Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman! Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself. Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning Nature, torturing art; Loves and Graces all rejected, Then indeed thou’d’st act a part. Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson Dost thou not rise, indignant shade, And smile wi’ spurning scorn, When they wha wad hae starved thy life, Thy senseless turf adorn? Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae, Wi’ meikle honest toil, And claught th’ unfading garland there— Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil. And wear it thou! and call aloud This axiom undoubted— Would thou hae Nobles’ patronage? First learn to live without it! To whom hae much, more shall be given, Is every Great man’s faith; But he, the helpless, needful wretch, Shall lose the mite he hath. Duncan Gray Duncan Gray cam’ here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, On blythe Yule-night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh, Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Grat his e’en baith blear’t an’ blin’, Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Time and Chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; Meg grew sick, as he grew hale, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And oh! her een they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan was a lad o’ grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Maggie’s was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t: Duncan could na be her death, Swelling Pity smoor’d his wrath; Now they’re crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Here’s A Health To Them That’s Awa Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, May never gude luck be their fa’! It’s gude to be merry and wise, It’s gude to be honest and true; It’s gude to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the buff and the blue. Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to Charlie^1 the chief o’ the clan, Altho’ that his band be but sma’! May Liberty meet wi’ success! May Prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine i’ the mist, And wander their way to the devil! Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s a health to Tammie,^2 the Norlan’ laddie, That lives at the lug o’ the law! Here’s freedom to them that wad read, Here’s freedom to them that wad write, [Footnote 1: Charles James Fox.] [Footnote 2: Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.] There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard, But they whom the truth would indite. Here’s a Health to them that’s awa, An’ here’s to them that’s awa! Here’s to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna like ’em Be built in a hole in the wa’; Here’s timmer that’s red at the heart Here’s fruit that is sound at the core; And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn’d to the back o’ the door. Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s chieftain M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho’ bred amang mountains o’ snaw; Here’s friends on baith sides o’ the firth, And friends on baith sides o’ the Tweed; And wha wad betray old Albion’s right, May they never eat of her bread! A Tippling Ballad On the Duke of Brunswick’s Breaking up his Camp, and the defeat of the Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792. When Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots, A’Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down, Nor envies a crown, And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow, And comforts himself as he dow. The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle, He hunted o’er height and o’er howe, In the braes o’ Gemappe, He fell in a trap, E’en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow, E’en let him come out as he dow. But truce with commotions, And new-fangled notions, A bumper, I trust you’ll allow; Here’s George our good king, And Charlotte his queen, And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow, And lang may they ring as they dow. 1793 Poortith Cauld And Restless Love Tune—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.” O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An ’twere na for my Jeanie. Chorus—O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life’s dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune’s shining? The warld’s wealth, when I think on, It’s pride and a’ the lave o’t; O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t! O why, &c. Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword aye, She talks o’ rank and fashion. O why, &c. O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am? O why, &c. How blest the simple cotter’s fate! He woos his artless dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make him eerie, O why, &c. On Politics In Politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see. Braw Lads O’ Galla Water Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes, They rove amang the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o’ Galla Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a’ I loe him better; And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine, The bonie lad o’ Galla Water. Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water. It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure. Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday, On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk. 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. So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share. Wandering Willie—First Version Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e: Now welcome the Simmer, and welcome my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me. Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o’your slumbers, O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he’s forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! Wandering Willie—Revised Version Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e’e, Welcome now the Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me! Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! Lord Gregory O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar; A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father’s ha’, And a’ for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side, Where first I own’d that virgin love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true, It ne’er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, O, wilt thou bring me rest! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see; But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me. Open The Door To Me, Oh Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, oh, Tho’ thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, oh. Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, oh: The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh. The wan Moon is setting beyond the white wave, And Time is setting with me, oh: False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, oh. She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide, She sees the pale corse on the plain, oh: “My true love!” she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, oh. Lovely Young Jessie True hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr; But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.