{"1": {"fulltext": "IlKB", "height": "4752", "width": "3040", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "Book I ^^S\\nPRESENTED BV\\n,N5", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "THE\\nPOETICAL WORKS\\nor\\nROBERT BURNS\\nWith Memoir^ NoUs^\\nAmd a Complete Glossary.\\nFLLUS TRA TED.\\nNew York\\nNEW YORK PUBLISHING COMPANT,\\n96 CITY HALL PLACB,\\n1899.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": ".N3", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS,\\nALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED,\\nPAGE\\nAJ5BRESS to the Deil 37\\nto Edinburffh 119\\nspoken by Miss Fontenelle at the theatre, Dumfiies 181\\nAdown Winding Nith 323\\nAfton Water 306\\nAiken, Robert, Esq., Epitaph for 458\\nAltar to Independence, Inscription for 187\\nAltho Thou maun never be mine 283\\nAmang the Trees 371\\nAn O! my Eppie 439\\nAnd maun I still on Mary doat? 341\\nAs down the Burn they took their way 395\\nAs I was wandering 396\\nAuld Farmer s New-Year Salutation to his Auld Mare,\\nMaggie, on giving her the accustomed rip of Com to\\nhansel in the New Year 80\\nAuld lang syne 848\\nAuld Man, The 273\\nAuld Rob Morris 253\\nAuthor s earnest Cry and Prayer 10\\nAuthor s Farewell to his Native Country 339\\nBank of Flowers, On a 373\\nBank-note, Lines written on a 242\\nBanks o Doon 303\\nBanks of Devon 822\\nBanks of Nith 299, 383\\nBannockbum 842\\nBannocks o Barley 396\\nBard s Epitaph 889\\nBattle of SheriiT-Muir, between the Duke of Argvle and\\nthe Earl of Mar 851\\nBeelzebub, Address of, to the President of the Highland\\nSociety 229\\nBehold the Hour 305\\nBelles of Mauchline 380\\nBessy and her Spinnin Wheel 299\\nBig-bellied Bottle 338\\nBirks of Aberf eldy 284\\nBirth of a Posthumous Child, born in peculiar circum-\\nstances of Family Distress, lines on the 165", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "vlll CONTENTS.\\nPAGB\\nBlacklock, Dr.jlinesto 174\\nBlair, Sir James Hunter, on the Death of 213\\nBlissful Day, The 293\\nBlithe hae 1 been on yon Hill 325\\nBlithe was She 288\\nBlue-eyed Lassie, The 294\\nBluid-red Rose at Yule may blow 419\\nBonnie Ann 315\\nBonnie Bell 307\\nBonnie Blink o Mary s E e 320\\nBonnie Lad that s far awa 321\\nBonnie Lesley 370\\nBonny Peggy 383\\nBonny Wee Thing 298\\nBook-worms, The 239\\nBottle and Friend .360\\nBraes o Ballochmyle 293\\nBraw Lads of Galla Water 399\\nBrigs of Ayr, The 26\\nBruar Water, the Humble Petition of, to the Noble Duke\\nof Athol 159\\nBurnet, Miss, Elegy on 177\\nBums\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Extempore 742\\nMiss, lines written under her Picture 245\\nBushby, John, Writer in Dumfries, Epitaph on 459\\nBy Allan Stream 263\\nCaledonia 349\\nCalf, The 36\\nCanst thou leave me thus? 333\\nCaptain Grose 354\\nhis Peregrinations through Scotland, collect-\\ning the Antiquities of that Kingdom 134\\nCaptain s Lady, The 422\\nCardin o t, The 462\\nCarle of Kellybum braes 479\\nCarles of Dysart 467\\nCessnock Banks 351\\nCharming Month of May 332\\nChevalier s Lament 302\\nChloris, Ah! 458\\nVerses to 184, 443\\non her Illness 369\\nClarinda 339\\nClergyman, lines sent to a, whom he had offended 139\\nCock up your Beaver .441\\nCoUier Laddie, The 493\\nCome, let me take thee 328\\nCome boat me o er to Charlie 371\\nComing through the Rye 399\\nContented wi little 279\\nCooper o Cuddie, The 425\\nCotter s Saturday Night 91\\nCountry Laird, not quite so wise as Solomon, Epitaph on a 457\\nCountry Lassie 300\\nCourt of Session Extemoore in the 400", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. IX\\nPAGE\\nCratp^e-bum-wood 394\\nCniikshank, Miss, a very Young Lady, lines to 157\\nCunningliam, Mr., To 34 i\\nDaintie Davie 236\\nDaer Lord, lines on an Interview with 178\\nDamon and Sylvia 381\\nDavie a Brother Poet, Epistles to 87. 