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Thread: Burns

  1. #1
    now then ;)
    Join Date
    Mar 2004
    a green island
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    What with Burns night being tomorrow, today for some of you in those strange timezones, I thought I'd post a few of my favourite burns poems

    Burns as a romantic

    A red,red rose

    O my luve's like a red, red rose
    That's newly sprung in June;
    O mu luve's like the melodie
    That's sweetly play'd in tune.

    As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
    So deep in luve am I;
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
    Till a' the seas gang dry.

    Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
    And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
    O I will luve thee still, my dear
    While the sands o' life shall run.

    And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
    And fare-thee-weel awhile!
    And I will come again, my luve,
    Tho' 'twere ten thousand miles.

    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.

    Burns as a social commentator

    Address from Beelzebub

    Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
    Unskaithed by hunger'd Highland boors;
    Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
    Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
    May twin auld Scotland o' a life
    She likes-as butchers like a knife.

    Faith you and Applecross were right
    To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
    I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,
    Than let them ance out owre the water,
    Then up among thae lakes and seas,
    They'll mak what rules and laws they please:
    Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
    May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
    Some Washington again may head them,
    Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
    Till God knows what may be effected
    When by such heads and hearts directed,
    Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
    May to Patrician rights aspire!
    Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
    To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, -
    An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
    To bring them to a right repentance-
    To cowe the rebel generation,
    An' save the honour o' the nation?
    They, an' be d-d! what right hae they
    To meat, or sleep, or light o' day?
    Far less-to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
    But what your lordship likes to gie them?

    But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
    Your hand's owre light to them, I fear;
    Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
    I canna say but they do gaylies;
    They lay aside a' tender mercies,
    An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
    Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
    They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
    But smash them! crash them a' to spails,
    An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
    The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
    Let wark an' hunger mak them sober!
    The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
    Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
    An' if the wives an' dirty brats
    Come thiggin at your doors an' yetts,
    Flaffin wi' duds, an' grey wi' beas',
    Frightin away your ducks an' geese;
    Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
    The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
    An' gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
    Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
    Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
    An' in my house at hame to greet you;
    Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
    The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
    At my right han' assigned your seat,
    'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate:
    Or if you on your station tarrow,
    Between Almagro and Pizarro,
    A seat, I'm sure ye're well deservin't;
    An' till ye come-your humble servant,


    Burns as a comedian

    The Tarbolton Lasses

    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!
    There once was a scotsman named Drew
    Who put too much wine in his stew
    He felt a bit drunk
    And fell off his bunk
    And landed smack into his shoe
    ~(C) Ms Niamh Anne King

  2. #2
    learning IrishCanadian's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2005
    Used to be my mommy's tummy. But now i'm not so sure.
    Traditional song tweeked by Burns. I dare say that he was truely onto something.

    before Robert Burns

    Green grow the rashes O,
    Green grow the rashes O,
    The feather-bed is no' sae saft
    As a bed amang the rashes O.

    Green grow the rashes O,
    Green grow the rashes O,
    The feather-bed is no sae saft
    As a bed amang the rashes O.

    We're a' dry wi' drinkin' o't,
    We're a' dry wi' drinkin' o't,
    The parson kissed the fiddler's wife
    And he couldna preach for thinkin' o't.

    The down bed, the feather-bed,
    The bed amang the rashes O;
    Yet a' the beds is no' sae saft
    As the bellies o' the lasses O.

    Robert Burns

    There's naught but care on ev'ry han',
    In ev'ry hour that passes, O!
    What signifies the life o' man,
    An' 'twere na for the lasses O?

    Green grow the rashes O!
    Green grow the rashes O!
    The sweetest hour that e'er I spent
    Were spent among the lasses O!

    Give me a cannie hour at e'en
    My arms about my dearie, O!
    An warldly cares and warldly men,
    May a' gae tápsalteerie, O!
    For you sae douce wha sneer at this,
    Ye're not but senseless asses, O!
    The wisest man the warld e'er saw,
    He dearly loved the lasses, O!

    Auld nature swears the lovely dears,
    Her noblest word she classes; O!
    Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
    An' then she made the lasses, O!
    Irish poets, learn your trade!

  3. #3
    in angulo cum libro Petrarch's Love's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2005
    Blog Entries
    Thanks to you both for your Burns night postings. I'm going to some belated Burns night celebrations this weekend, but these posts should keep me going until I get to the scotch and haggis Saturday.

