# General > Literature >  Robert Burns

## trinkie

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head an a that
The coward slave - we pass him by
We dare be poor for a that !
For a that, an a that
Our toils obscure an a that,
The ranks is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a that .

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey an a that,
Gie fools their skills and knaves their wine
A Man's a Man for a that.
For a that, an a that,
Their tinsel show, an a that,
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor,
Is king o men for a that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
Wha struts an stares an a that,
Tho hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a that,
For a that, an a that
His ribband star an a that,
The man o independent mind
He looks an laughs at a that.

A prince can mak a belted knight
A marquis , duke an a that
But an honest man's abon his might
Gude faith, he maunna fa that!
For a that, an a that,
Their dignities an a that,
The pith o sense an pride o worth,
Are higher rank than a that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a the earth
Shall bear the gree an a that,
For a that an a that 
It's coming yet for a that,
That Man to Man the world o'er
Shall brothers be for a that.

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## trinkie

What a breath-taking moment when this was sung unaccompanied at the Opening of the Scottish Parliament in 1999....Everyone joined in.

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## Lavenderblue2

Yes, Trinkie a breath-taking moment indeed.

Here's a modern alternative which I think is in praise of the Bard.

*Kate OShanter*



And where do you suppose, was Kate
When market days were wearing late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
And fooled around with landlords wives
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
And had an eye for handsome witches,
Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there, amid the din
And Maggie barely saved his skin??

_Not where you think_!

Kate slaved away, the livelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tammie spent so much on booze.
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
And what all else, God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim,
And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
Who does Tams work, while Tams away.


She herds the sheep and cattle, too
Feeds hens, milks cows, and when thats through
Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs 
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away!
In harvest time, from early morn,
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
And many a sunny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
When they got home, that night, at four
And Maggied found the stable door
Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
To sleep it off, eight hours or more 
He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
Went through that nightmare ride again.


About the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say;
The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
Said _we want food, and want it Now_
Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
And saw Megs stump above his head.
An awful thought ran through his brain.
*Oh Lord! That wasnt hail and rain*

Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
He was not clean, he was not neat
He scraped off what he could, but when
Hed found his way, from but to ben
Tam stood dumfounded: _What the hell_
Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.


But Kate had left a note for him:
Ive sailed for Montreal, with Jim
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
Forgive me Tam, and dont be sore 
I couldnt take it anymore
I had to find a better way
Before Id slaved my youth away.
I had to try to save myself  
Youll find the oatmeal on the shelf 
Dont fash yoursell about the twins
I might as well confess, theyre Jims.


Written by
Seanair
Melbourne Australia
Published in Scottish Field January 1993

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## Tubthumper

*A Celebration Of The Bard Of Scottish Nation*
It’s my pleasant inclination
To give humorous narration
Re the females situation
As part of obligation
To the bard of Scottish Nation
For your further delectation

As a form of explanation
The shape of presentation
Has been born of desperation
With a bit of irritation
And some intense concentration
Whilst awaiting inspiration

So the main manifestation
Will amuse your contemplation 
And give super satisfaction
With no harassment infraction
And no active prosecution
But meet every expectation

In this case it’s not narration
Of some Robert Burns quotation
There need be no consternation
As our ultimate destination
Is a substantial libation
Of a Celtic distillation

Now Robert Burns intention
Was some covert observation
Of some skirt/leg titillation
Or of hip/thigh revelation
And some manly rumination
Plus some quiet contemplation

Though with a predilection
For intense inebriation
With a whisky-like concoction
His poetic creation
Gained some serious publication
And resulted in attraction 

The ladies of the Nation
Who received young Burns’ attention
Found some intense stimulation
And unplanned fertilisation
Leading to much procreation
With the bard’s participation

Now the Kirk of Scottish nation
When it heard his aberration
Of carnal multiplication
Considered it abomination
And placed him in the station
To endure humiliation

What a dreadful situation
A public exposition
Cos of love struck agitation
And a steady accumulation
Of unwed bedtime action
And horizontal agitation

I’m recommending congregation
To the female situation
And to further reproduction
For the future of our nation
In the fine anticipation
Of our work-related pension

So here is my summation
All the girls need adoration
And romantic inspiration
Burns memory needs retention
But remember – celebration
Of the feminine condition!

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## trinkie

I love it  -  so very clever.   Thank you.

I must admit I have been sitting here trying to reply in a more clever way, 
but it just wont come.    ( Another minor problem has raised it's ugly head this morning  and sapped the last few remaining sparks of intelligence from within my old head.)


More please.
Trinkie

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## NickInTheNorth

as brilliantly done as Benjamin Zephaniah himself could have rhymed it

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## Tubthumper

Ye Scottish men, will ye lend me an ear
If you can separate yourself from your beer
Or tear yourself from the TV screen
From Thurso Toun to Aberdeen

From Edinburgh to Glasgow
We thought that we’d just let you know 
We girls are sick to teeth of waiting
For promised shelves and decorating

For Christmas buy me drills and screws
And let me gorge and binge on booze
Since Carol Smiley led the way
We’re Do It Yourself girls every day

Quite angry now is how we’re feeling
So we’ve broken through the old glass ceiling
Whereas before we would stay at home
Now high in the world of work we roam

You can talk of Burns in modern time
And though his words have rhythm and rhyme
A view of girls as aggressive drinkers
Misses the point, we’re sensible thinkers

A family and a good career
Can be balanced without fear
A man on board adds to the fun
But we can function in units of one

No more days of wrinkles fear
Cellulite there or saggy bits here
These days we don’t wait man’s interest
To consider implants upon our chest

For far too long we have worried so
No more! If you don’t like it, Go!
I jest, the future of mankind
Would fail if we left men behind

And so, although we like a date
And men to letch, appreciate
Just see it from our point of view
Respect as individuals from you?

Listen boys, just think of this
That girl is independent miss
A muscled bum is not enough
If you want to attract a bit of fluff

Robert Burns wrote poems for boys
But viewed his girls as more than toys
On equal terms we lassies boast
To men: Girls raise your glasses, TOAST!
TO THE LADDIES!!!

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## trinkie

*Man Was Made*
*to Mourn*</B> 
*by Robert Burns*
*(1759-1796)* 

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth,
Along the bank of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair. 


