Lang Syne” and “A Red, Red Rose”. His poetry and lyrics are still famous to this day, in large part due to his ability to weave seamlessly between emotions. A staunch supporter of republicanism, Burns was a Scottish patriot and believed in equality of all races, classes, and genders. In 2009, he was voted as the most influential and beloved Scot of all time by the people of Scotland. In this volume of "Selected Poetry" you will find a representative selection of his poetry that illustrates why he is widely regarded as Scotland’s greatest poet. This edition includes a biographical afterword.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateSep 24, 2020
    ISBN9781420969832
    Selected Poetry
    Author

    Robert Burns

    Robert Burns has been involved in the areas of self improvement and assisting people in becoming who they were meant to be from birth. He knows that stories play a significant role in our life's choices and future accomplishments. This short story has a wealth of information concerning friendship so I hope you enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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      Book preview

      Selected Poetry - Robert Burns

      cover.jpg

      SELECTED POETRY

      By ROBERT BURNS

      Selected Poetry

      By Robert Burns

      Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-6982-5

      eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-6983-2

      This edition copyright © 2020. Digireads.com Publishing.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

      Cover Image: a detail of a portrait of Robert Burns, c. 1790 (oil on board), by Alexander Nasmyth (1758-1840) (after) / With kind permission of the University of Edinburgh / Bridgeman Images.

      Please visit www.digireads.com

      CONTENTS

      A BARD’S EPITAPH

      A DREAM

      A POET’S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER

      A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

      A RED, RED ROSE

      ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

      ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

      ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

      AE FOND KISS.

      AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE

      AULD LANG SYNE

      AWA’, WHIGS, AWA’

      AY WAUKIN, O

      BALLAD ON THE AMERICAN WAR

      BEHIND YON HILLS, WHERE LUGAR FLOWS

      CA’ THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES

      CHARLIE HE’S MY DARLING

      COMIN THRO’ THE RYE

      DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK

      DOES HAUGHTY GAUL INVASION THREAT?

      ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX

      ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788

      EPIGRAM TO MISS AINSLIE IN CHURCH

      EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

      EPISTLE TO DAVIE

      EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER

      EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD

      TO THE SAME

      EPISTLE TO WILLIAM STEWART

      EPITAPH ON MY EVER HONOURED FATHER

      EPITAPH ON MY OWN FRIEND, AND MY FATHER’S FRIEND, WILLIAM MUIR OF TARBOLTON MILL

      EXTEMPORE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, STANZAS ON NAETHING

      GREEN GROW THE RASHES

      HALLOWEEN

      HERE STEWARTS ONCE IN TRIUMPH REIGNED

      HEY CA’ THRO’

      HIGHLAND MARY

      HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER

      I HAE A WIFE O’ MY AIN

      I LOVE MY JEAN

      I MURDER HATE

      I’LL GO AND BE A SODGER

      I’M O’ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET

      IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY

      IT WAS A’ FOR OUR RIGHTFU’ KING

      IT WAS UPON A LAMMAS NIGHT

      JAMIE, COME TRY ME

      JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

      JOHN BARLEYCORN

      KIRKCUDBRIGHT GRACE

      LADY MARY ANN

      LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING

      LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME

      LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

      LIBEL SUMMONS

      LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE

      LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE INN, DUMFRIES

      LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF ROBERT FERGUSSON

      LOGAN WATER

      LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE

      MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

      MARY MORISON

      MY FATHER WAS A FARMER

      MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY

      MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS

      MY LOVE SHE’S BUT A LASSIE YET

      MY PEGGY’S FACE

      O ONCE I LOV’D

      O WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YE, MY LAD

      O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM!

      O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS

      O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE

      ODE FOR GENERAL WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY

      ODE ON THE DEPARTED REGENCY BILL

      ODE TO SPRING

      OH WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

      ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS THRO’ SCOTLAND

      OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH

      POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY

      PRAYER—O THOU DREAD POWER

      RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE.

      REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR

      SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS

      SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY

      SANDY AND JOCKIE

      SCOTCH DRINK

      SCOTS PROLOGUE, FOR MRS. SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT NIGHT

      SCOTS WHA HAE

      SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST

      SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION

      SWEET AFTON

      TAM GLEN

      TAM O’ SHANTER

      THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION

      THE AUTHOR’S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER

      THE BANKS O’ DOON

      THE BATTLE OF SHERRA-MOOR

      THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDIE

      THE BONNIE MOOR-HEN

      THE BONNIE WEE THING

      THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT

      THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE

      THE DEIL’S AWA WI’ THE EXCISEMAN

      THE FAREWELL

      THE FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE

      THE FORNICATOR

      THE GALLANT WEAVER

      THE HOLY FAIR

      THE JOLLY BEGGARS

      THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE

      THE POSIE

      THE RANTIN’ DOG, THE DADDIE O’T

      THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN

      THE RIGS O’ BARLEY

      THE SILVER TASSIE

      THE TAILOR FELL THRO’ THE BED

      THE TWA DOGS

      THE VISION

      THE WHITE COCKADE

      THERE WAS A LAD

      THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

      TIBBIE DUNBAR

      TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER

      TO A HAGGIS

      TO A LOUSE

      TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

      TO A MOUSE

      TO ALEXANDER FINDLATER

      TO DAUNTON ME

      TO JAMES SMITH

      TO ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRAY, ESQ.

      TO THE REV. JOHN M’MATH

      TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, OCHILTREE

      WANTONNESS

      WHA’LL KISS ME NOW

      WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE

      WHEN PRINCES AND PRELATES

      WILLIE BREW’D A PECK O’ MAUT

      YE JACOBITES BY NAME

      YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O’ WINE

      Biographical Afterword

      A BARD’S EPITAPH

      Is there a whim-inspired fool,

      Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

      Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

      Let him draw near;

      And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

      And drap a tear.

      Is there a bard of rustic song,

      Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

      That weekly this area throng,

      O, pass not by!

      But, with a frater-feeling strong,

      Here, heave a sigh.

      A DREAM

      "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;

      But surely dreams were ne’er indicted treason."

      On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following address.

      Guid-Mornin to your Majesty!

      May Heaven augment your blisses

      On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,

      A humble poet wishes.

      My Bardship here, at your Levee

      On sic a day as this is,

      Is sure an uncouth sight to see,

      Amang thae birth-day dresses

      Sae fine this day.

      I see ye’re complimented thrang,

      By mony a lord an’ lady;

      ‘God save the King!" ’s a cuckoo sang

      That’s unco easy said aye:

      The Poets, too, a venal gang,

      Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d an’ ready,

      Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,

      But aye unerring steady,

      On sic a day.

      For me! before a monarch’s face

      Ev’n there I winna flatter;

      For neither pension, post, nor place,

      Am I your humble debtor:

      So, nae reflection on your Grace,

      Your Kingship to bespatter;

      There’s mony waur been o’ the race,

      And aiblins ane been better

      Than you this day.

      ’Tis very true, my sovereign King,

      My skill may weel be doubted;

      But Facts are chiels that winna ding,

      An’ downa be disputed:

      Your royal nest, beneath your wing,

      Is e’en right reft and clouted,

      And now the third part o’ the string,

      An’ less, will gang about it

      Than did ae day.

      Far be’t frae me that I aspire

      To blame your legislation,

      Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

      To rule this mighty nation:

      But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

      Ye’ve trusted ministration

      To chaps wha in barn or byre

      Wad better fill’d their station

      Than courts yon day.

      And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,

      Her broken shins to plaister,

      Your sair taxation does her fleece,

      Till she has scarce a tester:

      For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,

      Nae bargain wearing faster,

      Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,

      I shortly boost to pasture

      I’ the craft some day.

      I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

      When taxes he enlarges,

      (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,

      A name not Envy spairges),

      That he intends to pay your debt,

      An’ lessen a’ your charges;

      But, God-sake! let nae saving fit

      Abridge your bonnie barges

      An’ boats this day.

      Adieu, my Liege; may Freedom geck

      Beneath your high protection;

      An’ may ye rax Corruption’s neck,

      And gie her for dissection!

      But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,

      In loyal, true affection,

      To pay your Queen, wi’ due respect,

      May fealty an’ subjection

      This great Birth-day.

      Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

      While nobles strive to please ye,

      Will ye accept a compliment,

      A simple poet gies ye?

      Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,

      Still higher may they heeze ye

      In bliss, till fate some day is sent

      For ever to release ye

      Frae care that day.

      For you, young Potentate o’ Wales,

      I tell your Highness fairly,

      Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,

      I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;

      But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

      An’ curse your folly sairly,

      That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,

      Or rattled dice wi’ Charlie

      By night or day.

      Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been known,

      To mak a noble aiver;

      So, ye may dousely fill the throne,

      For a’ their clish-ma-claver:

      There, him at Agincourt wha shone,

      Few better were or braver:

      And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir{1} John,

      He was an unco shaver

      For monie a day.

