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    Poems and Songs
    Poems and Songs
    Poems and Songs
    Ebook186 pages1 hour

    Poems and Songs

    By Robert Burns

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    About this ebook

    Robert Burns (1759 – 1796) called himself "an Aeolian harp strung to every wind of heaven." His first volume of poems, entitled Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, was published in 1786. An immediate success, it established Burns's poetic reputation, which has grown over two centuries to the point where he is not only the Scottish national poet but the object of a cult unique in British poetry.
    The present volume contains 43 of his finest poems and songs, reprinted unabridged from an authoritative tenth-century edition. Included are "The Twa Dogs," a deft satire of the Scottish upper classes; "To a Mouse," one of the poet's best known, most charming works; "Address to the Unco Guid," an attack on Puritan hypocrisy; "Holy Willie's Prayer," one of the great verse-satires of all times; as well as such favorites as "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "To a Mountain Daisy," "The Holy Fair," "Address to the Deil," "The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie," and many more.
    In addition to his poetic undertakings, Burns almost single-handedly preserved and revived the traditional Scottish song, and this volume includes a rich selection of these works: "A Red, Red Rose," "Auld Lang Syne," "Comin' thro' the Rye," "My Heart's in the Highlands," "My Love, She's But a Lassie Yet," and a host of others.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateAug 15, 2012
    ISBN9780486114163
    Poems and Songs
    Author

    Robert Burns

    Robert Burns has been involved in the areas of self improvement and assisting people in becoming who they were meant to be from birth. He knows that stories play a significant role in our life's choices and future accomplishments. This short story has a wealth of information concerning friendship so I hope you enjoy the book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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    • 5/5
      Excellent edition of poetry with biographical details and glossary; Souvenir Edition, 1969, in excellent condition with cover. ISBN number given is printed on dustcover, the last digit is probably capital i not 1

    Book preview

    Poems and Songs - Robert Burns

    The Twa Dogs

    A TALE

    ’T was in that place o’ Scotland’s isle

    That bears the name of auld King Coil,

    Upon a bonie day in June,

    When wearing thro’ the afternoon,

    Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,

    Forgathered ance upon a time.

    The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Cæsar,

    Was keepit for his Honor‘s pleasure:

    His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,

    Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;

    But whalpit some place far abroad,

    Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.

    His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar

    Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;

    But tho’ he was o’ high degree,

    The fient a pride, nae pride had he;

    But wad hae spent an hour caressin,

    Ev’n wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messin;

    At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,

    Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie,

    But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,

    An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.

    The tither was a ploughman’s collie,

    A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,

    Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him,

    And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,

    After some dog in Highland sang,

    Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang.

    He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,

    As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.

    His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face

    Ay gat him friends in ilka place;

    His breast was white, his tousie back

    Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;

    His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,

    Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl.

    Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,

    And unco pack an’ thick thegither;

    Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an’ snowkit;

    Whyles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit;

    Whyles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion,

    An’ worry’d ither in diversion;

    Till tir’d at last wi’ monie a farce,

    They sat them down upon their arse,

    An’ there began a lang digression

    About the lords o’ the creation.

    CÆSAR

    I ’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,

    What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;

    An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,

    What way poor bodies liv’d ava.

    Our laird gets in his rackèd rents,

    His coals, his kain, an’ a’ his stents:

    He rises when he likes himsel;

    His flunkies answer at the bell;

    He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;

    He draws a bonie silken purse,

    As lang ’s my tail, whare, thro’ the steeks,

    The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

    Frae morn to e‘en it’s nought but toiling,

    At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

    An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin,

    Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan

    Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie,

    That’s little short o’ downright wastrie:

    Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,

    Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,

    Better than onie tenant-man

    His Honor has in a’ the lan’;

    An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,

    I own it’s past my comprehension.

    LUATH

    Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they ’re fash’t eneugh:

    A cotter howkin in a sheugh,

    Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,

    Baring a quarry, an’ sic like;

    Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,

    A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,

    An’ nought but his han’ darg to keep

    Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape.

    An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,

    Like loss o’ health or want o’ masters,

    Ye maist wad think; a wee touch langer,

    An’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger:

    But how it comes, I never kend yet,

    They ’re maistly, wonderfu’ contented;

    An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,

    Are bred in sic a way as this is.

    CÆSAR

    But then to see how ye ’re negleckit,

    How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit!

    Lord, man, our gentry care as little

    For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;

    They gang as saucy by poor folk,

    As I wad by a stinking brock.

    I ’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,

    (An’ monie a time my heart ’s been wae),

    Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash,

    How they maun thole a factor’s snash:

    He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear

    He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;

    While they maun staun’, wi’ aspect humble,

    An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!

    I see how folk live that hae riches;

    But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!

    LUATH

    They ’re nae sae wretched’s ane wad think:

    Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink,

    They ’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,

    The view o’t gies them little fright.

    Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,

    They ’re ay in less or mair provided;

    An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,

    A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.

    The dearest comfort o’ their lives,

    Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives;

    The prattling things are just their pride,

    That sweetens a’ their fire-side.

    An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy

    Can mak the bodies unco happy:

    They lay aside their private cares,

    To mind the Kirk and State affairs;

    They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,

    Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,

    Or tell what new taxation’s comin,

    An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.

    As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,

    They get the jovial, ranting kirns,

    When rural life, of ev’ry station,

    Unite in common recreation;

    Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth

    Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

    That merry day the year begins,

    They bar the door on frosty win’s;

    The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,

    An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;

    The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,

    Are handed round wi’ right guid will;

    The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,

    The young anes ranting thro’ the house—

    My heart has been sae fain to see them,

    That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.

    Still it’s owre true that ye hae said

    Sic game is now owre aften play’d;

    There’s monie a creditable stock

    O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,

    Are riven out baith root an’ branch,

    Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,

    Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster

    In favor wi’ some gentle master,

    Wha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin’,

    For Britain’s guid his

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