Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 61

Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness, to thee; And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die.

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne!

Chorus.--For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne.

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o'kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pou'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary fit, Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And there's a hand, my trusty fere!

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught, For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

My Bonie Mary

Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver ta.s.sie; That I may drink before I go, A service to my bonie la.s.sie.

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The s.h.i.+p rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready: The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes deep and b.l.o.o.d.y; It's not the roar o' sea or sh.o.r.e, Wad mak me langer wish to tarry!

Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary!

The Parting Kiss

Humid seal of soft affections, Tenderest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!

Speaking silence, dumb confession, Pa.s.sion's birth, and infant's play, Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, Glowing dawn of future day!

Sorrowing joy, Adieu's last action, (Lingering lips must now disjoin), What words can ever speak affection So thrilling and sincere as thine!

Written In Friar's-Ca.r.s.e Hermitage

On Nithside

Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night,--in darkness lost; Hope not suns.h.i.+ne ev'ry hour, Fear not clouds will always lour.

As Youth and Love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair; Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale?

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?

Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, Soar around each cliffy hold!

While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease; There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought, And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound: Say, man's true, genuine estimate, The grand criterion of his fate, Is not,--Arth thou high or low?

Did thy fortune ebb or flow?

Did many talents gild thy span?

Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?

Tell them, and press it on their mind, As thou thyself must shortly find, The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, To virtue or to Vice is giv'n, Say, to be just, and kind, and wise-- There solid self-enjoyment lies; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways Lead to be wretched, vile, and base.

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep,-- Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, Night, where dawn shall never break, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide!

Quod the Beadsman of Nithside.

The Poet's Progress

A Poem In Embryo

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, The horned bull, tremendous, spurns the ground; The lordly lion has enough and more, The forest trembles at his very roar; Thou giv'st the a.s.s his hide, the snail his sh.e.l.l, The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell.

Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power: Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: E'en silly women have defensive arts, Their eyes, their tongues--and nameless other parts.

But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard!

A thing unteachable in worldly skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still: No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun, No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: No nerves olfact'ry, true to Mammon's foot, Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil's root: The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; Vampyre--booksellers drain him to the heart, And viper--critics cureless venom dart.

Critics! appll'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, b.l.o.o.d.y dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: By blockhead's daring into madness stung, His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, His well-won ways--than life itself more dear-- By miscreants torn who ne'er one sprig must wear; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounces on through life, Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead even resentment for his injur'd page, He heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage.

So by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging b.i.t.c.h's son.

A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, Better than e'er the fairest she he meets; Much specious lore, but little understood, (Veneering oft outs.h.i.+nes the solid wood), His solid sense, by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell!

A man of fas.h.i.+on too, he made his tour, Learn'd "vive la bagatelle et vive l'amour;"