167\\nDean of Faculty, The 358\\nDeath, Prayer on the Prospect of 103\\nStanzas on 103\\nSong of 252\\nDeath and Dr. Hornbook 22\\nDeath and Dying Words of Poor MaiKe, the Author s only\\npet Yowe 40\\nDedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 114\\nDeil, Address to the ,37\\nDeiPs away wi the Exciseman 324:\\nDelia\u00e2\u0080\u0094an Ode 212\\nDeluded Swain 266\\nDespondency 93\\nDenks dang o er my Daddie 388\\nDove, John, Innkeeper, Mauchline, Epitaph on 459\\nDumfries Volunteers 352\\nDumourier, Gen., Address to ,378\\nDuncan Gray 255\\nDundas, Eobt., Esq., of Amiston, on the Death of 231\\nEdinburgh, Address to 119\\nElection, The 431\\nElegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson .137\\non the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo 177\\non the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 197\\non the Year 1788 210\\non the Death of Peg Nicholson 237\\nEllisland Theatre, Prologue spoken at the .176\\nElphinstone s Translation of Martial s Epigrams, Epigram or 457\\nEpigrams 452\\nEpistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 87 167\\nto a Young Friend 109\\nto John Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard 121 124\\nto John Rankin 132\\nto Robert Graham, Esq 142, 144 221\\nto Wm, Creech 194\\nto Mr. M^Adam 205\\nfrom Esopus to Maria 218\\nir to Major Logan 224\\nto Hugh Parker 227\\nEpitaph, The 139\\non a Friend 193\\non the Poet s Daughter 227\\non Gabriel Richardson 227\\non Miss Jessv Lewars 238\\non Holy Willie 450\\non a Country Laird 457\\n-s\u00e2\u0080\u0094 on Wee Johnny 458", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "X CONTENTS.\\nPJLGB\\nEpitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder 458\\nfor Robert Aiken, Esq. 458\\nfor Gavin Hamilton, Esq. .458\\non my Father 458\\non John Dove 459\\non John Bushby 459\\non a Bard 469\\nEppieM^Nab 430\\nAn 0! my 439\\nEsopus, Epistle from, to Maria 218\\nEvan Banks 274\\nExcise, extemporaneous effusion on being appointed to the 455\\nFaib Eliza 301\\nFall of Fyers, near Lochness, lines written with a pencil\\nwhile standing by the 166\\nFalsehood in the Kev. Dr. B. s Looks, on hearing that there\\nw^as 455\\nFareweU, The 220,340,406\\nFarewell, thou Stream 274\\nFarewell to Nancy 319\\nFarev/ell to Eliza 335\\nFather, Epitaph on my 459\\nFergusson, the Poet, Inscription to his Memory 196\\nVerses written under his Portrait 211\\nFete Champetre, The 417\\nFirst Psalm 105\\nFirst Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm 106\\nFive Carlins, The\u00e2\u0080\u0094 an Election Ballad 386\\nFontenelle, Miss, Address spoken by 181\\non Seeing her in a favourite Character 237\\nFor a that and a that 346\\nFor the Sake of Somebody 308\\nForlorn, my Love 281\\nFrae the Friends and Land I love 443\\nFragment 379\\nFriars-Carse Hermitage, on Nith-side, lines written on 134\\nFriend s House, lines left at a 104\\nFull well thou knowest 286\\nGalla Water 257\\nGallant Weaver, The 345\\nGalloway, Lord, on Seeing the beautiful Seat of 454\\nlines to, on the Author being threatened\\nwith his resentment 454\\nGaneistheDay 296\\nGlencaim, James, Earl of. Lament for 146\\nGlobe Tavern, Dumfries, lines written on the Window of the 457\\nGloomy December 304\\nGoblet, Inscription on a 239\\nGouden Locks of Anna 321\\nGowdie, John, of Kilmarnock, Letter to, on the publication\\nof his Essays 215\\n(kX\u00c2\u00a5^^ before Dinner 196", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. xi\\nPAGE\\nGraham, Robert, Esq., of Fintry, Epistles to 142, 144, 221\\nlines to, on receiving a\\nFavour 193\\nGreen ffrow the Rashes 336\\nGude e^en to you. Kimmer 440\\nGuidwif e of Wauchope House, Answer to Verses addressed\\nto the Poet bv the 197\\nGuilford Good 161\\nHad I a Cave 274\\nHad I the Wvte 401\\nHagofis, To a*^ 113\\nHalloween 63\\nHamilton, Gavin, Esq., of Mauchline, a Dedication to 114\\nlines to 204\\nEpitaph for 458\\nHappy Trio, The 294\\nHark! the Mavis 269\\nHee Balou 402\\nHenderson, CaDtain, Matthew, Elegy on 137\\nHer Daddie forbad 402\\nHere is the Glen 267\\nHere s a Health to them that s awa 380\\nHere s his Health in Water 395\\nHere s to thy Health, my bonnie Lass 403\\nHermit, The 392\\nHeron Balads, The 429\\nHev for a Lass wi a Tocher 283\\nHey the Dnstv Miller 404\\nHighland Laddie, The 420\\nHighland Lassie, The 312\\nHighland Mary 342\\nHighland Widow s Lament 413\\nHolv Fair, The 15\\nHoly Wime s Prayer 448\\nEpitaph on 45(?\\nHow cruel are the Parents 279\\nHow Lang and Dreary 271\\nHusband, Husband, cease your Strife 265\\nI BOiy I bum 244\\nI do confess thou art sae fair 318\\nI dream \\\\1 1 lay where Flowers were springing 315\\nI love my Jean 292\\nI see a Form, I see a Face 280\\nm aye ca in bv von Town 359\\nril Kiss ihee yet 360\\nImpromptu on Mrs. Riddles Birthday 189\\nIn vain would Prudence 243\\nInn at Kenmore, Taymouth, lines s\\\\ ritten with a pencil over\\nthe Chimney-piece in the Parlour of the 164\\nInscription for an Altar to Independence, at Kerroughtry 187\\nInventory, The; lq answer to the usual Mandate sent by a\\nSurveyor of the Taxes, requiring a Return of the Num-\\nber of Horses. Servants, Carriages, d:c., kept 168", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0011.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "oi CONTENTS.\\nPAGE\\nInvitation, extempore Answer to an 436\\nIt is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face 407\\nJamie, come, try me 407\\nJessie 259\\nJockey s ta en the Parting Kiss 313\\nJohn Anderson, my Jo 295\\nJohn Barieveorn 331\\nJolly Beggars 71\\nJoyful Widower, The 405\\nKATHARi^fE Jaffrat 437\\nKemble, Mrs., lines YrTitten and presented to 456\\nKen mures, on and awa 411\\nKennedy, Mrs. John, lines to 230\\nKing s Arm3 Tavern, Dumfries, lines written on a Window\\nat the 457\\nKirk of Lamington, The. 239\\nKirk s Alarm 238\\nLady, lines to a, with a present of a pair of drinking-glasses 207\\nLady Marv Ann 412\\nLadyOnlie 395\\nLady s Bonnpc at Church, lines on a 118\\nLady s Pocket-book, lines written extempore in a 452\\nLament, The 91\\nwritten at a time when the Poet was about to leave\\nScotland 211\\nof Mary, Queen of Scots, on the approach of Spring 140\\nfor James, Earl of Glencaim 146\\nLandlady, count the Lamn 408\\nLapdog,*^named Echo, on the Death of a 232\\nLapraik, John, Epistles to 121, 124\\nLines to 199\\nLass o Baliochmyle 251\\nLass of Ecclefeehan 400\\nLassie wi the Lint-white Locks 272\\nLast Mav a Braw Wooer 282\\nLazy Mist, The 289\\nLeague and Covenant, The 238\\nLet not Woman e er complain 329\\nLewars, Miss Jessy, of Dumfries, lines to, with books which\\nthe Bard presented her 189\\nVerses on 238\\nEpitaph on 238\\non the recovery of 238\\nLiberty a Fragment 196\\nLife, Poem on, addressed to Col. de Peyster, Dumfries 192\\nLincluden Abbey, To the Ruins of 247\\nLogan, Miss, lines to, with Beattie s Poems, as a New Year s\\nGift 109\\niSIajor, Epistle to 224\\nLogan Braes 260\\nLord Gregory 257\\nLouis, what reck I by thee? 307", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0012.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS, xiii\\nPAGE\\nLovely Davies 410\\nLovely Lass of Inverness 309\\nLover s Morning Salute to his Mistress 272\\nM^Adam, Mr., of Craigen-Gillan, Epistle to 205\\nM Leod, John, Esq., lines on reading in a Newspaper the\\nDeath of 158\\nM^Math, Rev. John, Lines to the 201\\nM^Murdo, John, Esq., Lines to 232\\nMTherson s Farewell 357\\nMailie, Poor, Death and Dying Words of 40\\nMan was made to mourn 100\\nMark yonder Pomp 279\\nMary, Queen of Scots, Lament of 140\\nMary, Prayer for 362\\nLines to 377\\nMary in Heaven, lines to 376\\nMary, hae I been teething a Heckle 414\\nMary Morrison 366\\nMaster of the House, where Bums had been hospitably en-\\ntertained a verse composed and repeated to the 196\\nMaxwell, Dr., lines to, on Miss Jessy Sfaig s Recovery 245\\nMeg o the Mill 259\\nMiss C lines to 239\\nMitchell, Mr., Collector of Excise, Dumfries, Poem ad-\\ndressed to 190\\nMonody on a Lady famed for her Caprice 187\\nMontgomery s Peggy 373\\nMother s Lament lor the Death of her Son 370\\nMountain Daisy, To a 107\\nMouse, To a, on turning her up in her Nest with the Plough,\\nNovember, 1785 83\\nMusing on the Roaring Ocean 287\\nMy ain kind Dearie! O 253\\nMyChloris .328\\nMy Father was a Farmer 368\\nMy Harry was a Gallant gay 390\\nMy Heart was ance 407\\nMy Heart s in the Highlands 316\\nMyHoggie 428\\nMy Lady s Gown, there s Gairs upon t 381\\nMy Love she s but a Lassie yet 409\\nMy Nannie s awa 275\\nMy Nannie, O 335\\nMy Tocher s the Jewel 163\\nMy Wife s a Winsome Wee Thing 254\\nNaebodt 254\\nNew-year Day\u00e2\u0080\u0094 a Sketch 185\\nNinetieth Psalm, first six Verses of the 106\\nNithsdale s Welcome hame 421\\nNow Western Winds 337\\nO ATE my Wife she dang me 382\\nO Bonnie was yon rosy Brier 280\\nO can ye labour lea 250", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0013.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "xiv CONTENTS,\\nPAGE\\nO for ane-an-twenty, Tarn! 298\\nO guid Ale comes 384\\nO Lassie, art thou sleeping yet 273\\nO lay thy Loof in mine, Lass 383\\nO leave Novels 377\\nO Mally s meek, Mally s sv/eet 415\\nO May thy Mora 308\\nO once I lov d a Bonnie Lass 856\\nOPhilly S:^\\nOPoortith 256\\nO raging Fortune s withering Blast 374\\nO saw ye my Dear? 327\\nO steer her up 416\\nO that I hjid ne er been married 441\\nO wat ye v.ae that lo es me 441\\nO were I on Parnassus Hill 293\\nO were my Love yon Lilac fair 825\\nO wert thou in the Cauld Blast 312\\nO wha is 8he that lo es me 353\\nO what ye wha s in yon Tov/n 310\\nO whare*^ did ye get 416\\nO why the Deuce -384\\nOde, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald 135\\nOdes to Delia 212\\nOn the Seas and far away 268\\nOne night as I did wander 378\\nOpen the Door to me, ohi 258\\nOrdination, The 32\\nOswald, Mrs., Ode to the Memory of 135\\nOur Thrissles flourished fresh and fair 397\\nOut over the Forth 321\\nOwl, To the 245\\nParkek, Hugh, Epistle to 227\\nPastoral Poetry, Poem on 182\\nPeg Nicholson, Elegy on the Death of 237\\nPeg-a-Eamsey 398\\nPeggy s Charms 218, 314\\nPhmis the Fair 202\\nPloughman, The 426\\nPoem written to a Gentleman who had sent him a News-\\npaper, and o:ffered to continue it free of expense 177\\nPoems, verses vvTitten on the Blank Leaf of his last Edition,\\npresented to the Lady whom he had often celebrated\\nunder the name of Chloris 184\\nPoet s Daughter, Epitaph on the 227\\nPoet s Welcome to his illegitimate Child 214\\nPolly Stewart 385\\nPosie, The 302\\nPostscript 180\\nPoverty 466\\nPrayer ^on the Prospect of Death 1C3\\nTiU lcr the Pressure of violent Angniish 105\\nlor ivj.\\nf .-TT\\nProloo:ue spoken at the Theatre, EUisland 176\\nfor Mr. Sutherland s Benefit Night 209\\nbpoken by Mr. Woods 240", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0014.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "CONTEiVTS,\\nXY\\nPAGE\\nRankinb, John, Epistle to, enclosing some Poems 132\\nVerses addressed to 453, 455\\nRanting Dog the Daddie o t 317\\nRattUn^JRoarin Willie 415\\nRaving Winds around her blowing 287\\nRemorse 242\\nRichai dson, Gabriel, Epitaph on 227\\nRiddel, Captain, Glenriddel, lines to 206.\\nMrs. Impromptu on her Birthday 189\\nRobert, Sonnet on the Death of 188^\\n^lines on 240\\nRights of Woman, The 180\\nRigs o Barley 385\\nRobin Shui e in Hairst 385\\nRosebud, A, by my Early Walk 289\\niRuin, To 108\\nRuisseaux, Robert, Elegy on the death of 197\\nRuling Elder, Epitaph on a celebrated one 458\\nSab far awa 416\\nScaring some Water-fowl in Loch-turit 451\\nSchoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire, on a 456\\nScotch Bard gone to the West Indies, lines on a 111\\nScotch Drink 7\\nScroggam 442\\nSelkirk Grace, The 287\\nSensibility, lines on 373.\\nShade of Thomson, Address to the, on Crowning his Bust\\nat Ednam, Roxburghshire, with Baj s 157\\nShe savs she lo es me best of a 270\\nShe s Fair and Fause 302\\nSherifl-Muir, Battle of 351\\nSick Child, On a 245\\nSimmer s a pleasant Time 419\\nSimpson, William, lines to 127\\nSketch 172, 208\\nNew-year s Day 185\\nSmellie, Mr. WiUiam, Extempore lines on 187\\nSmith, James, lines to 43\\nSodger s Return, The 366\\nSong, an excellent new one 433\\nAh, Chloris 436\\nSongs, Collection of .251, et seq., 266, 277, 346\\nSonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel 188\\non hearing a Thrush sing in a Morning Walk 190\\nStanzas on the Prospect of Death 103\\nStay, my Charmer 285\\nStrathallan s Lament 286\\nStreams that glide 324\\nSuicide, lines on a 220\\nSutherland, Mr., Prologue for his Benefit Night, Dumfries 209\\nSweet fa s the Eve 275\\nSweetest May 378\\nSyme, Mr., Extempore lines to, on refusing to dine with\\nhim, after having been promised the first of Company\\nand the first of Cooking 189\\nlines to, with a Present of a dozen of Porter 190", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0015.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "Xvi CONTENTS.\\nTailor, The 432\\nTait, James, of Genconner, Letter to 216\\nTarn the Chapman 245\\nTamGlen .295\\nTamO Shanter 149\\nTarn Samson s Elegy .60\\nTaylor, John, lines to 241\\nTears! shed .443\\nTerraughty, Lines to, on his Birthday 206\\nThenil Menzie s Bonnie Mary 405\\nThere was a Lass 261, 425\\nThere was a Bonnie Lass 391\\nThere was a Lad 365\\nThere ll never be Peace till Jamie comes hame 364\\nThere s nothing like the Honest Nappy 247\\nThere s a Youth in the City 317\\nThere s News, Lasses 443\\nTho Cruel Fate 814\\nThomson, Address to the Shade of 157\\nThou hast left me ever, Jamie 327\\nThough Fickle Fortune 244\\nThrush, Sonnet on hearing one sing 190\\nTibbie, I hae seen the Day 291\\nTibbie Dunbar 392\\nTither Mom, The 422\\nTo 243\\nTo a on seeing one on a Lady s Bonnet at Church 118\\nToast, A 453\\nToast, The 238\\nTombstone, Inscription on the, erected by Burns to the\\nMemory of Fergusson 196\\nToothache, Address to the 163\\nTragic Fragment 249\\nTwa Dogs, The 1\\nTwa Herds, The 445\\nTwas na her bonny blue E e 278\\nTytler, Mr. William, Poetical Address to, with the Present\\nof the Bard s Picture 184\\nUnco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous, Address to the 58\\nUnion, The 390\\nUp in the Morning early 314\\nVerses written on the blank leaf of a copy of his first edition 214\\nVision, A 311\\nVision, The 51\\nVowels, The 207\\nWandering Willie 260\\nWas e er Puir Poet 246\\nWeary fa you, Duncan Gray 427\\nWee Johnny, Epitaph on 458\\nWee Willie 392\\nWTia is that at my Bower Door 319\\nWhat can a Young Lassie do wi an Auld Man? 297\\nWhen Guilford Good, our Pilot, stood 161", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0016.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "CONTENTS. xvU\\nPAGE\\nWhen first I came to Stuart Ryle 372\\nWhen I think on those happy Days 438\\nWhere ai-e the Joys 326\\nWhere hac ye been? 428\\nWhistle, The 170\\nWhistle, and 1*11 come to you, my Lad 264\\nWhistle owre the lave o t 355\\nWhiteford, Sir John, Bart., lines sent to, with the Lament\\nfor James Earl of Glencau n 148\\nWhy, why tell thy Lover? 349\\nWillie Chalmers 240\\nWillie s Wife 805\\nWilt Thou be my Dearie 267\\nWinter 95\\nWinter it is past 379\\nWinter Night, A 85\\nWomen s Minds 375\\nWoodlark, Address to the 278\\nW^ounded Hare limping by me, which a fellow had just\\nshot at, lines on seeing 156\\nYe Jacobites by Name 435\\nYe Sons of Old Killie .434\\nYoung Friend, Epistle to a 109\\nToung Island Rover 285\\nYoung Jockey 357\\nYoung Lady,* Verses to a, with a Present of Songs 181\\nYoung Peggy 363\\nGlossart 4*1", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0017.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "ifbitatiott 0f t|e BtmxH \u00e2\u0082\u00aciii\\\\im at |0fins.\\nTO THE\\nNOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN\\nOF THB\\nCALEDONIAN HUNT.\\nMy Lords and Gentlemen,\\nA Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest\\nambition is to sing in hfs Country s service where shall he so\\nproperly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his\\nnative Land, those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues\\nof their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me,\\nas the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha\u00e2\u0080\u0094 at the plough; and\\nthrew her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the\\nloves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native\\nsoil, in my native tongue I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she\\ninspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis\\nof Caledonia, and lay my Song under your honoured protection:\\nI now obey her dictates.