Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 3

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 The thought o' Mary Morison.

1781

Winter: A Dirge

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pa.s.s the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"

The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest; they must be best, Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want--O do Thou grant This one request of mine!-- Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, a.s.sist me to resign.

Prayer, Under The Pressure Of Violent Anguish

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art, Surpa.s.ses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest.

Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death!

But, if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design, Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine!

Paraphrase Of The First Psalm

The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his G.o.d.

That man shall flourish like the trees, Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that G.o.d the good adore, Hath giv'n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.

First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd; But long ere night cut down it lies All wither'd and decay'd.

Prayer, In The Prospect Of Death

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear!