by Robert Burns
Who but knows they will decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The gen’rous purpose nobly dear,
The gentle look that Rage disarms,
These are all Immortal charms.
O’er the Water to Charlie
(TUNE: SHAWNBOY)
Come boat me o’er, come row me o’er,
Come boat me o’er to Charlie;
I’ll gie John Ross another bawbee,
To boat me o’er to Charlie.
We’ll o’er the water,
we’ll o’er the sea,
We’ll o’er the water to Charlie;
Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go,
And live or die wi’ Charlie.
I lo’e weel my Charlie’s name,
Tho’ some there be abhor him:
But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame,
And Charlie’s faes before him!
We’ll o’er &c.
I swear and vow by moon and stars,
And sun that shines so early!
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I’d die as aft for Charlie.
We’ll o’er &c.
Rattlin, Roarin Willie
O rattlin, roarin Willie,
O he held to the fair,
An’ for to sell his fiddle
And buy some other ware;
But parting wi’ his fiddle,
The saut tear blin’t his e’e;
And rattlin, roarin Willie
Ye’re welcome hame to me.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o’ wine;
If I should sell my fiddle,
The warl would think I was mad,
For mony a rantin day
My fiddle and I hae had.
As I cam by Crochallan
I cannily keekit ben,
Rattlin, roarin Willie
Was sitting at yon boord-en’,
Sitting at yon boord-en’,
And amang guid companie:
Rattlin, roarin Willie,
You’re welcome hame to me.
On a Schoolmaster
Here lie Willie Michie’s banes;
O, Satan! When ye tak him,
Gie him the schoolin’ o’ your weans,
For clever de’ils he’ll mak ’em!
Tam Glen
(TUNE: MERRY BEGGARS)
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?
I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen’:
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen.
There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller, ‘
Gude day to you brute’ he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen.
My Minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o’ young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen.
My Daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,
He’ll gie me gude hunder marks ten:
But if it’s ordain’d I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;
His likeness cam up the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen!
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie you my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.
Auld Lang Syne
(TUNE: FOR OLD LONG SINE MY JO)
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne my jo,
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.
For auld &c.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fitt,
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld &c.
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.
For auld &c.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld &c.
Elegy on the Year 1788
For Lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E’en let them die – for that they’re born!
But oh! prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space
What dire events ha’e taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou has left us!
The Spanish empire’s tint a head,
An’ my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead;
The toolzie’s teugh ‘tween Pitt an’ Fox,
An’ our guidwife’s wee birdy cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither’s dour, has nae sic breedin’,
But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden!
Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit,
An’ cry till ye be haerse an’ rupit;
For Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel,
An’ gied you a’ baith gear an’ meal;
E’en mony a plack, an’ mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonny lasses, dight your een,
For some o’ you ha’e tint a frien’;
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en
What ye’ll ne’er ha’e to gi’e again.
Observe the very nowt an’ sheep,
How dowff an’ dowie now they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry,
For Embro’ wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn,
An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak’ care,
Thou now has got thy Daddy’s chair,
Nae hand-cuff’d, mizl’d, haff-shackl’d Regent,
But, like himsel’, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae war than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as you can.
January 1, 1789
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 thro’ 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 neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d 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 vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy chrystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gath’ring sweet flow’rets 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.
To a Gentleman Who Had Sent Him a
Newspaper and Offered to Continue It Free
of Expense
Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through,
And faith, to me, ‘twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o’t;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;
How libbet Italy was singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin aught amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain’s court kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him!
Was managing St Stephen’s quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d,
Or if bare arses yet were tax’d;
The news o’ princes, dukes and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin still at hizzies’ tails,
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser,
A’ this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair’d of.
So gratefu’, back your news I send you,
And pray, a’ gude things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday-morning, 1790
Lassie Lie Near Me
(TUNE: LADDIE LIE NEAR ME)
Lang hae we parted been,
Lassie my dearie;
Now we are met again,
Lassie lie near me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie lie near me
Lang hast thou lien thy lane,
Lassie lie near me.
A’ that I hae endur’d,
Lassie, my dearie,
Here in thy arms is cur’d,
Lassie lie near me.
Near me, &c.
My Love She’s But a Lassie Yet
My love she’s but a lassie yet,
My love she’s but a lassie yet,
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.
I rue the day I sought her O,
I rue the day I sought her O,
Wha gets her needs na say he’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her O.
Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet,
Come draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet:
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,
But here I never misst it yet.
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t,
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinkin o’t:
The minister kisst the fidler’s wife,
He could na preach for thinkin o’t.
Farewell to the Highlands
(TUNE: FAILTE NA MIOSG – THE MUSKET SALUTE)
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a chasing the deer;
A chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.
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.
Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below:
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands, a chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.
John Anderson My Jo
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bony brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill the gither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go:
And sleep the gither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
Tam o’ Shanter. A Tale
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.
Gawin Douglas
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy’d that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
&
nbsp; But to our tale: Ae market night,
Ta m had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better: