How Cruel Are The Parents-Robert Burns 1759-1796,Altered Poem, 1795

Altered from an old English song.
tune-"John Anderson, my jo."

How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And to the wealthy booby Poor Woman sacrifice! Meanwhile, the hapless Daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant Father's hate- Become a wretched Wife. The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin, Awhile her pinions tries; Till, of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless Falconer, And drops beneath his feet.

Scotch Drink-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1785

Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief and care:
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.

Let other poets raise a fracas "Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an'stories wrack us, An' grate our lug: I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink! Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain: Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o'food! Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o'doited Lear; Thou cheers ahe heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil; Though even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet, humbly kind in time o' need, The poor man's wine; His weep drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, By thee inspired, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year mornin In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, An' gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an freath I' th' luggit caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap. Nae mercy then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an reel, Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirling weanies see the light, Though maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuiffs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley brie Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my muse has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But mony daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season, E'er Spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash! Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor, plackless devils like mysel'! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, What twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks, At ither's a-s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa? Thae curst horse-leeches o' the' Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

The Mother " Nature's Law" not God's-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1786

Nature's Law Robert Burns, Poem, 1786

Great Nature spoke: observant man obey'd-Pope.

Let other heroes boast their scars,
The marks of sturt and strife:
And other poets sing of wars,
The plagues of human life:

Shame fa' the fun, wi' sword and gun
To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name, and nobler fame,
Wha multiplies our number.

Great Nature spoke, with air benign,
"Go on, ye human race;
This lower world I you resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire
I've pour'd it in each bosom;
Here, on this had, does Mankind stand,
And there is Beauty's blossom."

The Hero of these artless strains,
A lowly bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,
With meikle mirth an'glee;
Kind Nature's care had given his share
Large, of the flaming current;
And, all devout, he never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.

He felt the powerful, high behest
Thrill, vital, thro' and thro';
And sought a correspondent breast,
To give obedience due:
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,
From mildews of abortion;
And low! the bard - a great reward -
Has got a double portion!

Auld cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes, an' other times,
To emulate his sire:
To sing auld Coil in nobler style
With more poetic fire.

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious eyes;
And bless auld Coila, large and long,
With multiplying joys;
Lang may she stand to prop the land,
The flow'r of ancient nations;
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,
To endless generations!

Ye Flowery Banks (Bonie Doon)-Robert Burns

             Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

                   How can ye blume sae fair?

              How can ye chant, ye little birds,

                    And I sae fu' o' care?

            Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

                That sings upon the bough;

              Thou minds me o' the happy days,

                    When my fause love was true.

              Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,

                  That sings beside thy mate;

            For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

                  And wist na o' my fate.

            Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon

                  To see the wood-bine twine,

            And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

                 And sae did I o' mine.

           Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

                  Frae aff its thorny tree;

            And my fause luver staw my rose

                 But left the thorn wi' me.

Craigieburn Wood-Robert Burns

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, And blythe awakens the morrow, But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet darena for your anger' But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.

A Red, Red Rose-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1794

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 played 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;
And 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, a
while!
And I will come again,
my Luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand
mile!

Bannocks O' Bear Meal-Robert Burns Poem, 1794

Chorus-Bannocks o'
bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley,
Here's to the
Highlandman's
Bannocks o' barley!

Wha, in a brulyie, will
First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi' the
Bannocks o' barley,
Bannocks o' bear meal,
& c.

Wha, in his wae days,
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi' the
Bannocks o' barley!

A Man's A Man For A' That Robert Burns 1759-1796, Song, 1795.

Is there for honest
Poverty
That hings his head, an'
a' that;
The coward slave-we
pass him by,
We dare be poor for a'
that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a'
that,
The rank is but the
 guinea's stanp,
The Mans the gowd for
a' that.

What though on hamely
fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a
that;
Gie fools their silks, and
knaves their wine;
A Mans a Man for A'
that;
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a'
that
The honest man, tho' e'er
sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a
lord,
Wha struts, an' stares,
an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship
at his word,
He's but a coof for a'
that;
For a' that, an' a'that,
His ribband, star, an' a'
that;
The man o' independent
mind
He looks an' laughs at a'
that.

A prince can mak a
belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a'
 that;
But an honest man's
abon his might,
Guide faith, he maunna fa'
that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an'
pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a'
that.

Then let us prey that
come it may,
(As come it will for a'
that,)
That Sense and Worth,
o'er a' the eaarth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a'
that
For a' that, an' a' that,
Its's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the World o'er
Shall brothers be for a'
that.

Ballad On The American War-Robert Burns1759-1796 ,Song, 1784

When Guilford good our
pilot stood
An' did our hellim thraw,
man,
Ae night, at tea, began a
plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the
maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw,
man;
An' did nae less, in full
congress,
Than quite refuse our
law, man.

Then thro' the lakes
Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw,
man;
Down Lowries Burn he
took a turn,
And Carleton did ca',
man:
But yet, whatreck, he at
Quebec,
Montgomery-likee did fa;,
man,
Wi sword in hand
Amang his en'mies a',
man.

Poor Tammy Gage
within a cage
Was kept at Boston-ha,
man;
Till Willie Howe took
o'er the knowe
For Philidelphia, man;
Wi' sword an' gun he
thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to
draw, man;
But at New York, wi'
knife an' fork,
Sir-Loin he hacked sma',
man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like
spur an' whip,
Till Fraser brae did fa',
man;
Then lost his way, ae
misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as
lang's he dought,
An did the Buckskins
claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae
rust to save,
He hung it to the wa',
 man.

Then Montague, an'
Guilford too,
Began to fear, a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha
stood the stour,
The German chief to
thraw, man;
For Paddy Burke, like
ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a;,
man;
An' Charlie Fox threw
by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler
jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took
up the game,
Till death did on him ca',
man;
When Shelburne meek
held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law,
 man;
Saint Stephen's boys, wi'
jarring noise,
They did his measures
thaw, man;
For North an' Fox united
stocks, An' bore him to the wa'',
man.

Then clubs an' hearts
were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes
awa;, man,
Till the diamond's ace, of
Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas,
man:
The Saxon lads, wi' loud
placads,
On Chatam's boy did
 ca', man;
An Scorland drew her
pipe an' blew,
"Up Willie, waur them
a' man!"

Behind the throne then
Granville's gone,
A secret word or twa,
man;
While slee Dundas
arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa',
man;
An Chathams'wraith, in
heav'nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw,
man),
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd,
"Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them
 a', man?
But, word an' blow,
North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba',
man;
Till Suthron raise, an'
coost their claise
Behind him in a raw,
man:
An' swoor fu'rude, thro'
dirt an' bluid,
To mak it guid in law,
man.

.

A Bottle And A Friend-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Song,1787

There nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la,la,&C

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish fer mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end, 
What his share may be o'care man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought man: 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 
And comes not aye when sought man.

It's Useless or Don't You See

There are strange things done neath the midnight sun

By the men who moil for life;

Those Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever will see

Was the plight of the man from We Just Don’t See--
He's up in flame; but, doubtful fame;

It’s useless or don’t you see.

Now that man Oh Gee, was from We Just Don’t See, where the hot air blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the true land of ours seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were slushing our way over the long lost trail.
Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was That man you see.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the artic blow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed strife, and it’s got right hold till I’m cold clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! He looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of some place called USA; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of that man you see.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of life, but I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax my brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! How I loathed living.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though our lives were spent and the grub was getting low;
My trail was bad, and I knew I’s mad, but I swore I would not give in;
That I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Then I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was the Come What May .”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in USA.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the dogs they howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long or how in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
For I guess we’re cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . so the door I opened wide.

And there bye damn, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Numb-tree, down in We-Just- Don’t See , it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done neath the midnight sun

By the men who moil for life;

Those Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever will see

Was the plight of the man from We Just Don’t See--
He's up in flame; but, doubtful fame.

It’s useless or don’t you see.