Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

A heart-felt sang!

       The war'ly race may drudge an' drive,

       Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive;

       Let me fair Nature's face descrive,

       And I, wi' pleasure,

       Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

       Bum owre their treasure.

       Fareweel, “my rhyme-composing” brither!

       We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither:

       Now let us lay our heads thegither,

       In love fraternal:

       May envy wallop in a tether,

       Black fiend, infernal!

       While Highlandmen hate tools an' taxes;

       While moorlan's herds like guid, fat braxies;

       While terra firma, on her axis,

       Diurnal turns;

       Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

       In Robert Burns.

Postcript

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      My memory's no worth a preen;

       I had amaist forgotten clean,

       Ye bade me write you what they mean

       By this “new-light,”

       'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been

       Maist like to fight.

       In days when mankind were but callans

       At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,

       They took nae pains their speech to balance,

       Or rules to gie;

       But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,

       Like you or me.

       In thae auld times, they thought the moon,

       Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

       Wore by degrees, till her last roon

       Gaed past their viewin;

       An' shortly after she was done

       They gat a new ane.

       This passed for certain, undisputed;

       It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,

       Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,

       An' ca'd it wrang;

       An' muckle din there was about it,

       Baith loud an' lang.

       Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,

       Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;

       For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk

       An' out of' sight,

       An' backlins-comin to the leuk

       She grew mair bright.

       This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;

       The herds and hissels were alarm'd

       The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,

       That beardless laddies

       Should think they better wer inform'd,

       Than their auld daddies.

       Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;

       Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks;

       An monie a fallow gat his licks,

       Wi' hearty crunt;

       An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

       Were hang'd an' brunt.

       This game was play'd in mony lands,

       An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands,

       That faith, the youngsters took the sands

       Wi' nimble shanks;

       Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,

       Sic bluidy pranks.

       But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,

       Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe;

       Till now, amaist on ev'ry knowe

       Ye'll find ane plac'd;

       An' some their new-light fair avow,

       Just quite barefac'd.

       Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;

       Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;

       Mysel', I've even seen them greetin

       Wi' girnin spite,

       To hear the moon sae sadly lied on

       By word an' write.

       But shortly they will cowe the louns!

       Some auld-light herds in neebor touns

       Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,

       To tak a flight;

       An' stay ae month amang the moons

       An' see them right.

       Guid observation they will gie them;

       An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,

       The hindmaist shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them

       Just i' their pouch;

       An' when the new-light billies see them,

       I think they'll crouch!

       Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter

       Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;

       But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter

       In logic tulyie,

       I hope we bardies ken some better

       Than mind sic brulyie.

One Night As I Did Wander

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      Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”

      One night as I did wander,

       When corn begins to shoot,

       I sat me down to ponder

       Upon an auld tree root;

       Auld Ayr ran by before me,

       And bicker'd to the seas;

       A cushat crooded o'er me,

       That echoed through the braes

      … . …

Tho' Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part

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      Tune—“The Northern Lass.”

      Tho' cruel fate should bid us part,

       Far as the pole and line,

       Her dear idea round my heart,

       Should tenderly entwine.

       Tho' mountains, rise, and deserts howl,

       And oceans roar between;

       Yet, dearer than my deathless