Selected Poetry
By Robert Burns
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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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Selected Poetry - Robert Burns
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.
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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