Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

by Robert Burns

That ye can please me at a wink,

  Whene'er ye like to try.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,

  Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,

  Wha follows ony saucy quean,

  That looks sae proud and high.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,

  If that he want the yellow dirt,

  Ye'll cast your head anither airt,

  And answer him fu' dry.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  But, if he hae the name o' gear,

  Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,

  Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,

  Be better than the kye.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:

  Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;

  The deil a ane wad speir your price,

  Were ye as poor as I.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  There lives a lass beside yon park,

  I'd rather hae her in her sark,

  Than you wi' a' your thousand mark;

  That gars you look sae high.

  O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

  Song - I Dream'd I Lay

  I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing

  Gaily in the sunny beam;

  List'ning to the wild birds singing,

  By a falling crystal stream:

  Straight the sky grew black and daring;

  Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;

  Tress with aged arms were warring,

  O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

  Such was my life's deceitful morning,

  Such the pleasures I enjoyed:

  But lang or noon, loud tempests storming

  A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.

  Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me-

  She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,

  Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me-

  I bear a heart shall support me still.

  Song - In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer

  Tune - "Go from my window, Love, do."

  The sun he is sunk in the west,

  All creatures retired to rest,

  While here I sit, all sore beset,

  With sorrow, grief, and woe:

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  The prosperous man is asleep,

  Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;

  But Misery and I must watch

  The surly tempest blow:

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  There lies the dear partner of my breast;

  Her cares for a moment at rest:

  Must I see thee, my youthful pride,

  Thus brought so very low!

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  There lie my sweet babies in her arms;

  No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;

  But for their sake my heart does ache,

  With many a bitter throe:

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  I once was by Fortune carest:

  I once could relieve the distrest:

  Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd

  My fate will scarce bestow:

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  No comfort, no comfort I have!

  How welcome to me were the grave!

  But then my wife and children dear-

  O, wither would they go!

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  O whither, O whither shall I turn!

  All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!

  For, in this world, Rest or Peace

  I never more shall know!

  And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

  Tragic Fragment

  All devil as I am-a damned wretch,

  A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,

  Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;

  And with sincere but 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 turn'd 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.

  Tarbolton Lasses, The

  If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,

  Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;

  She kens her father is a laird,

  And she forsooth's a leddy.

  There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,

  Besides a handsome fortune:

  Wha canna win her in a night,

  Has little art in courtin'.

  Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,

  And tak a look o' Mysie;

  She's dour and din, a deil within,

  But aiblins she may please ye.

  If she be shy, her sister try,

  Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;

  If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense-

  She kens hersel she's bonie.

  As ye gae up by yon hillside,

  Speir in for bonie Bessy;

  She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,

  And handsomely address ye.

  There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,

  In a' King George' dominion;

  If ye should doubt the truth o' this-

  It's Bessy's ain opinion!

  Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear

  Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.

  Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!

  A man of strife ye've born me:

  For sair contention I maun bear;

  They hate, revile, and scorn me.

  I ne'er could lend on bill or band,

  That five per cent. might blest me;

  And borrowing, on the tither hand,

  The deil a ane wad trust me.

  Yet I, a coin-denied wight,

  By Fortune quite discarded;

  Ye see how I am, day and night,

  By lad and lass blackguarded!

  Montgomerie's Peggy

  Tune - "Galla Water."

  Altho' my bed were in yon muir,

  Amang the heather, in my plaidie;

  Yet happy, happy would I be,

  Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

  When o'er the hill beat surly storms,

  And winter nights were dark and rainy;

  I'd seek some dell, and in my arms

  I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

  Were I a baron proud and high,

  And horse and servants waiting ready;

  Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, -

  The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy.

  Ploughman's Life, The

  As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,

  I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;

  And as he was singin', thir words he did say, -

  There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.

  The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,

  And mount i' the air wi' the dew on her breast,

  And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,

  And at night she'll return to her nest back again.

  Ronalds Of The Bennals, The

  In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,

  And proper young lasses and a', man; />
  But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,

  They carry the gree frae them a', man.

  Their father's laird, and weel he can spare't,

  Braid money to tocher them a', man;

  To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand

  Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

  There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen

  As bonie a lass or as braw, man;

  But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,

  And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

  The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,

  The mair admiration they draw, man;

  While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,

  They fade and they wither awa, man,

  If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',

  A hint o' a rival or twa, man;

  The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,

  If that wad entice her awa, man.

  The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,

  For mair than a towmond or twa, man;

  The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,

  If he canna get her at a', man.

  Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,

  The boast of our bachelors a', man:

  Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,

  She steals our affections awa, man.

  If I should detail the pick and the wale

  O' lasses that live here awa, man,

  The fau't wad be mine if they didna shine

  The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

  I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,

  My poverty keeps me in awe, man;

  For making o' rhymes, 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

  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

  [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 on Cessnock banks unseen,

  While his mate sits nestling in the bush;

  An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

  But it's not her air, her form, her face,

  Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;

  'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,

  An' chiefly in her roguish een.

  Song - Bonie Peggy Alison

  Tune - "The Braes o' Balquhidder."

  Chor. - And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

  And I'll kiss thee o'er again:

  And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

  My bonie Peggy Alison.

  Ilk care and fear,
when thou art near

  I evermair defy them, O!

  Young kings upon their hansel throne

  Are no sae blest as I am, O!

  And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

  When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,

  I clasp my countless treasure, O!

  I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share

  Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

  And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

  And by thy een sae bonie blue,

  I swear I'm thine for ever, O!

  And on thy lips I seal my vow,

  And break it shall I never, O!

  And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

  Song - Mary Morison

  Tune - "Bide ye yet."

  O Mary, at thy window be,

  It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

  Those smiles and glances let me see,

  That make the miser's treasure poor:

  How blythely was I bide the stour,

  A weary slave frae sun to sun,

  Could I the rich reward secure,

  The lovely Mary Morison.

  Yestreen, when to the trembling string

  The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

  To thee my fancy took its wing,

  I sat, but neither heard nor saw:

  Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

  And yon the toast of a' the town,

  I sigh'd, and said among them a',

  "Ye are na Mary Morison."

  Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

  Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

  Or canst thou break that heart of his,

  Whase only faut is loving thee?

  If love for love thou wilt na gie,

  At least be pity to me shown;

  A thought ungentle canna be