रॉबर्ट बर्न्स
Scottish poet and lyricist (1759–1796)
235 posts
119K followers
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
MY heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len’, To anger them a’ is a pity, But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?
YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, An’ doucely manage our affairs In parliament,
WHEN Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots, A’ Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down,
THERE was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood An’ did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man:
O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar; A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!
MY girl she’s airy, she’s buxom and gay; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May; A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: She’s always good natur’d, good humour’d, and free;
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning.
GUDEWIFE,I MIND it weel in early date, When I was bardless, young, and blate, An’ first could thresh the barn, Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh;
’TIS Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralising Muse.
WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning;
FY, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin’ there; For Murray’s light horse are to muster, And O how the heroes will swear!
THINE am I, my faithful Fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev’ry pulse along my veins, Ev’ry roving fancy.
FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza’s dwelling; O mem’ry! spare the cruel thoes Within my bosom swelling.
FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains, Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!
HEAR, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;— If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, I rede you tent it:
I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
WITH secret throes I marked that earth, That cottage, witness of my birth; And near I saw, bold issuing forth In youthful pride,
FINTRY, my stay in wordly strife, Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s I am? Come then, wi’ uncouth kintra fleg,
THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true, It's guid to support Caledonia's cause And bide by the buff and the blue.