Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

and working at times,

       Does little or naething at a', man.

       Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,

       Nor hae't in her power to say na, man:

       For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,

       My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

       Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,

       And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,

       I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,

       Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

       My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,

       O'pairs o' guid breeks I hae twa, man;

       And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,

       And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

       My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,

       Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,

       A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;

       There are no mony poets sae braw, man.

       I never had frien's weel stockit in means,

       To leave me a hundred or twa, man;

       Nae weel-tocher'd aunts, to wait on their drants,

       And wish them in hell for it a', man.

       I never was cannie for hoarding o' money,

       Or claughtin't together at a', man;

       I've little to spend, and naething to lend,

       But deevil a shilling I awe, man.

Song—Here's To Thy Health

       Table of Contents

      Tune—“Laggan Burn.”

      Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,

       Gude nicht and joy be wi' thee;

       I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door,

       To tell thee that I lo'e thee.

       O dinna think, my pretty pink,

       But I can live without thee:

       I vow and swear I dinna care,

       How lang ye look about ye.

       Thou'rt aye sae free informing me,

       Thou hast nae mind to marry;

       I'll be as free informing thee,

       Nae time hae I to tarry:

       I ken thy frien's try ilka means

       Frae wedlock to delay thee;

       Depending on some higher chance,

       But fortune may betray thee.

       I ken they scorn my low estate,

       But that does never grieve me;

       For I'm as free as any he;

       Sma' siller will relieve me.

       I'll count my health my greatest wealth,

       Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;

       I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,

       As lang's I get employment.

       But far off fowls hae feathers fair,

       And, aye until ye try them,

       Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;

       They may prove waur than I am.

       But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,

       My dear, I'll come and see thee;

       For the man that loves his mistress weel,

       Nae travel makes him weary.

Lass Of Cessnock Banks, The^1

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      [Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant

       wench, daughter of a “Farmer Lang”.]

       A Song of Similes

       Tune—“If he be a Butcher neat and trim.”

      On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;

       Could I describe her shape and mein;

       Our lasses a' she far excels,

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       She's sweeter than the morning dawn,

       When rising Phoebus first is seen,

       And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       She's stately like yon youthful ash,

       That grows the cowslip braes between,

       And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn,

       With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,

       When purest in the dewy morn;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her looks are like the vernal May,

       When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene,

       While birds rejoice on every spray;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her hair is like the curling mist,

       That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,

       When flow'r-reviving rains are past;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,

       When gleaming sunbeams intervene

       And gild the distant mountain's brow;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,

       The pride of all the flowery scene,

       Just opening on its thorny stem;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her bosom's like the nightly snow,

       When pale the morning rises keen,

       While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,

       That sunny walls from Boreas screen;

       They tempt the taste and charm the sight;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,

       With fleeces newly washen clean,

       That slowly mount the rising steep;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,

       That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,

       When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,

       That sings