\\nThough much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach\\nyou, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication,\\nto thani: you for past favours that path is so hackneyed by\\nprostituted learning, that nonest i-usticity is ashamed of it. Nor\\ndo I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author,\\nlooking for a continuation of those favours I was bred to the\\nPlough, and am independent. I come to claim the common\\nScottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen and to tell\\nthe world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my\\ncountry, that the Wood of her ancient heroes still runs uncon-\\ntaminated and that from your courage, knowledge, and public\\nspirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the\\nlast place, I come to proiier my warmest wishes to the Great\\nFountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your\\nwelfare and happiness.\\nWhen you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and\\nfavourite*^ amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be\\nof your party and may Social Joy await your return. When\\nharassed in courts or\\\\iamps with the jostlings of bad men and\\nbad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth\\nattend your return to your native Seats and may Domestic\\nHappiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates I\\nMay corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance, and\\nmay tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People,\\nequally find you an inexorable foe\\nI have the honoui* to be,\\nWith the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect,\\nMy Lords and Gentlemen,\\nYour most devoted humble servant,\\nROBERT BURNS.\\nEdinburgh^ April 4, 1787.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0018.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "ROBERT BURNS.\\nRobert Burns was born January 25th, 1759, the\\neldest child of William and Agnes Burns, or Burness, as\\nthey were accustomed to spell the name. His father,\\nbailiff and gardener of a country gentleman, Mr. Fergu\u00c2\u00bb\\nson, rented a few acres of land, on which he had built a\\nsmall hovel of clay and straw. It stood by the roadside,\\na Scotch mile and a half from the town of Ayr, and near\\nthe famous Alio way Kirk. Robert was sent to school\\nbefore his sixth year, and soon found a zealous instructor\\nin John Murdoch, who was chosen, a few months after-\\nwards, to replace the former teacher. We are told by\\nGilbert Burns, that his brother greatly beneiitted by the\\nlessons in grammar, and became remarkable for the\\nfluency and correctness of his expressions. He read the\\nfew books that came in his way with much pleasure and\\nimprovement. Murdoch s library was not rich, but it\\ncontained a **Life of Hannibal, which gave to the ideas\\nof Burns such a military turn that he used to strut up\\nand down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and\\nwish himself tall enough to be a soldier. The warlike\\nardour was heightened, when, later in youth, he borrowed\\nthe story of Wallace from the blacksmith, and walked\\nhalf-a-dozen miles, on a summer day, to pay his respects\\nto Leglen Wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as\\never pilgrim did to Loretto.\\nBurns tells us, in his delightful Confessions **In\\nmy infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0019.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "XX BURNS.\\nold woman who resided in the family, remarkable fo!