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1584.-A RED, RED ROSE. O, my luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June ; O, my luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dryTill a' the seas gang dry, my denr,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve !

And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns.- Born 1759, Died 1796.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,

My bonnie dearie.
Hark the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang;
Then a faulding let us gang,

My bonnie dearie.
We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide

To the moon sae clearly.
Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine, midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,

Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,

My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die--but canna part

My bonnie dearie.
While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee,

Ye shall be my dearie.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnic rows,

My bonnie dearie.
Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Dicd 1796.

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O Mary ! dear, departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his

breast ?

The Deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say, “I canna wrang thee.” The powers aboon will tent thee;

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Leslie!

Return to Caledonia !
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonpie.

Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports pasta Thy image at our last embrace !

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening,

green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd

The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but th’ impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear, departed shade !

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hearst thou the groans that rend his breast ?

Robert Burns,-Born 1759, Died 1796.

1586.-HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes

And there the langest tarry!
For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk !

How rich the hawthorn's blossom !
As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom?
The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender ;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder ;
But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly !
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And monld'ring now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.



She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,
I never lo'ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack, we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't,
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

1587.—TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

From 1780 to 1866.]



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1589.-JOHN ANDERSON. John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonny brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John,

Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither ; Now we maun totter doun, John,

But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa ; Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth

gowd, Though bred amang mountains o' snaw ! Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth,

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed; And wha would betray old Albion's rights, May they never eat of her bread!

Robert Burns.Born 1759, Died 1796.




THAT'S AWA. Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa ; And wha winna wish guid luck to our causa,

May never guid luck be their fa’!
It's guid to be merry and wise,

It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,

And bide by the buff and the blue.
Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa; Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the

Altho' that his band be sma'.
May liberty meet wi' success!

May prudence protect her fra evil !
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,

And wander their way to the devil !
Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa; Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland

laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law ! Here's freedom to him that wad read,

Here's freedom to him that wad write. There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should

be heard
But they wham the truth wad indite.

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' 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 styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare 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 bonnie lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As taen thy in wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
e bleth'ring, blust'ring, 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 every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring sou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jeau till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would 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 monie counsels sweet,
How monie 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 swats, that drank divinely ;
And at his elbow souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony-
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter
And ay the ale was, growing better.
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' vours secret, sweet, and precious

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Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa ; Here's Maitland and Wycombe, and wha does

na like 'em We'll build in a hole o' the wa'. Here's timmer that's red at the heart,

Here's fruit that's sound at the core ! May he that would turn the buff and blue

coat Be turn'd to the back o' the door.


The souter tauld his queerest stories ;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ;
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm & whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ;
As bees flee hame 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 flower, its bloom is shed

i Or like the snow-fall 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 or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride That lour o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he takes the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blaw 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 fireWhyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whyles glow'ring 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,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bano;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare 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.

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 swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,
Till, by the heel and hand admonishid,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight-

Warlocks and witches in a dance :
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There cat 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 an' rafters a' did dirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ;
And by some devilish cantrips 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, unchristen’d bairns;
A thief, new cutted fra a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape :
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ;
A garter which a babe had strangled ;
A knife a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o'life bereft-
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out,
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;
And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk :
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which o'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ;
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleckit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket 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 flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen;
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock-
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie.
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night inlisted in the core
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore !
For monie a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd monie a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and beer
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 kenn'd thy reverend grannie
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

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Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) -
Wao ever graced a dance o' witches !

But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r,
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang
(A souple jad she was and strang);
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd.
Ev'n 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 a' 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' monie an eldritch skreech 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-stane of the brig ;
There at them thou thy tail may toss-
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane 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 ---
Ae spring brought aff her master haie,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught 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 inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

Robert Burns.-Born 1759. undar

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The black’ning trains o' craws to their rc

pose. The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes

This night his weekly moil is at an endCollects his spades, his mattocks, and his

hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend ; And weary, o'er the moor, his course does

hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher

thro' To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and

glee. His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wife's

smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour and

his toil.

Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentic

rin A cannie errand to a neebor town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her

e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw rew

gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hard

ship be.

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Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet;

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years,

Anticipation forward points the view. The

mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the


The father mixes a' wi' admonition due :


NIGHT. My loved, my honour'd, much-respected friend !

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier

Their masters' and their mistresses' command

The younkers a' are warned to obey,
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; An' 0! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,

Implore His counsel and assisting might :
They never sought in vain that sought the

Lord aright !


But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door;

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.

there, I ween.

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