      For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,

      Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

      Altho’ a ribbon at your lug

      Wad been a dress completer:

      As ye disown yon paughty dog,

      That bears the keys of Peter,

      Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug,

      Or trowth, ye’ll stain the Mitre

      Some luckless day!

      Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,

      Ye’ve lately come athwart her;

      A glorious{2} Galley, stem and stern,

      Weel-rigg’d for Venus’ barter;

      But first hang out, that she’ll discern,

      Your hymeneal Charter;

      Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

      An’ large upon her quarter,

      Come full that day.

      Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’,

      Ye royal lasses dainty,

      Heav’n mak you guid as well as braw,

      An’ gie you lads a-plenty!

      But sneer na British boys awa!

      For kings are unco scant aye,

      An’ German gentles are but sma’,

      They’re better just than want ay

      On ony day.

      God bless you a’! consider now,

      Ye’re unco muckle dautet;

      But ere the course o’ life be through,

      It may be bitter sautet:

      An’ I hae seen their coggie fou,

      That yet hae tarrow’t at it.

      But or the day was done, I trow,

      The laggan they hae clautet

      Fu’ clean that day.

      A POET’S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER

      THE FIRST INSTANCE THAT ENTITLED HIM TO THE VENERABLE APPELLATION OF FATHER.

      Thou’s welcome, wean, mischanter fa’ me,

      If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,

      Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,

      My sweet wee lady,

      Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me

      Tit-ta or daddy.

      What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator,

      An’ tease my name in kintry clatter:

      The mair they talk I’m kent the better,

      E’en let them clash;

      An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter

      To gie ane fash.

      Welcome, my bonny, sweet, wee dochter!

      Tho’ ye come here a wee unsought for,

      And tho’ your comin I hae fought for

      Baith kirk and queir;

      Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for—

      That I shall swear!

      Wee image of my bonny Betty,

      I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,

      As dear and near my heart I set thee

      Wi’ as gude will

      As a’ the priests had seen me get thee

      That’s out o’ hell.

      Sweet fruit o’ monie a merry dint,

      My funny toil is now a’ tint,

      Sin’ thou came to the warl asklent,

      Which fools may scoff at;

      In my last plack thy part’s be in’t

      The better ha’f o’t.

      Tho’ I should be the waur bestead,

      Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,

      And thy young years as nicely bred

      Wi’ education,

      As onie brat o’ wedlock’s bed

      In a’ thy station.

      Gude grant that thou may ay inherit

      Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit,

      An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit,

      Without his failins;

      ’Twill please me mair to hear an’ see it

      Than stocket mailens.

      An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee,

      An’ tak the counsel I sall gie thee,

      A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee,

      If thou be spar’d;

      Thro’ a’ thy childish years I’ll e’e thee,

      An’ think’t weel war’d.

      A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

      O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

      Of all my hope and fear!

      In whose dread presence, ere an hour,

      Perhaps I must appear!

      If I have wander’d in those paths

      Of life I ought to shun,

      As something, loudly, in my breast,

      Remonstrates I have done;

      Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me

      With passions wild and strong;

      And list’ning to their witching voice

      Has often led me wrong.

      Where human weakness has come short,

      Or frailty stept aside,

      Do Thou, All-Good-for such Thou art—

      In shades of darkness hide.

      Where with intention I have err’d,

      No other plea I have,

      But, Thou art good; and Goodness still

      Delighteth to forgive.

      A RED, RED ROSE

      (TUNE—MAJOR GRAHAM)

      My luve is like a red, red rose,

      That’s newly sprung in June:

      My luve is like the melodie,

      That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

      As fair art thou, my bonny 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,

      And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

      I will luve thee still, my dear,

      While the sands o’ life shall run.

      And fare thee weel, my only luve!

      And fare thee weel a-while!

      And I will come again, my luve,

      Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

      ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

      To the Right honorable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honorable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. McKenzie, of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.—

      Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,

      Unskaith’d by hunger’d Highland boors;

      Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,

      Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,

      May twin auld Scotland o’ a life

      She likes—as lambkins like a knife.

      Faith you and Applecross were right

      To keep the Highland hounds in sight:

      I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,

      Than let them ance out owre the water,

      Then up among thae lakes and seas,

      They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:

      Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,

      May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;

      Some Washington again may head them,

      Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,

      Till God knows what may be effected

      When by such heads and hearts directed,

      Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire

      May to Patrician rights aspire!

      Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,

      To watch and

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