"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"
Began the reverend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou has began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!  
"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support
A haughty lordling's pride --
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proof
That man was made to mourn. 
"O man, while in the early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway:
Licentious passions burn;
Which ten-fold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.  
"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might; 
Men then is useful to his kind
Supported in his right; 
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, O ill-matched pair!
Show man was made to mourn.  
"A few seem favorites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh, what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn --
That man was made to mourn.  
"Many and sharp the numerous ills,
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!  
"See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife
And help less offspring mourn.  
"If I'm designed you lording's slave --
By nature's law designed --
Why was a independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty and scorn? 
Or why has man the will and power 
To make his fellow mourn?  
"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last! 
The poor oppressed, yet honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn! 
"O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh, a blest relief to those 
That weary-laden mourn!"

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## trinkie

SWEET AFTON
By R. Burns

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 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, 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 !

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## trinkie

A POETS GRACE.

     Before meat.

O Thou, who kindly dost provide
For evry creatures want !
We bless the God of Nature wide
For all Thy goodness lent.
And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content.


     After meat.

O Thou, in whom we live and move,
Who made the sea and shore,
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And, grateful, would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us with such store
The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.

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## Shabbychic

Up In The Morning Early


Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly,
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly!

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early!
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
I'm sure it's winter fairly

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## Lavenderblue2

Apologies as this wasn't written by Burns...

*Kate OShanter*



And where do you suppose, was Kate
When market days were wearing late
While Tam frequented wretched dives
And fooled around with landlords wives
And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
And had an eye for handsome witches,
Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
And yelled and gave himself away
And fled from there, amid the din
And Maggie barely saved his skin??

_Not where you think_!

Kate slaved away, the livelong day
They had so many bills to pay
The twins just had to have new shoes
And Tammie spent so much on booze.
She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
And what all else, God only knows!
She keeps the house all neat and trim,
And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
Who does Tams work, while Tams away.


She herds the sheep and cattle, too
Feeds hens, milks cows, and when thats through
Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs 
For Tam to sell on market day
And drink the proceeds half away!
In harvest time, from early morn,
Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
And many a sunny summer day
She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
When they got home, that night, at four
And Maggied found the stable door
Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
To sleep it off, eight hours or more 
He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
Went through that nightmare ride again.


About the middle of the day
The livestock had a lot to say;
The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
Said _we want food, and want it Now_
Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
And saw Megs stump above his head.
An awful thought ran through his brain.
*Oh Lord! That wasnt hail and rain*

Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
He was not clean, he was not neat
He scraped off what he could, but when
Hed found his way, from but to ben
Tam stood dumfounded: _What the hell_
Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.


But Kate had left a note for him:
Ive sailed for Montreal, with Jim
And we expect to settle soon
Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
Forgive me Tam, and dont be sore 
I couldnt take it anymore
I had to find a better way
Before Id slaved my youth away.
I had to try to save myself  
Youll find the oatmeal on the shelf 
Dont fash yoursell about the twins
I might as well confess, theyre Jims.


Written by
Seanair
Melbourne Australia
Published in Scottish Field January 1993

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## Shabbychic

Scotch Drink

Let other poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;
But oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear,
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,
The poor man's wine:
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts:
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saints,
By thee inspired,
When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin
In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
I' th' lugget caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel,
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou make the gossips clatter bright,
How fumbling cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-brie
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter season,
E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O' half his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor, plackless deils like mysel!
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi a glunch
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch
Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotlands lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is taen awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

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## Lavenderblue2

Ae Fond Kiss 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
Ae farewell, and then forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy: 
Naething could resist my Nancy! 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love for ever. 

Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met - or never parted -- 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

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## trinkie

A SONNET UPON SONNETS.

Fourteen, a sonneteer thy praises sings,
What magic mystries in that number lie !
Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings,
That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
Fourteen full pounds the jockeys stone must be;
His age fourteen  a horses prime is past.
Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
Fourteen bright bumpers  bliss he neer must see !
Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
Before fourteen  een thirteens strength is vain.
Fourteen good years  a woman gives us life,
Fourteen good men - we lose that life again.
What lucubrations can be more upon it ?
Fourteen good measurd verses make a sonnet .
.

TRAGIC FRAGMENT

All villain as I am  a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting sinner  
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness,
And with sincere, tho unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest mans destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Evn you, ye hapless crew ! I pity you.
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turned oer to ruin.
Oh! But for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth, like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you !
O injured God! Thy goodness has endowd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused,
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.






Holy Willies Prayer

O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to Heaven an ten to Hell
A for Thy glory,
And no for one guid or ill
Theyve done before Thee !

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here before Thy sight,
For gifts an grace,
A burning and a shining light
To a this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation ?
I, wha deserved most just damnation,
For broken laws,
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro Adams cause !

When from my mithers womb I fell,
Thou might hae plungd me deep in hell,
To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail
In burning lakes,
Whare damned devils roar and yell,
Chaind to their stakes.

Yet I am here , a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample;
Im here a pillar o Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a Thy flock !

But yet, O Lord! Confess I must;
At times Im fashd wi fleshly lust;
An sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defiled wi sin.

O Lord ! yestreen, Thou kens, wi Meg  
Thy pardon I sincerely beg  
O, mayt neer be a living plague
To my dishonour !
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 Gaun Hamiltons deserts;
He drinks as swears, as plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin arts
Wi great and sma
Frae Gods ain Priest the peoples hearts
He steals awa.

And when we chastend him therefore,
Tho kens how he bred sic a splore,
And 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 and prayr
Against that Presbytry of Ayr !
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo their heads !
Lord, visit them, an dinna spare
For their misdeeds !

O Lord, my God ! that glib-tongud Aiken
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin and shakin
An pishd wi dread,
While he, wi hingin lip an snakin
Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o vengeance try him !
Lord, visit him wha did employ him !
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their prayr.
But for Thy peoples sake destroy them,
An dinna spare !

But Lord, remember me and mine
Wi mercy temporal and divine,
That I for grace an gear may shine
Excelld by nane;
And a the glory shall be Thine 
Amen, Amen !

----------


## MadPict

Happy Birthday Rabbie...

*Address to a Haggis...
*
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel 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 was 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 like 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 fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody 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' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.

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!



*Reply From a Haggis * 
J.G.Farrell.

O' (your name) man, ye addressed me weel,
Which so befits a hielan' chiel,
And tho' like you I'm far frae hame,
I sure achieved my share of fame.

I never thocht I'd see the day,
I'd grace a trencher doon this way,
In the brawest club in your toon,
Tho' mony a mile frae bonny Doon.

Once fit for only rustic table,
I now enjoy a five star label,
No longer classed as peasant grub
For now I grace the (your name) table.

I'm sometimes scorned by snobbish folks,
And the butt of corny jokes,
Such folks and jokes are unco phony,
Now I'm acclaimed by Egon Ronay.

The Power who made mankind her care,
Set me above all other fare,
For Scotland's sake I'll keep this place,
An' aye be Chieftain of the pudden' race.

So to all you Braw Scots lads & lassies
That here tonight I see,
Uphold auld Scotias good fair name,
And from me - "Bon Appetite"


*After The Haggis*
Anon.

Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous wind

The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
Stert workin like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
Will have ye blawin all ower the place

Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
A'bodys gonna have tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
Its like a bullet oot a rifle

Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
Tae try and stop the leakin air
Shift yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Pray tae God it disnae reek.

But aww yer efforts go asunder
Oot it comes like a clap o thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom

God almighty it fairley reeks
Hope I huvnae shat ma breeks
Tae the bog I better scurry
Aww whit the hell, its no ma worry.

A'body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or two are nearly bokin
Ill feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile

Wis him! I shout with accusin glower
Alas too late, he's just keeled ower
Ya durty buggar they shout and stare
Ah dinnae feel welcome anymair

Where e're ye go let yer wind gan' free
Sounds like just the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbies perty
Oower the sake o' wan wee ferty.

----------


## lady penelope

The tears of laughter are rolling down my face!  ::

----------


## Sporran

Oh Rabbie oor bard, I come here awfae late
Ma lang work day prevailed, an' jist couldna wait
When I wrote doon the date, I'll admit I thocht o' ye
Ma hairt is in ma hameland, that's whaur I'd raither be!

I'm a lang way fae hame, I canna deny it
Yer a lang time deid, ma handsome Scottish poet
But yer mem'ry lives on, rest assured we'll ne'er forget ye
Yer poetry still arouses, and fills Scots hairts wi' glee!

So dear Rab, tae ye I drink a toast
Oor very ain bard, of whom we like tae boast
Yer the pride an' joy o' a proud Scottish nation
Lang live yer mither tongue, an' written inspiration!

----------


## trinkie

Weel Rabbie we hed a grand nicht
Wi company jist aboot richt
Frae Holy Willie till Kate o Shanter
The room wis fu o plenty banter
The Scotch wis flowing 
The Haggis jist fine
We said the Grace as we sat doon till dine.
Then Up in the Morning till dotter
Doon aroon by Afton Water,
We pit on oor bonnets
An said a few sonnets
Nodded Good Mornin till Leezies daughter,
Then all too soon twas time till pert
As some Mad soul left off a big fert.
Wi Ae Fond Kiss as each did sever
For Ye well mind forever and ever.

----------


## Moira

Great thread Trinkie - thank you! I did try to post my favourite and (for me and a few others here) the most topical of Rabbie's works yesterday. However, the spacing became messed up when I copied & pasted and I did not have time to correct it. 

I'm sure the Bard himself would forgive me for posting this late, given that we can now purchase Easter Eggs in December.  :Smile: 

*To a Mouse*
Wee sleekit, cow'rin, 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 murdering 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, whyles, 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!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An naething, now, to big a new ane,
O foggage green!
An bleak December's win's ensuin.
Baith snell an keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an waste,
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 art 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!

----------


## trinkie

ROBERT BURNS 
To the Immortal Memory.
By Robert MacKay aka The Caithness Violinist 

From a Caithness Courier c. 1943.

We who appreciate the Bard
Must show this day our deep regard
To Robert Burns, poet and peasant
Although no more with us hes present.

Lets sing his songs with mirth and glee,
As Scotsmen should you will agree;
Let Tam OShanter then be given
Followed by To Mary in Heaven.

To Rab we owe a debt unpaid,
Lets pay it now, each man and maid,
Give all the honour that you can
To Robert Burns, the poet man.

His name shall live, though we may die,
Through time and through posterity,
The name of Burns, will ever be
Sacred to Scots, whereer they be.
.

THE BARD
This tribute inspired by the Caithness Violinist.
C.C. 1950

His fame has spread oer all the earth,
A son of humble parents he,
But by his wisdom, worth and wit,
Hell live for all posterity.

None handles now his facile pen,
Or rouses up our Scottish pride,
Another Burns must rise again,
To wield the pen hes laid aside.

But who, or what, or where is he,
That could portray on parchment scroll,
The poems and songs that seem to me,
The essence of the poetic soul.

Such was our Bard Immortal Burns,
Such was the man, the Poet and Brother.
Though centuries unborn returns,
I fear well never get another.
..



ANITHER SONG FOR ROBIN !
Dedicated to the Northern Burns Society
By C Sinclair.
CC 1952

Anither song for Robin, auld Scotlands lyric king,
Wi loyal hert thats throbbin, to his memory well sing.
Far had we been without him, for his songs hev blest wur days,
We as bairns aye heard aboot him, when wur mithers sang his lays !

Chorus.
O theres non hev sung lek Robin
Ower the world fond herts are throbbin,
As the home-songs aye, keep bobbin ,
And his lyrics charm lifes day !

Deep in the hert o Scotland lies the thrill o "Auld Lang Syne,"
And "Scots Wha Hae" through centuries in homeland lore will shine,
"My Ain Kind Dearie" neer will fade, while youth an maid aspire,
To reach the haven o their dream an find their souls desire.

Weve listened while he charmed us wi "The Banks o Bonnie Doon"
"Lea Rig" and "John Anderson" he cannily did croon.
"A Mans a Man" and "Duncan Gray" will aye be to the fore,
"The Bonnie Lass o Ballochmyle" well evermore adore !

Full weel he plied his shuttle as the matchless songs he wove,
Rich threeds his soul did kittle, these he twined in songs o love.
Nor a lover need hev bother in the wooin o his dear,
He fae Robins mint micht gether, and the lovelicht clear !

"When man to man wad brithers be" in that he did foresee,
The nations, then at heids an thraws, set in felicity,
A world transformed by kindness, and the graces it commands,
The life, as twas intended would thrive in distand lands !
.

ROBERT BURNS.

Whas this I see among the fields of Ayr,
Sae blithely singin be it foul or fair?
A plooman  ay, but sharely something mair,
Sae sweet he sings.

Its maist o humble folk, an floors an things 
A cottar, fieldmouse, daisy  that he sings,
But thro his sangs a wealth o passion rings,
An simple love.

He loes the lassies and in lichter moods,
Tells sweetly o lang walks thro fields and woods,
Hed lichtsome barter a his wardly goods,
For love o them !

Nae preacher he, nor claims a saint tae be,
But aye he praises honest piety,
And hates pretence, and mocks hypocrisy,
Wi biting scorn.

Wi patriots fire, tae Caledonias praise  
Her grandeur, glory, worth  he tunes his lays.
In mony a noble verse glad homage pays,
Wi native pride.

But higher still his aspirations rise :
He dreams o warld-conjoinin bonds and ties
O brotherhood. Wi pleading voice he cries
For peace on earth.

Lang years hae gane sin mortal Robbie passed
Ayont oor ken; but, destined aye tae last,
His spirit lives, his voice still speaks tae vast
Far-scattered hosts.

O may his presence fill this hall this birthday nicht;
O may he shed his winsome, cheerin, fairy licht
On a oolr herts, an gies ance mair a p[assin sicht
O Scotland ever dear!
..

THE LASSIES 
The toast by C. Begg 1950.

Chairman, an cronies at ma haun,
A sair mis-shanters me befaun,
For hire fornent ye A maun staan
Tae Toast th Lasses;
Th blyth an bonny, din an thrawn
So chairg yer glasses.

Its no but A feel honoured tae,
But fient a thing hae tae say
So All just chaunt a hammel lay
In Robbies verse,
Ma tribute, albins, A may pay
Tho geven wersh.

Pandora, who hes weel been cad
A foosum, interferan jaud,
Flang back her box-lid, wi a daud,
An, och-an-nay !
Loot out upon th warld a chaud,
O dool an wae.

An Eve, when a th warld was young  
Th limmer should hev got a roung !
Clan fell for Auld Nicks slicked toung  
Th buck depicts it !
An feckless Adam first got stung  
An then evictid.

Far a th evils man is heir
We hev tae thank that thowless pair,
An but for them  just think od  where
Wad ye be noo ?
In bliss ye only could compare
Wi getting foo !

But Dora, as ye mind nae doot,
Sat thingan how she came tae dot
Heard in her box the faintest toot
O a wee voice
Rev up the lid an let Hope oot
Th world t rejoice.

An Adam hadna time tae pass
Th rosy apple ower his lass
Afore ke kent his Evie was,
Richt weel worth seean
An love between a land an lass
Cam in tae bean !

So tho the Lassies brocht us wae
Still for them there is this to say !
The price wis no ower high tae pay
For what their thore is.
Resplendant Hope and Loves sweet way 
Lifes greatest glories !

So heres tae them wha rule our life,
Tae ma mither, sister, sweethert, wife
Th source or bliss, th cause o strife!
Wha nane surpasses,
So  while guid spirits here is rife 
I gie  The Lasses.

An just afore A sit me doon  
An faith, it cann be ower soon  
A couple wi ma rustice rune,
Ma ragged wheath,
Th Provost o th tppn
Miss Bessie Leith.
.

WERE KAITNESS FOWK FOR A THAT.
A new song to an old lilt.
From the JOG 1923

Is there a fyarter fae e north
Fa hides his birth an a that,
An blushes cause his faithers hoose
Is thecked wi straw an a that ?
For a that, an a that
Wir modest crofts an a that,
E foosum trosk, we pass him by  
Were Kaitness Fowk an a that !

What though we toil in fishin boats,
Howk tattie fields an a that,
Or drive a cairtie till e hills
A mans a man for a that !
For a that, an a that 
Wir herrin nets an a that,
Despise fa will wir canny ways
Were Kaitness Fowk for a that.

Ye see yin shither dressed in spats,
Fa scorns his nest an a that ?
Though florin in a motor car,
Hes no a man fort a that !
For a that, an a that,
His honours, blunt, an a that,
Till hiz hes jist a blostin feel 
Were Kaitness Fowk for a that.

Oh, southern lands hev richer fields
Wi floorags, trees an a that,
I wudna gie a tattie bleem
O Kaitness soil, for a that !
For a that, an a that,
Heres til wirsels for a that !
Though up or down, though far or dear,
Were Kaitness Fowk for a that !


_My sincere thanks to a great freen  who keeps sending me such wonderful Caithness Verses !_
_A few names of authors still to be found - can anyone help here?_

----------


## trinkie

The Loves that Robbie Missed.
By Duncan Mackenzie, Beauly.

To a Toast to the Lasses.
From the Caithness Courier 1950

The Loves that Robbie Missed.

O Robbie, though loved your Hielan Mary,
You never saw her on her native hill,
Nor roamed with her through bonny purple heather,
Or kissed her near her native mountain rill.

O you never saw the treasures of the Highlands,
That sparkle north of the Caledon canal
Or viewed the sunrise over Kessock Ferry;
Seen auld Ben Wyvis smile on Balliechaul.

You saw not the beauties of Glen Affric,
Nor trod the water side by old Strathglass,
The golden eagle soar on Scuir-na-Lapaith
Nor taste the lipstick of a Beauly Lass.

Trod ye not with Cromach to the Highlands
Or smelt and felt the tangle of the Isles
You cuddled not the lassies sweet in my land
And missed the glorious poetry of their smiles.

You sailed not up the Minch to Isle oLewis
Nor saw the Westring Isles gleam in the sun,
Ye heard not the poetry of the Islesmen,
In Gaelic songs when days work is done.

You viewed not the windings of the Beauly,
Or on its banks, you never squeezed or kissed,
O sorry for you Robbie, is yours truly
To think of all the loves that you have missed.

----------


## trinkie

I have just found some info on this poem -
it was written by 
 Seanair,  Melbourne, Australia,

published in the Scottish Field,  Jany 1993.


Thank you for submitting it  Lavenderblue2

----------


## trinkie

Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.  
Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake,  and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.    
Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar  -   and the piano is at the ready.

Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !

Trinkie

----------


## trinkie

Duncan Gray
By Robert Burns

Duncan Gray cam here tae 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 high,
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 een baith bleerd 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 O! her een they spak sic things!
Ha ha the wooing ot.

Duncan was a lad o grace,
( Ha ha the wooin 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.


" Robert Burns wrote the words in 1792. 

The lively tune Duncan Gray as generally reported,
was composed by Duncan Gray a Carter or Carman 
in Glasgow about the beginning of the last century (1700s) 
and the tune was taken down from his whistling it
2  3 times a day, to a musician in that city.
It is inserted in both the MacGibbon and 
Oswalds Collections "    _taken from Songs of Scotland by G.F.Graham
_

----------


## Lavenderblue2

> Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
> Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two. 
> Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received. 
> Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.
> 
> Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !
> 
> Trinkie


 
Thank you for the Invitation Trinkie. I've had a wee practice on my boxie today - Ca' the Yowes etc... The cats enjoyed it, at least, they sang along!  ::  
I think I'll bake a Whisky cake for the night.

