Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

When first my brave Johnie lad came to this town, He had a blue bonnet that wanted the crown; But now he has gotten a hat and a feather, Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver! Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush, We’ll over the border, and gie them a brush; There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour, Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver! My Eppie Macnab O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin the laird, She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab; Whate’er thou hast dune, be it late, be it sune, Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? She let’s thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! As light as the air, and as fause as thou’s fair, Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab. Altho’ He Has Left Me Altho’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller, I dinna envy him the gains he can win; I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow, Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. My Tocher’s The Jewel O Meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him. It’s a’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree, It’s a’ for the hinny he’ll cherish the bee, My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller, He canna hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny, My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin’, Sae ye wi anither your fortune may try. Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood, Ye’re like to the bark o’ yon rotten tree, Ye’ll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye’ll crack your credit wi’ mae nor me. O For Ane An’ Twenty, Tam Chorus.—An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! And hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, An’ I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and haud me down, An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam; But three short years will soon wheel roun’, An’ then comes ane an’ twenty, Tam. An’ O for, &c. A glieb o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. An’ O for, &c. They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; But, hear’st thou laddie! there’s my loof, I’m thine at ane an’ twenty, Tam! An’ O for, &c. Thou Fair Eliza Turn again, thou fair Eliza! Ae kind blink before we part; Rue on thy despairing lover, Can’st thou break his faithfu’ heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza! If to love thy heart denies, Oh, in pity hide the sentence Under friendship’s kind disguise! Thee, sweet maid, hae I offended? My offence is loving thee; Can’st thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine would gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe: Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o’ sinny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the Minstrel in the moment Fancy lightens in his e’e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me. My Bonie Bell The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonie blue are the sunny skies. Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell; All creatures joy in the sun’s returning, And I rejoice in my bonie Bell. The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, The yellow Autumn presses near; Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear: Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell; But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonie Bell. Sweet Afton 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. Thou stockdove 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 valleys 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 crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang 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. Address To The Shade Of Thomson On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays. While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between. While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade. While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed. While maniac Winter rages o’er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows. So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o’er the border, And they’ll gae big Terreagles’ towers And set them a’ in order. And they declare Terreagles fair, For their abode they choose it; There’s no a heart in a’ the land But’s lighter at the news o’t. Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather: The weary night o’ care and grief May hae a joyfu’ morrow; so dawning day has brought relief, Fareweel our night o’ sorrow. Frae The Friends And Land I Love Tune—“Carron Side.” Frae the friends and land I love, Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite; Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care; When Remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore, Till Revenge, wi’ laurel’d head, Bring our banished hame again; And ilk loyal, bonie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain. Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev’n to the Scottish name, Sae fam’d in martial story. Now Sark rins over Solway sands, An’ Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England’s province stands— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! What force or guile could not subdue, Thro’ many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitor’s wages. The English stell we could disdain, Secure in valour’s station; But English gold has been our bane— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! O would, or I had seen the day That Treason thus could sell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour, I’ll mak this declaration; We’re bought and sold for English gold— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! Ye Jacobites By Name Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear. What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right and what is Wrang by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw. What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar? What makes heroic strife famed afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th’ assassin’s knife, Or hunt a Parent’s life, wi’ bluidy war? Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, Then let your schemes alone in the state. Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate. I Hae Been At Crookieden I Hae been at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. There our foes that burnt and slew, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, There, at last, they gat their due, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. Satan sits in his black neuk, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, The bloody monster gae a yell, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. And loud the laugh gied round a’ hell My bonie laddie, Highland laddie. O Kenmure’s On And Awa, Willie O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, O Kenmure’s on and awa: An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw. Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! Success to Kenmure’s band! There’s no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by kenmure’s hand. Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie! Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! There’s ne’er a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, O Kenmure’s lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their foes shall ken. They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie; They’ll live or die wi’ fame; But sune, wi’ sounding victorie, May Kenmure’s lord come hame! Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! Here’s him that’s far awa! And here’s the flower that I loe best, The rose that’s like the snaw. Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty On His Birthday. Health to the Maxwell’s veteran Chief! Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief: