My Daughter/My Son-Author Unknown

As I watch you grow and leave your childhood behind,
I have so many wishes for you...
I wish you confidence to face challenges...

Wisdom to choose your path...
Adventure and joy to greet you...
I wish you contentment born of simple things...

Friends and cherished moments.
Most of all I wish you love, 
I am so very proud of you.

Address To The Tooth-Ache, Robert Burns 1759-1796

My curse upon your venom'd stang,

That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;

And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,

Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;

Our neighbors' sympathy may ease us,

Wi' pitying moan;

But thee -- thou hell o' a' diseases --

They mock our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!

I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,

As round the fire the giglets keckle,

To see me loup;

While raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,

Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,

Sad sight to see !

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,

Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,

Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,

And rankd plagues their numbers tell,

In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell

Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,

That gars the notes of discord squeel,

Till daft mankiud aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick; --

Gie a' the foes o' Scotland's weal

A towmond's Tooth-ache!

Here's To Thy Health, Robert Burns 1759-1796

Tune - "Laggan Burn."

Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,

Gude nicht and joy be wi' thee;

I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door,

To tell thee that I lo'e thee.

O dinna think, my pretty pink,

But I can live without thee:

I vow and swear I dinna care,

How lang ye look about ye.

Thou'rt aye sae free informing me,

Thou hast nae mind to marry;

I'll be as free informing thee,

Nae time hae I to tarry:

I ken thy frien's try ilka means

Frae wedlock to delay thee;

Depending on some higher chance,

But fortune may betray thee.

I ken they scorn my low estate,

But that does never grieve me;

For I'm as free as any he;

Sma' siller will relieve me.

I'll count my health my greatest wealth,

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;

I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,

As lang's I get employment.

But far off fowls hae feathers fair,

And, aye until ye try them,

Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;

They may prove waur than I am.

But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,

My dear, I'll come and see thee;

For the man that loves his mistress weel,

Nae travel makes him weary. 

Here's A Health To Them That's Awa, Robert Burns 1756-1796

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,

May never guid luck be their fa'!

It's guid to be merry and wise,

It's guid to be honest and true,

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause

And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa!

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,

Altho that his band be sma'!

May Liberty meet wi success,

May Prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and Tyranny tine i' the mist

And wander their way to the Devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie,

That lives at the lug o' the Law!

Here's freedom to thern that wad read,

Here's freedom to them that would write!

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,

But they whom the truth would indite!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

An here's to them that's awa!

Here's to Maitland and Wycombe! let wha does na like 'em

Be built in a hole in the wa'!

Here's timmer that's red at the heart,

Here's fruit that is sound at the core,

And may he that wad turn the buff and blue coat

Be turn'd to the back o' the door!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!

Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth,

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,

And wha wad betray old Albion's right,

May they never eat of her bread! 

Go Fetch To Me A Pint,Robert Burns 1759-1796

Go fetch to me a pint o wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie;

That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonie lassie:

The boat rocks at the Pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,

The ship 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 bloody.

It's not the roar o' sea or shore,

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;

Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-

It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary! 

Here's a Bottle,Robert Burns 1759-1796

There's nane that's blest of human kind

But the cheerful and the gay, man.

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!

What wad ye wish for 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 ay when sought, man! 

Bonie Wee Thing, The,Robert Burns 1759-1796

Chorus:- Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel it should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish

In that bonie face o' thine,

And my heart it sounds wi' anguish,

Lest my wee thing be na mine.

[Chorus]

Wit and Grace, and Love, and Beauty,

In ae constellation shine;

To adore thee in my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!

[Chorus] 

Again Rejoicing Nature Sees, Robert Burns 1759-1796

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,

Her leafy looks wave in the breeze,

All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,

An' it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the vi'lets spring;

In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still...

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,

Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,

But life to me 's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still...

The wanton coot the water skims,

Among the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,

And every thing is blest but I.

And maun I still...

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,

And owre the moorlands whistles shill,

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still...

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings,

A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still...

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,

And raging bend the naked tree;

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,

When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still...

A Dream.Robert Burns 1759-1796

Guid-Mornin' to our Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses

On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,

A humble poet wishes.

My bardship here, at your Levee

On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,

Amang thae birth-day dresses

Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,

By mony a lord an' lady;

"God save the King" 's a cuckoo sang

That's unco easy said aye:

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,

Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,

But aye unerring steady,

On sic a day.

For me! before a monarch's face

Ev'n there I winna flatter;

For neither pension, post, nor place,

Am I your humble debtor:

So, nae reflection on your Grace,

Your Kingship to bespatter;

There's mony waur been o' the race,

And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sovereign King,

My skill may weel be doubted;

But facts are chiels that winna ding,

An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,

Is e'en right reft and clouted,

And now the third part o' the string,

An' less, will gang aboot it

Than did ae day.^1

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your legislation,

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation:

But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps wha in barn or byre

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,

Her broken shins to plaister,

Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:

For me, thank God, my life's a lease,

Nae bargain wearin' faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese,

I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

When taxes he enlarges,

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,

A name not envy spairges),

That he intends to pay your debt,

An' lessen a' your charges;

But, God-sake! let nae saving fit

Abridge your bonie barges

An'boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck

Beneath your high protection;

An' may ye rax Corruption's neck,

And gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, wi' due respect,

May fealty an' subjection

This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment,

A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent,

Still higher may they heeze ye

In bliss, till fate some day is sent

For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young Potentate o'Wales,

I tell your highness fairly,

Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;

But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly sairly,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie

By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known,

To mak a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill the throne,

For a'their clish-ma-claver:

There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver:

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,^3

He was an unco shaver

For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

Altho' a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:

As ye disown yon paughty dog,

That bears the keys of Peter,

Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,

Or trowth, ye'll stain the mitre

Some luckless day!

Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,

Ye've lately come athwart her-

A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern,

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;

But first hang out, that she'll discern,

Your hymeneal charter;

Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

An' large upon her quarter,

Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw,

An' gie you lads a-plenty!

But sneer na British boys awa!

For kings are unco scant aye,

An' German gentles are but sma',

They're better just than want aye

On ony day.

Gad bless you a'! consider now,

Ye're unco muckle dautit;

But ere the course o' life be through,

It may be bitter sautit:

An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow't at it.

But or the day was done, I trow,

The laggen they hae clautit

Fu' clean that day.

Robert Burns

Address to the Devil

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,

E'en 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 heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,

For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;

Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,

Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray

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, douce honest woman!

Aft yont the dike 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' waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor 'Quaick, quaick,'

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistling 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 howket dead.

Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;

For oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witchin skill;

An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen

As yell's the bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,

On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose;

When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantraip 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,

An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd

To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:

The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

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 cock or cat your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden'd 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 bow'r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

And play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An gied the infant warld a shog,

Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

Wi' reeket duds an reestet gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house and hal',

While scabs and blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, 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--

Still hae a stake:

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake! 

A Dream, Robert Burns 1759-1796

A Dream

Guid-Mornin' to our Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses

On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,

A humble poet wishes.

My bardship here, at your Levee

On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,

Amang thae birth-day dresses

Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,

By mony a lord an' lady;

"God save the King" 's a cuckoo sang

That's unco easy said aye:

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,

Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,

But aye unerring steady,

On sic a day.

For me! before a monarch's face

Ev'n there I winna flatter;

For neither pension, post, nor place,

Am I your humble debtor:

So, nae reflection on your Grace,

Your Kingship to bespatter;

There's mony waur been o' the race,

And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sovereign King,

My skill may weel be doubted;

But facts are chiels that winna ding,

An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,

Is e'en right reft and clouted,

And now the third part o' the string,

An' less, will gang aboot it

Than did ae day.^1

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your legislation,

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation:

But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps wha in barn or byre

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,

Her broken shins to plaister,

Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:

For me, thank God, my life's a lease,

Nae bargain wearin' faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese,

I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

When taxes he enlarges,

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,

A name not envy spairges),

That he intends to pay your debt,

An' lessen a' your charges;

But, God-sake! let nae saving fit

Abridge your bonie barges

An'boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck

Beneath your high protection;

An' may ye rax Corruption's neck,

And gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, wi' due respect,

May fealty an' subjection

This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment,

A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent,

Still higher may they heeze ye

In bliss, till fate some day is sent

For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young Potentate o'Wales,

I tell your highness fairly,

Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;

But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly sairly,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie

By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known,

To mak a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill the throne,

For a'their clish-ma-claver:

There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver:

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,^3

He was an unco shaver

For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

Altho' a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:

As ye disown yon paughty dog,

That bears the keys of Peter,

Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,

Or trowth, ye'll stain the mitre

Some luckless day!

Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,

Ye've lately come athwart her-

A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern,

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;

But first hang out, that she'll discern,

Your hymeneal charter;

Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

An' large upon her quarter,

Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw,

An' gie you lads a-plenty!

But sneer na British boys awa!

For kings are unco scant aye,

An' German gentles are but sma',

They're better just than want aye

On ony day.

Gad bless you a'! consider now,

Ye're unco muckle dautit;

But ere the course o' life be through,

It may be bitter sautit:

An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow't at it.

But or the day was done, I trow,

The laggen they hae clautit

Fu' clean that day.

A Mother's Lament for the Death of Her Son-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1788

Fate gave the word, the
arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys
are fled
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the
sapling drops,
In dust dishonours'd laid;
So fell the pride of all my
hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-Linnet in the
brake
Bewails her ravish'd
young,
 So I, for my lost darling's
sake,
Lament the live-day long.

Death, oft I've feared thy
fatal blow.
Now, fond, I bare my
breast;
O, do thou kindly lay me
low
With him I love, at rest!

Address To A Haggis- Robert Burns 1759-1796,Address, 1786

Fair fa' your honest,
sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the
pudding-race!
Aboon them a' yet tak
your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o;a
grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher
there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a
distant hill,
Your pin was help to
mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores
the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic
Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready
sleight,
Trenching your gushing
entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a
glorioussss sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they
stretch an strive;
Deil tak the hindmost! on
they drive
Till a' their weel-swall'd
kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman,
maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his
French ragout
Or olin that wad staw a
sow,
Or fricassee wad make
her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi'
sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre
his trash,
As feckles as wither'd
rash,
His spindle shank, a guid
whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field
to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic,
haggis- fed,
The trembling earth
resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a
blade,
He'll mak it  whissle
An' legs an' arms, an'
hands will sned,
Like taps o trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak
mankind your care,
and dish them out their
bill o' fare,
 Auld Scotland wants nae
skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her
gratefu' prayer
Gie her a haggis!

A Winter Night-Robert Burns1759-1796 ,Poem

A Winter Night

             When biting Boreas, fell and doure,

              Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;

             When Phœbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

                  Far south the lift,

            Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

                   Or whirling drift:

             Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,

             Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,

              While burns, wi' snawy wreeths upchoked,

                 Wild-eddying swirl,

            Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

                  Down headlong hurl.

            List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,

            I thought me on the ourie cattle,

            Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

                  O' winter war,

            And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,

                  Beneath a scar.

            Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!

         That, in the merry months o' spring,

            Delighted me to hear thee sing,

                  What comes o' thee?

           Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing

                  An' close thy e'e?

            Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,

            Lone from your savage homes exil'd,

          The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd

                My heart forgets,

           While pityless the tempest wild

                 Sore on you beats.

To a Mouse-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1785

On Turning Up Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785

              Wee, sleeket, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

             Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!

              Thou need na start awa sae hasty

                    Wi' bickerin brattle!

              I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee

                   Wi' murd'ring pattle!

           I'm truly sorry man's dominion

             Has broken Nature's social union,

              An' justifies that ill opinion

                 Which makes thee startle

            At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

              An' fellow-mortal!

          I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:

           What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

          A daimen icker in a thrave

                  'S a sma' request;

            I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

                  An' never miss 't!

            Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

          Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!

           An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

                 O' foggage green!

        An' bleak December's winds ensuin

                Baith snell an' keen!

            Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,

           An' weary winter comin fast,

            An' cozie here beneath the blast

                  Thou thought to dwell,

            Till crash! the cruel coulter past

                  Out thro' thy cell.

            That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble

           Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

           Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,

                 But house or hald,

            To thole the winter's sleety dribble

                An' cranreuch cauld!

            But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane

            In proving foresight may be vain:

           The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

                  Gang aft agley,

            An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain

                  For promis'd joy.

            Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!

            The present only toucheth thee:

            But, och! I backward cast my e'e

                  On prospects drear!

           An' forward, tho' I canna see,

                  I guess an' fear!

To a Mountain Daisy-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1786

On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786

           Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

             Thou's met me in an evil hour;

             For I maun crush amang the stoure

                 Thy slender stem:

             To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

                    Thou bonie gem.

              Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

           The bonie lark, companion meet,

             Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

                   Wi' spreck'd breast,

            When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

                   The purpling east.

            Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

          Upon thy early, humble birth;

           Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

                   Amid the storm,

           Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

                  Thy tender form.

           The flaunting flowers our gardens yield

            High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:

           But thou, beneath the random bield

                   O' clod or stane,

         Adorns the histie stibble-field

                 Unseen, alane.

           There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

           Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,

           Thou lifts thy unassuming head

                   In humble guise;

          But now the share uptears thy bed,

                    And low thou lies!

            Such is the fate of artless maid,

           Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

           By love's simplicity betray'd

                   And guileless trust;

            Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

                   Low i' the dust.

            Such is the fate of simple bard,

            On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

          Unskilful he to note the card

                    Of prudent lore,

            Till billows rage and gales blow hard,

                   And whelm him o'er!

           Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,

            Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

           By human pride or cunning driv'n

                    To mis'ry's brink;

          Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

                    He ruin'd sink!

            Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

           That fate is thine--no distant date;

            Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

                    Full on thy bloom,

            Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

                   Shall be thy doom.