A Red, Red Rose

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune!

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt with the sun;

I will luve thee still my dear,

When the sands of 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.

Robert Burns

Auld Lang Syne

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days of auld lang syne!

Chorus:

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp,

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

(Chorus)

We twa hae run about the braes;

And pou'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne.

(Chorus)

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Sin' auld lang syne.

(Chorus)

And there's a hand, my trusty fere!

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.

(Chorus)

Robert Burns

Afton Water

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among 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.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,

Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills;

There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;

There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;

How wanton the waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy Green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Robert Burns

Of A' the Airts

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

There's wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewey flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green,

There's not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

Robert Burns

Address to a Haggis

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

          Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Well are ye wordy o' a grace

          As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

          In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil

          Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

          Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

          Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:

Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,

          Are bent lyke drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

          ``Bethankit!'' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricasse wad mak her spew

          Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' view

          On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,

          His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

          O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread.

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

          He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,

          Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

          That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

          Gie her a haggis!

Robert Burns

The Banks o' Doon

YE flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

How can ye blume sae fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough:

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings beside thy mate:

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wi' na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon

To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Frae aiff its thorny tree,

And my fause luver straw my rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns

The Gloomy Night is Gath'ring Fast

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,

Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;

Yon murky cloud is filled with rain,

I see it driving o'er the plain;

The hunter now has left the moor,

The scatt'red coveys meet secure;

While here I wander, prest with care,

Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn

By early Winter's ravage torn;

Across her placid, azure sky,

She sees the scowling tempest fly;

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave:

I think upon the stormy wave,

Where many a danger I must dare,

Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billows' roar,

'Tis not the fatal, deadly shore;

Tho' death inev'ry shape appear,

The wretched have no more to fear:

But round my heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,

To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,

Her heathy moors and winding vales;

The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,

Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell my friends! Farewell my foes!

My peace with these, my love with those--

The bursting tears my heart declare,

Farewell, my bonie banks of Ayr.

Robert Burns

John Barleycorn: A Ballad

There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell'd him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe;

And still, as signs of life appear'd,

They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy;

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns

Address To The Unco Guid

or the rigidly righteous

           My Son, these  maxims make a rule,
             An' lump them aye thegither;
           The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
             The Rigid Wise anither:
           The cleanest corn that ere was dight
             May hae some pyles o' caff in;
           So ne'er a fellow creature slight
             For random fits o' daffin.
                  Solomon.--Eccles. ch. vii. verse 16

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',

Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Your neibours' fauts and folly!

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

Supplied wi' store o' water;

The heapèd happer's ebbing still,

An' still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door

For glaikit Folly's portals:

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,

Would here propone defences--

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,

And shudder at the niffer;

But cast a moment's fair regard,

What makes the mighty differ?

Discount what scant occassion gave,

That purity ye pride in;

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)

Your better art o' hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gies now and then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop!

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;

But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

It maks a unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,

All joyous and unthinking,

Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown

Debauchery and Drinking:

O would they stay to calculate

Th' external consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state

Damnation of expenses!

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--

But let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman;

Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,

To step aside is human;

One point must still be greatly dark,--

The moving Why they do it;

And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord, its various tone,

Each spring, its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

Robert Burns

To A Louse

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie?

Your impudence protects you sairly;

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace,

Tho'faith! I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,

Detested, shunned by saint an' sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her--

Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner

On some poor body.

Swith! in some begger's haffet squattle:

There ye may creep and sprawl and sprattle,

Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there! ye're out o' sight,

Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight;

Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it--

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an' grey as onie groset;

O for some rank, mercurial rozet;

Or fell red smeddum,

I'd gie ye sic a heartly dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been suprised to spy

You on an auld wife's flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On 's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fye!

How daur ye do't?

O Jenny, dinna toss your head,

An, set your beauties a' abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin'!

Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin'!

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

An' foolish notion;

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

An' ev'n devotion!

Robert Burns

To a Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,

An' weary Winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell--

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald.

To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

Robert Burns

Epistle to a Young Friend

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you,

Tho' it should serve nae ither end

Than just a kind momento:

But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and change determine;

Perhaps it may turn out a sang:

Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon my lad;

And, Andrew dear, believe me,

Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye.

For care and trouble set your thought,

Ev'n when your end's attained;

And a' your views may come to nought,

Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked,

What hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked;

But, och! mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

Their fate we shouldna censure;

For still, th'important end of life

They equally may answer;

A man may hae in honest heart,

Tho' poortith hourly stare him;

A man may tak a neibor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff-han', your story tell,

When wi' a bosom crony;

But still keep something to yoursel',

Ye scarcely tell to ony:

Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;

But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' well-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:

I waive the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard of concealing;

But, och! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honour;

Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train attendant;

But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent.

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;

Its slightest touches, instant pause--

Debar a' side-pretences;

And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature;

But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended;

An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on life we're tempest-driv'n--

A conscience but a canker,

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,

Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!

May prudence, fortitude, and truth,

Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, ``God send you speed,''

Still daily to grow wiser;

And may ye better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' adviser!

Robert Burns