  4. #4
    Burns is such a mixture of the common man in his plight and a spiritual man in his musings. I love him. Kilted reminds me a lot of what I imagine Burns to be. Strong, unshakeable if he really believes something, courageous and having a hatred of spending time with those that don't touch his soul or please him.

  5. #5
    I have chickee. and you know what I clear about twenty to thirty each day. I am going to get ruthless, that's it and that's all. clean as a whistle.
    oh my hasia has so much gas today she could fly to edmonton and back without it costing a dime!

  6. #6
    Registered User
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    Oct 2006
    My favourite Burns' poem is 'Mary Morison'. (Even if most of us put two 'r' s in Morrison)

    O Mary at thy window be
    It is the wished, the trysted hour;
    These smiles and glances let me see
    That makes the miser's treasure poor:
    How blithely wad I bide the stoure
    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 through the lighted ha'
    To thee my fancy took its wing
    I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
    Though this was fair and that was braw
    And yon the toast of a the town,
    I sighed, and said amang them a',
    'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

    O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
    Wha for thy sake wad gladly die!
    Or canst thou break that heart of his,
    Whas only faute 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

    The second verse is my favourite.

  7. #7
    now then ;)
    Join Date
    Mar 2004
    a green island
    Blog Entries
    Another year passes, it's almost time to break back out the Haggis & good malt whisky (plus of course some 'neeps n tatties and quality arran oatcakes.

    Another couple of my favourite Burns poems:

    Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear

    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!

    Address To The Deil

    O Thou! whatever title suit thee-
    Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
    Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
    Clos'd under hatches,
    Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
    To scaud poor wretches!

    Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
    An' let poor damned bodies be;
    I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
    Ev'n to a deil,
    To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
    An' hear us squeel!

    Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
    Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
    An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,
    Thou travels far;
    An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
    Nor blate, nor scaur.

    Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
    For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
    Whiles, on the strong-wind'd tempest flyin,
    Tirlin the kirks;
    Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,
    Unseen thou lurks.

    I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
    In lanely glens ye like to stray;
    Or where auld ruin'd castles grey
    Nod to the moon,
    Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
    Wi' eldritch croon.

    When twilight did my graunie summon,
    To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman!
    Aft'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
    Wi' eerie drone;
    Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,
    Wi' heavy groan.

    Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
    The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
    Wi' you, mysel' I gat a fright,
    Ayont the lough;
    Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
    Wi' wavin' sough.

    The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
    Each brist'ld hair stood like a stake,
    When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick,"
    Amang the springs,
    Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
    On whistlin' wings.

    Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
    Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
    They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
    Wi' wicked speed;
    And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
    Owre howkit dead.

    Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
    May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
    For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
    By witchin' skill;
    An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane
    As yell's the bill.

    Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
    On young guidmen, fond, keen an' crouse,
    When the best wark-lume i' the house,
    By cantrip wit,
    Is instant made no worth a louse,
    Just at the bit.

    When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
    An' float the jinglin' icy boord,
    Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
    By your direction,
    And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd
    To their destruction.

    And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies
    Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
    The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
    Delude his eyes,
    Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
    Ne'er mair to rise.

    When masons' mystic word an' grip
    In storms an' tempests raise you up,
    Some **** or cat your rage maun stop,
    Or, strange to tell!
    The youngest brither ye wad whip
    Aff straught to hell.

    Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard,
    When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
    An' all the soul of love they shar'd,
    The raptur'd hour,
    Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
    In shady bower;^1

    Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
    Ye cam to Paradise incog,
    An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,
    (Black be your fa'!)
    An' gied the infant warld a shog,
    'Maist rui'd a'.

    D'ye mind that day when in a bizz
    Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
    Ye did present your smoutie phiz
    'Mang better folk,
    An' sklented on the man of Uzz
    Your spitefu' joke?

    An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
    An' brak him out o' house an hal',
    While scabs and botches did him gall,
    Wi' bitter claw;
    An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',
    Was warst ava?

    But a' your doings to rehearse,
    Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
    Sin' that day Michael^2 did you pierce,
    Down to this time,
    Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse,
    In prose or rhyme.

    An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
    A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin,
    Some luckless hour will send him linkin
    To your black pit;
    But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
    An' cheat you yet.

    But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
    O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
    Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-
    Stil hae a stake:
    I'm wae to think up' yon den,
    Ev'n for your sake!

    Also this link
    There once was a scotsman named Drew
    Who put too much wine in his stew
    He felt a bit drunk
    And fell off his bunk
    And landed smack into his shoe
    ~(C) Ms Niamh Anne King

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