Looking in my book of Burns I found the following:

*Versified Reply To An Invitation*.

Sir,
Yours this moment I unseal,
And faith I’m gay and hearty!
To tell the truth and shame the deil,
I am as fou as Bartie:
But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,
Expect me o’ your party,
If on a beastie I can speel,
Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,
Robert Burns.

Mauchlin, _Monday night, 10 o’clock._

----------


## Moira

> Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night......
> Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two. 
> Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received. 
> Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready. 
> Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !
>  Trinkie


I hate to tell you this Trinkie but I don't do very good shortbread.  However, I reckon I could still pull a recognisable tune from a piano accordian and my hubby has a good stock of Old Pulteney (we can't stand the stuff btw).

I've merged some threads here so it may seem we're all out of kilter, but some of us know better.  :Smile:

----------


## trinkie

Corn Rigs are Bonnie
By Robert Burns

Chorus  
Corn rigs an barley rigs,
An corn rigs are bonie;
Ill neer forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi Annie.

It was upon a Lammas night
When corn rigs are bonie
Beneath the moons unclouded light
I held awa to Annie.
The time flew by, wi tentless heed,
Till tween the late and early,
Wi sma persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly
I set her doon wi right good will
Amang the rigs o barley.
I kent her heart was a my ain,
I lovd her most sincerely,
I kissd her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs o barley.

I lockd her in my fond embrace
Her heart was beating rarely,
My blessing on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o barley.
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She ay shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o barley.

I hae been blythe wi comrades dear,
I hae been merry drinking,
I hae been joyfu gatherin gear,
I hae been happy thinking,
But a' the pleasures eer I saw,
Tho three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a
Amang the rigs o barley.

  The above verses were written by Robert Burns in his earlier years,
to the old tune of Corn Rigs
It is said that Annie Ronald, was the inspirer of the song.
The tune is a very old one, it appears in Craigs Collection 1730.
Craig was a very old man  and one of the principle violin players
at the Edinburgh Concerts in 1695.
This tune was selected for a musical opera of Polly beginning 
Should I not be bold when honour calls printed c.1729  

taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahamn.  C. 1860,

----------


## Lavenderblue2

I think this is a beautiful song - Burns words are used in the Irish Traditional folk song The Curragh of Kildare. 

*The Winter It Is Past*

_v. 1 and 2, written by Robert Burns in 1788;_ 
_v.3 and 4 unknown_ 

The winter it is past,
And the summers comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree;
The hearts of these are glad,
While I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the breer,
By the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest
And their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is parted from me. 

My love is like the sun,
In the firmament does run,
For ever constant and true;
But his is like the moon
That wanders up and down,
And every month it is new. 

All you that are in love
And cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure:
For experience makes me know
That your hearts are full of woe,
A woe no mortal can cure.

----------


## Lavenderblue2

By Robert Burns.

_On giving her the accustomed ripp of_ 
_corn to hansel in the new-year._

A Guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: 
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie, 
I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie, 
Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie, 
A bonie gray: 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 
Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank: 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 
As e'er tread yird; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank 
Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 
An' fifty mark; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie: 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 
Ye ne'er was donsie; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonie bride: 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 
Wi' maiden air! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day, ye was a jinker noble, 
For heels an' win'! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
Far, far behin'! 

When thou an' I were young and skiegh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh, 
An' tak the road! 
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abiegh, 
An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow: 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 
For pith an' speed; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma, droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 
And gar't them whaizle: 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
O' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun, 
On guid March-weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han' 
For days thegither. 

Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit; 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 
Wi' pith an' pow'r; 
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't, an' risket, 
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 
Aboon the timmer: 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, 
Then stood to blaw; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 
Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairntime a', 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa, 
That thou hast nurst; 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 
The vera warst. 

Monie a sair darg we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought! 
An' monie an anxious day I thought 
We wad be beat! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
Wi' something yet. 

An' think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin; 
For my last fow, 
A heapet stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 
To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather 
Wi' sma' fatigue.

_Dear old Maggie - I now know where Mr MacGregor got his inspiration for his Fordson poem submitted by me in an earlier thread._

----------


## AfternoonDelight

We had this sung at our wedding ceremony, it was absolutely beautiful!

My Heart is in the Highlands

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 valleys below; 
Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farwell 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, whereever I go.

----------


## trinkie

From  Songs of Scotland by G F Graham, c. 1860

   My Hearts in the Highlands,    In his note 259 of Johnson, Mr Stenhouse says 
 The first half stanza of this song (says Burns) is old  the rest is mine    See Reliques.  
later 
 Instead of the air Failte na melsg to which the song is adapted in Johnsons Museum, we have adopted the much finer Gaelic air called  Crochallan in R H Smiths Minstrel, but named Crodh Chailean by Captn Fraser in his collection.

_from me ......_The tune Crochallan,  is the one we mostly use nowadays  was that the air played at your wedding ?

Thank you for submitting this beautiful song.
Trinkie

----------


## AfternoonDelight

It was a lass that sung it with out music, Trinks, fair made the hair on the back of my beautifully perfumed neck stand up!!  ::

----------


## trinkie

Afternoondelight -   The unaccompanied voice -  best way to hear that song !
It makes me shiver too!
............................




Lines Written on a Bank Note.
By Robert Burns

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source of a my woe and grief,
For lack o thee Ive lost my lass,
For lack of thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursd restriction.
Ive seen the oppressors cruel smile
Amid his hapless victims spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wishd
To crush the villain in the dust.
For lack o thee I leave this much-lovd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.


On Hearing a Thrush Sing in a Morning Walk in January.
By Robert Burns

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 bestowed, that mite with 
Thee Ill share.
..

A Rose-bud, by My Early Walk.
By Robert Burns

A rose-bud by my early walk
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
  All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o dawn are fled,
In a its crimson glory spread
And drooping rich the dewy head
   It scents the early morning.

Within the bush her covert next
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
   Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewd
   Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
   That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parents evening ray,
   That watchd thy early morning!

The subject of this song was Miss Cruickshanks, daughter of William Cruickshanks, one of the Masters of the High School, in whose house Burns resided for some time during his visit to Edinburgh in 1787. 

Taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahham.

Trinkie

----------


## trinkie

Is There for Honest Poverty
By Robert Burns

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head an a that?
The coward slave, we pass him by  
We dare be poor for a that!
For a that, an a that,
Our toils obscure, an a that,
The rank is but the guineas stamp,
The mans the gowd for a that.

What though on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin grey, an a that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine 
A mans a man for a that.
For a that, an a that.
The tinsel show, an a that,
The honest man, tho eer sae poor,
Is king o men for a that.

Ye see yon birkie cad a lord,
Wha struts, an stares, an a that?
Tho hundreds worship at his word,
Hes but a cuif for a that.
For a that, an a that,
His ribband, star, an a that,
The man o independent mind,
He looks an laughs at a that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an a that!
But an honest mans aboon his might  
Guid faith, he mauna fa that!
For a that, an a that
Their dignities, an a that,
The pith o sense an pride o worth
Are higher rank than a that.

Then let us pray that come it may
( As come it will for a that)
That Sense and Worth oer a the earth
Shall bear the gree an a that!
For a that, an a that,
Its comin yet for a that,
That man to man the world oer
Shall brithers be for a that.
..

Burns wrote two songs for the air.  The other song was called   'Tho' women's minds, like winter winds!'
But I dont have the rest of the words !! (from Songs of Scotland   by G F Graham.)

----------


## trinkie

Taken from  The Russet Coat    by Christina Keith.

Chapter 11

The Love  Songs

You know I am a cool lover
 Burns to Clarinda
18th March, 1788.

It is on the love-songs Burns has made his name.   He was writing them, it is true, all his life, but, of the 
multitude he wrote, only about a score or so still linger on everybodys lips.
That however, is a very large number to be at the credit of any individual poet, as songs there is no forgetting.  
For a love-song, more than any other, takes a deal of writing, and the percentage of successful ones must be the lowest in all art For the pitfalls here are not a few.   First, over the songs length.  Your inexperienced poet, like Burns at the beginning, is apt to go on for too long.  Love evaporates.   And in song, nothing goes so quickly off the boil.
        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So says Christina Keith and her book is well worth reading.    In it she considers his art, first in relation to its traditional Scots background, and then in its wider European setting.
Christina Keith was born in Thurso.  Educated at Thurso, Edinburgh and Lausanne,  then at Edinburgh University
and Newnham College, Cambridge,  she has travelled all over the world  and was once ship-wrecked off the coast of Greece.
For many years she was a don at St Hildas College, Oxford, but left in order to return to Caithness and write ..

----------


## trinkie

Scotland Without Burns
By M.H.
c. 1951

Scotland without Burns !  Think oid
An measure, if ye can
All id would mean, had we no kent
E greatness oe man!

Had he no won a princely plaice
Among e poet throng
An if no voice hed ever raised
E glory o his song.

No Tam OShanter   Halloo-ween
Twa Dowgs or Scots Wha Hae
Till set afire wur Scottish pride
Upon his natal day!

No Afton Water  A the Airts
Or Lass o Ballochmyle
Not one impassioned utterance
O all he did compile!

An hed he never felt e joy
An sorrow o e earth
Nor noted in e humblest guise
True Dignity an worth!

Fit then ?  Ah, then wur noblest claim
An grandest heritage,
Wid not exist  wur brightest scroll
Be an unwritten page!

Jewel o thocht an gems o speech
By genius inspired
E vision o a fairer world
So long by man desired.

Not wurs!  We dare no dream o it!
For more than ever noo
He lives in every Scottish hert 
E poet o the ploo.

Safe treasured in his neime an fame
By all o human kind
All Men love Burns, and in his song
E Soul o Freedom Find.


M.H

----------


## AfternoonDelight

Fantastic, Trinkie!!  ::

----------


## trinkie

From The Caithness Violinist AKA Robert MacKay.

The Bard,
A tribute to the National Bard on Burns Night c. 1940

His fame is spread oer all the earth,
A son of humble parents he,
But by his wisdom, worth and wit,
Hell live for all posterity.

None handles now his facile pen
Or rouses up our Scottish pride,
Another Burns must rise again,
To wield the pen hes laid aside.

But who, or what, or where is he
That could portray on parchment scroll,
The poems and songs that seem to me,
The essence of the poetic soul.

Such was our Bard Immortal Burns,
Such was the man, the Poet, and Brother,
Though centuries unborn returns,
I fear well never get another.


ROBERT BURNS
To the Immortal Memory
By the Caithness Violinist c. 1943

We who appreciate the Bard,
Must show this day our deep regard,
To Robert Burns, poet and peasant,
Although no more with us hes present.

Lets sing his songs with mirth and glee,
As Scotsmen should you will agree,
Let Tam O Shanter  then be given
Followed by  To Mary in Heaven.

To Rab we owe a debt unpaid,
Lets pay it now, each man and maid,
Give all the honour that you can,
To Robert Burns, the poet and man.

His name shall live, though we may die,
Through time and through posterity
The name of Burns will ever be,
Sacred to Scots whereer they be.
..

Robert Burns
By the Caithness Violinist.
c. 1940

Burns was the soul of Scotlands Muse,
Twas as a corse until his art
Breathed oer it as his passions chose,
And woke to Life its silent heart.

He sang of War in martial strain,
A patriot, yet he hated strife,
He sang of Love and then again
Of Coila, Scotia, Sweetheart, Wife.

He sang of Nature, and tis here,
We see our poet at his best,
The linnets song was neer more clear
Than Rabs composed beneath its nest.

And evry flower on hill or brae,
Was oft reviewed neath sunny skies,
Crowds saw them all, yes, evry day
But not through Robert Burns eyes.

Twas not for pomp or power he wrote,
Nor for the purse-proud genterie,
Twas done for Scotia, and I wot,
For simple chiels like you and me.
................................................


E&OE   Trinkie

----------


## Tighsonas4

SHORT VERSION
some have meat an canna eat
an some would eat that want it
but we have meat and we can eat
so let the lord be thankit
tony

----------


## trinkie

Bonnie Wee Thing
By Robert Burns

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I would wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face of thine;
And my heart it stounds with anguish
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Bonnie wee thing..

Wit and grace, and love and beauty,
In ae constellation shine!
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess of this soul o mine.

Bonnie wee thing..
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 This beautiful song was sung to the tune Bonnie Wee Thing,
There is a tune dated 1629 with the rudiments of this air.

Taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This song was often beautifully sung in Wick in the 1950s by Henry Rosie one time organist of Wick Parish Church.

----------


## trinkie

Ay Wakin O !
By Robert Burns

Ay wakin O!
Wakin ay, an eerie,
Sleep I canna get,
For thinkin on my dearie,
Ay wakin o !

Springs a pleasant time, 
Flowrs of evry colour,
The water rins oer the heugh,
And I long for my lover.

   Ay wakin O !

When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk Im eerie,
Sleep I can get nane
For thinkin  on my dearie.

   Ay wakin O !

Lanely night comes on,
A the lave are sleepin
I think on my bonnie lad,
And I bleer my een wi greetin.

  Ay wakin O!
  Wakin ay, an eerie,
  Sleep I canna get
  For thinkin on ma dearie,
  Ay wakin O !


This is a very old song, which has been touched by many hands.
The chorus is certainly old  and the above words are said to have been by Burns,
Though the second verse is thought to have been from the original song. 
It isalso thought that Mr Stenhouse may have contributed some of the words.

The above taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.
.
Some of you will remember this beautiful song was sung at the Funeral Service of John Smith, Leader of the Labour Party.  C. 1994

----------


## router

Rabbie Burns wis borne in Ayr 
thru an entry n up a stair 
if ye waant tae seem um there
hire a taxi fae Jimmy Mair

"ma dad" ::

----------


## helenwyler

Not exactly my favourite, but when I was very young, long before the days of PC, this used to make me giggle  :Grin: . I didn't, and still don't, understand half the words. But I read them like a Two Ronnies fun-with-words sketch, and it's still fun . I hope I still think so when I look like Willie's wife  :: .

*Sic A Wife As Willie Had*


Robert Burns, 1792 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Could stown a clue wi' ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her! 

She has an e'e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou',
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her! 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shin'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her! 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!  


*Happy Burns' Night everyone!*

----------


## Lavenderblue2

I hope nobody minds if I submit this poem is in memory of my grandfather David Steven who died on this day in 1957 - he was a great 'Burns man' and this was his favourite, Ca the Yowes was his favourite Burn's song.

Tam O' Shanter

by Robert Burns 1790

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; 
As market days are wearing late, 
And 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 stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where 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 bonie lasses). 

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As taen 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 na 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 roarin' fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday, 
She prophesied that late or soon, 
Thou wad 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! 

But to our tale: Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, 
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony: 
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; 
And aye the ale was growing better: 
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: 
The Soutertauld his queerest stories; 
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himselamang the nappy. 
As bees fleehame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white-then melts for ever; 
Or like the Borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. - 
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods, 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods, 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thunders roll, 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze, 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

To be continued...

----------


## Lavenderblue2

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil! 
The swatssae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle, 
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light; 
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance: 
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge: 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. - 
Coffins stood round, like open presses, 
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses; 
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight) 
Each in its cauld hand held a light. 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted: 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter which a babe had strangled: 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son of life bereft, 
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; 
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
Wi' lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; 
The Piper loud and louder blew, 
The dancers quick and quicker flew, 
The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark! 

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens! 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!- 
Thirbreeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
I wad haegien them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! 
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Louping an'flinging on a crummock. 
I wonder did na turn thy stomach. 

To be continued...

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## Lavenderblue2

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie: 
There was ae winsome wench and waulie 
That night enlisted in the core, 
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore; 
(For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat, 
And shook baithmeikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear); 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. 
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi twapund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour, 
Sic flights are far beyond her power; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd: 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a thegither, 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony aneldritch skreich and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! 
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stone o' the brig; 
There, at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the keystane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle! 
Aespring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail: 
The carlinclaught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd, 
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

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## helenwyler

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SrPFrtNtF1k 

This is lovely - the sung version of The Lea Rig.

Have your tissues handy if you're the blubbering type like me  :Wink: .

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## Lavenderblue2

Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?

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## trinkie

Thank you for The Lea Rig Helenwyler - so well sung with such feeling.       I dont know the singer, though I felt there was a touch of Aberdeen in the voice ? 
Does anyone know ?

Lavenderblue2,  that was really great, what a lot of typing!
It's such a good story !

I think we've all had a good Burns Nicht.  I have certainly enjoyed myself, though I am a bit hoarse with all the singing.
We seem to have covered most of Burns favourites, I hope it was enjoyed by many.

Here's tae ye Rabbie,

Trinkie

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## pinotnoir

Hats off to the BBC for this...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/robertburns/works/

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## trinkie

And hats off to you too for telling us about this !  I have enjoyed several performances already !

Trinkie

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## Sporran

> http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SrPFrtNtF1k 
> 
> This is lovely - the sung version of The Lea Rig.
> 
> Have your tissues handy if you're the blubbering type like me .






> Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?


That was indeed beautifully sung, and after some research, I believe it was by the Scottish folk group "Sangsters" from Fife. Take a listen to The Lea Rig in the music samples from their "Begin" album on Amazon, and it sounds the same as the recording on YouTube.

http://www.amazon.com/Begin-Sangster...3085609&sr=1-1

Samples from their other album "Sharp and Sweet"  (as well as from "Begin") can be heard below, where there is a wee write-up about the folk group.

http://www.musicscotland.com/acatalo...weet_2002.html

There is also some more about them here:

http://www.folkmusic.net/htmfiles/webrevs/cdtrax065.htm

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## Sporran

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! 
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, 
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs: 
From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs, 
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 
I shelter in they honour'd shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, 
As busy Trade his labours plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 
Bids elegance and splendour rise: 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 
High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 
Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 
With open arms the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, 
Above the narrow, rural vale: 
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail, 
Or modest Merit's silent claim; 
And never may their sources fail! 
And never Envy blot their name! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 
Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, 
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 
And own His work indeed divine! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, 
And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 
I view that noble, stately Dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come! 
Their royal name low in the dust! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! 
Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 
Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Bold-following where your fathers led! 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! 
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs; 
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, 
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs: 
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs, 
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

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## trinkie

Sporran,
You have received so many Thank You PMs for this Burns Nicht Thread, that your inbox is full !

It's been great fun reading all the poems again.  Thanks to everyone.

Trinkie

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## Sporran

Whoops, I'd better make some room in my inbox right now, Trinkie! Thanks for the reminder!  :Smile:

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## Stavro

Burns' was a visionary and could see the danger of tyrannic man's dominion. A very lyrical song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDB0P57nQds
*
Now Westlin Winds*
*by Robert Burns
*
Lyric as sung by Dick Gaughan

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Among the blooming heather
Now waving grain, wild o'er the plain
Delights the weary farmer
And the moon shines bright as I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer

The partridge loves the fruitful fells
The plover loves the mountain
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells
The soaring hern the fountain
Through lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush
The spreading thorn the linnet

Thus every kind their pleasure find
The savage and the tender
Some social join and leagues combine
Some solitary wander
Avaunt! Away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion
The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry
The fluttering, gory pinion

But Peggy dear the evening's clear
Thick flies the skimming swallow
The sky is blue, the fields in view 
All fading green and yellow
Come let us stray our gladsome way
And view the charms of nature
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn
And every happy creature

We'll gently walk and sweetly talk
Till the silent moon shines clearly
I'll grasp thy waist and, fondly pressed,
Swear how I love thee dearly
Not vernal showers to budding flowers
Not autumn to the farmer
So dear can be as thou to me
My fair, my lovely charmer

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## Tubthumper

The English have their Shakespeare
Who wrote a word or two
He did a play about a pound
Of flesh claimed by a Jew
Another was about a prince
Of Denmark, o’er the sea
Who clutched a skull and mumbled out
‘To be or not to be
And then there was Macbeth of course
Whose wife, the silly tart
Persuaded him tae stab the King
At night-time through the heart
I read a bit and yawned a lot
A King that thrashed the sea?
Yeah right, precisely what has that 
To do with now and me?

Now Jamesie Joyce, an Irishman
Wrote Ulysses I’m told
Something that should evoke the tales
Of Homer, back in old
The Wake, I heard, of Finnegan
Was worth a look or two
The cover didn’t turn me on
I read – no, not a clue
The artist as a young man is
A work of class I’m told
But on the Dublin master’s works 
I cannot say I’m sold
And anyway, the guys in Dublin
Don’t regard his birth
As being fit for party date
In any way of worth

America produced a chap
Quite tall, as tall as tree
Or maybe I misread that bit
‘’Twas Longfellow you see
A master of the new world word
I caught the point he made
His poems was wrote for folk like me
I think that’s what he said
But story? Couldn’t see it quite
This Hiawatha brave
I just let oot a chuckly laugh
A Mini-haha gave
That is enough 'bout foreign chaps
No more about the others
I’m keen on works of Scotland’s Bard
And not his writing brothers

So then we have our Robert Burns
A giant of a Scot
Who wrote short words on man and love
Was proud about his lot
In life he saw a pride in warth
He’d hate iniquity
Hoped man to man the world o’er
Would one day brithers be
Such lines, such bold simplicity
And still today alive
Please join in toast to Robert Burns
May his day thrive and thrive

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## Sporran

Brilliant poem, Tubthumper!  :: 

I love it!!  :Grin:

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## trinkie

Here's a Health to Ane I lo'e Dear
by Robert Burns


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.


Although thou maun never be mine ,
Although even hope is denied,
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing.
Than aught in the warld beside – Jessy.


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear.
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.


I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
as, hopeless, I muse on thy charms,
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms – Jessy.


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting – Jessy.




The following verse comes from an old book and is not often included  -  


I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e'e ;
But why urge the tender confession,
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree? -  Jessie




Note in the older book Jessie is spelt with '  ie  '


 …..................................................  .........................


The above poem in Blackie's     'Book of Scottish Song'     p. 133, is the following note
'This exquisite little song was among the last Burns ever wrote.   It was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars (now Mrs Thomson of Dumfries)   the sister of a brother exciseman of the poet,  and one who has endeared her name to posterity by the affectionate solicitude with which she tended Burns  during his last illness.'         Mr Stenhouse in vol v.  p 371 of Museum, says that the air was communicated by Burns, but is not  genuine.      Mr Stenhouse annexes a copy of the music in three-eight time, which he gives as correct, but does not say whence he derived it.   The author of the tune is not known.   It has little of the Scottish, and still kess if an antique character.    In
Johnson's  and other more recent sets of the air,   the rhythm is spoled by an interpolation,  to make it suit the metre of verses written by Burns,  which do not correspond with the metre of the Jacobite song as given by Mr Stenhouse;   each stanza of which consists of three lines of eight syllables, and one of seven.
Burns himself strenuously opposed any alteration in the national Scottish melodies.  In a letter to Mr Thomson, April 1793, in which he sends the song beginning  'Farewell, thou stream that winding flows'    he writes thus – 'One hint let me give you – whatever Mr Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs;   I mean in the song department;  but let our national music preserve its native features.   They are,  I own,   frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules;   but on that very eccentricity, perhaps depends a great part of their effect.'
In his answer to that letter Mr Thomson, 26th April 1793 says  -  'Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs.  That would be absurd indeed!   With the airs which he introduces into the sonatas.   I allow him to take such liberties as he pleases but that has nothing to do with the songs.'


                                                  ….................................................


Taken from    The Songs of Scotland     by   G F Graham,     etc    1865

Trinkie

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## trinkie

Of a' the Airts the Wind can Blaw
by Robert Burns


Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly lo'e the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lass I lo'e best;
There 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 dewy 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 bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o' my Jean.


O blaw, ye westlin wind, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees,
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale,
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me
That's aye sae neat and clean;
Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
Sae charming is my Jean.


What sighs and vows amang the knowes
Hae passed atween us twa!
How fond to meet, how wae to part,
That night she gaed awa!
The powers aboon can only ken
To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me 
As my sweet lovely Jean !



    ….............................


said to be one of Burns' best, so far as he wrote it. 


Trinkie

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## Moira

Thanks Trinkie for digging around & unearthing some of my favourites again at the appropriate time.   :Smile:

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## Moira

I heard this on Moray Firth Radio today & post the BBC newslink to the Poll voting "Tam o' Shanter" the favourite Burns' poem of the Scots.  :Smile: 

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-16671321

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## trinkie

from Caithness Courier  c. 1951  by Herbert Sinclair.


A Romance In Four Lines.


And this is the season when up and down the land and away in foreign climes the name of Burns will be drowned in words and  whiskey.   There will be listeners, many of them, who do not know their Burns, but will enjoy the haggis, the songs, the orations and the glances at their neighbours make-up and dresses.   Somewhere in this issue, the words a romance in four lines have been used, and my memory is taken to a day long ago when I had lunch with Harry Lauder  at his expense!  in the old Cavour Restaurant, Leicester Square, London.   After we had finished our food, we were joined by George Robey, the English comedian, and a friend of his from His Masters Voice Company.   I dont  remember the conversation, which led up top Lauders outburst, but I do temember his words, Ach, you Englishmen, you tak fower hundred pages to write a romance; Ill gie ye a romance in four lines;


Had we never loved sae blindly,
   Had we never loved sae kindly,
Never met or never parted,
   We had neer been broken-hearted.

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