Robert Burns

John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw,

He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle reins a shake, With adieu forevermore, My dear— And adieu forevermore!

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain.

It was a' for our rightfu' King We left fair Scotland's strand.

But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas, forever!

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

But my fause luver staw my rose, And left the thorn wi' me.

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o' …

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.

Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. O, my Luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune.

A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's innocence and modesty that polished the dart.

And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did the adviser!

The fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God."

Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name.

He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God" he says, with solemn air.

The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.

The halesome parritch, chief o Scotia's food.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dad, wi flichterin noise and glee.

I would not die like Socrates, For all the fuss of Plato; Nor would I with Leonidas, Nor yet would I with Cato. The zealots of the church or state Shall ne'er my mortal foes be,