Robert Burns

The golden Hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my Dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of …

Suspense is worse than disappointment.

When Nature her great masterpiece designed, And framed her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the wondrous plan, She formed of various stuff the various Man.

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.<!--

Some have meat and cannot eat, Some cannot eat that want it: But we have meat and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinkin' o't.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie.

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonny brow was brent.

Ay waukin, Oh, Waukin still and weary: Sleep I can get nane, For thinking on my Dearie.

The voice of Nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies.

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again.

To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife,— That is the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise. My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And aye be welcome back again.

May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die!

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' auld lang syne?

If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases: A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treach'rous inclination—