by Robert Burns
My fair, my lovely charmer!
John Barleycorn∗
A Ballad
(TUNES: COLD AND RAW; LULL ME BEYOND THEE)
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 chearful 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 ty’d 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 filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther 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!
Poor Mailie’s Elegy
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our Bardie’s fate is at a close,
Past a’ remead!
The last, sad cape-stane of his woes;
Poor Mailie’s dead!
It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or make our Bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He’s lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.
Thro’ a’ the town she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi’ speed:
A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er came nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep o’ sense,
An could behave hersel wi’ mense:
I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence,
Thro’ thievish greed.
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin’ Mailie’s dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,
For bits o’ bread;
An’ down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o’ moorlan tips,
Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships,
Frae ‘yont the Tweed:
A bonier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips
Than Mailie’s dead.
Wae worth that man wha first did shape,
That vile, wanchancie thing – a raep!
It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape,
Wi’ chokin dread;
An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape
For Mailie dead.
O, a’ ye Bards on bonie Doon!
An’ wha on Aire your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O’ Robin’s reed!
His heart will never get aboon!
His Mailie’s dead!
My Father Was a Farmer
(TUNE: THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O)
My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world my course I did determine, O
Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming,O
My talents they were not the worst; nor yet my education, O
Resolv’d was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune’s favor, O
Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each endeavour, O
Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d; sometimes by friends forsaken, O
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last, with fortune’s vain delusion, O
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O
The past was bad, the future hid; its good or ill untryed, O
But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me, O
So I must toil, and sweat and moil, and labor to sustain me, O
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O
For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O
No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O
I live today, as well’s I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O
Tho’ fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O
Some unforseen misfortune comes generally upon me, O
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur’d folly, O
But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardor, O
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
Green Grow the Rashes. A Fragment
(TUNE: GREEN GROWS THE RASHES)
CHORUS
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow th
e rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ‘twere na for the lasses, O?
Green grow, &c.
The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my Dearie, O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest Man the warl’ saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Holy Willie’s Prayer
‘And send the Godly in a pet to pray –’ Pope
O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A’ for thy glory,
And no for ony guid or ill
They’ve done afore thee!
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts an’ grace,
A burnin’ an’ a shinin’ light,
To a’ this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause.
When frae my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might ha’e plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin’ lake,
Whar damned devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to a stake.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great an’ ample;
I’m here a pillar in thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, an’ example
To a’ thy flock.
But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust
An’ sometimes too, wi’ warldly trust,
Vile Self gets in;
But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil’d in sin.
O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi’ Meg –
Thy pardon I sincerely beg –
O may’t ne’er be a living plague
To my dishonor!
An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun avow –
Wi’ Leezie’s lass, three times, I trow –
But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam near her,
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he’s sae gifted:
If sae, thy han’ maun e’en be borne
Until thou lift it.
Lord, bless thy Chosen in this place,
For here thou has a chosen race!
But God confound their stubborn face
An’ blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
An’ open shame!
Lord mind Gaun Hamilton’s deserts,
He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at carts,
Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,
Wi’ great an’ sma’
Frae God’s ain priest the people’s hearts
He steals awa’.
An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
O laughin’ at us;
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes.
Lord hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r
Against that presbyt’ry o’ Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord make it bare,
Upo’ their heads,
Lord weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My very heart an’ soul are quakin’,
To think how we stood, sweatin’, shakin’,
An’ pissed wi’ dread,
While Auld wi’ hingin lip gaed sneakin’,
And hid his head.
Lord in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by ’em,
Nor hear their prayer;
But for thy people’s sake destroy ’em,
And dinna spare.
But Lord remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen.
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 thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy Mamie,
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 tauk 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 bonie, 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 an’ 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’ mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a’ tint;
Tho’ ye 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 looks, and gracefu’ merit;
An’ thy poor worthless dady’s spirit,
Without his failins,
’Twill please me mair to see thee heir it
Than stocket mailens.
An’ if thou be what I wad ha’e thee,
An’ tak the counsel I sall gi’e 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.
The Fornicator. A New Song
(TUNE: CLOUT THE CALDRON)
Ye jovial boys who love the joys,
The blissful joys of lovers;