Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 83

Frae the friends and land I love, Driv'n by Fortune's felly spite; Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never mair to taste delight: Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care; When Remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming sh.o.r.e, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore, Till Revenge, wi' laurel'd head, Bring our banished hame again; And ilk loyal, bonie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain.

Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory; Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story.

Now Sark rins over Solway sands, An' Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitor's wages.

The English stell we could disdain, Secure in valour's station; But English gold has been our bane-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day That Treason thus could sell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!

But pith and power, till my last hour, I'll mak this declaration; We're bought and sold for English gold-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Ye Jacobites By Name

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.

What is Right, and What is Wrang, by the law, by the law?

What is Right and what is Wrang by the law?

What is Right, and what is Wrang?

A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?

What makes heroic strife famed afar?

What makes heroic strife?

To whet th' a.s.sa.s.sin's knife, Or hunt a Parent's life, wi' bluidy war?

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state, Then let your schemes alone in the state.

Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone, to his fate.

I Hae Been At Crookieden

I Hae been at Crookieden, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Viewing Willie and his men, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

There our foes that burnt and slew, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, There, at last, they gat their due, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

Satan sits in his black neuk, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie, The b.l.o.o.d.y monster gae a yell, My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

And loud the laugh gied round a' h.e.l.l My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

O Kenmure's On And Awa, Willie

O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, O Kenmure's on and awa: An' Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie!

Success to Kenmure's band!

There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie!

Here's Kenmure's health in wine!

There's ne'er a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, O Kenmure's lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their foes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie; They'll live or die wi' fame; But sune, wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame!

Here's him that's far awa, Willie!

Here's him that's far awa!

And here's the flower that I loe best, The rose that's like the snaw.

Epistle To John Maxwell, ESQ., Of Terraughty

On His Birthday.

Health to the Maxwell's veteran Chief!

Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half-worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second-sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stour.

But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men, and la.s.sies bonie, May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe, and e'enings funny, Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the deil, he daurna steer ye: Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye; For me, shame fa' me, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, While Burns they ca' me.

Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., Of Fintry

5th October 1791.

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pa.s.s for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest); Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?