\\nher ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I\\nsuppose, the largest collection in the country of talef\\nand songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies,\\nwitches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-\\nlights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted\\ntowers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated\\nth\u00c2\u00ab latent seeds of poetry; but had so strong an effect\\nDn nay imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal\\nrambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious\\nplaces; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I\\nam in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philos\\nophy to shake off these idle terrors.\\nWhen the period drew nigh that the boy, in his own\\nstrong words, must have marched off to be one of the little\\nunderlings about a farm-house, William Burns ventured\\nupon a speculation, v\\\\ hich, he hoped, miglit enable him to\\nkeep his children at home longer. His employer had a\\nfarm. Mount Oliphant, comprising eighty or ninety Eng-\\niish acres, and he accepted William Burns as the tenant,\\nat a rent, for the first six years, of forty pounds; more*\\nover, he assisted him with money to provide the necessarj\\nstock. The family went to their new abode, Whitsimtide,\\n1766. William Burns was a well-informed and thoughtful\\nman, and turned the lonely life of his cliildren to good\\naccount. In the winter evenings he taught arithmetic and\\ngeography to the boys, and procured from a book society\\nin Ayr, the works of Derham and Ray u2)on the Wisdom\\nand Power of God.\\nBetween his thirteenth and fourteenth years, the poet s\\nhandwriting was much improved by a few lessons in the\\nparish school of Dalrymple; and about the same time **a\\nbookish acquaintance of their father obtained for the\\nbrothers **a reading of two volumes of Richardson s\\nPamela and Murdoch, then the teacher of English in\\nAyr, sent the works of Pope. Gilbert writes: The\\nglimmer after we had been at Dalrymple school, my father", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0020.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "BURNS. xxl\\nsent Hobert to Ayr to revise his English grammar with\\nhis former teacher. He had been there only jne week,\\nwhen he was obliged to return, to assist at the harvest.\\nWhen the harvest was over he went back to school, where\\nhe remained two weeks and this completes the account\\nof his school education, except one grammar quarter some\\n(tune afterwards, that he attended the parish school of\\nKirk Oswald (where he lived with a brother of my\\nmother) to learn surveying. Murdoch happened to be\\nlearning French, and he generously imparted liis knowl-\\nedge to his pupil, who entered on the study with such\\nzeal, that in the second week he assaulted Telemachus.\\n**But now, in the swelling language of the pedagogue,\\nthe plains of Mount Oliphant began to whiten, and\\nRobert was summoned to relinquish the pleasing scenes\\nthat surrounded the grotto of Calypso. He took back\\nwith him a French grammar, and the beautiful tale of\\nFenelon and, in a little time, by the help of these books,\\nhe was able to read and understand any French authors\\nwho fell in his way. An attack upon Latin was not\\nequally successful; his perseverance seldom outlasting\\na week, and the study being regarded as a sort of penance,\\nor refuge in ill-humour. He used it for a cold -bath. This,\\nwrites the Flttrick Shepherd with pleasant conndence, is\\nexceedingly good, and rates the Latin much as I have\\nalways estimated it. English literature, liowever, retained\\nits full charm, and the love was nurtured by the kindness\\nof a widow lady, Mrs. Paterson, who lent Pope s trans-\\nlation of Homer, and the Spectator, to the youthful\\nstudent.\\nMount Oliphant wanted every gleam to cheer it. The\\nparish contained no fann so intractable the soil being\\nalmost the poorest to be found under the ])lough. On the\\npart of the family, no effort was wanting. Every member\\nof it taxed his strength to the utmost. Robert was the\\nprincipal labourer, Gilbert driving the plouo-i, and help-\\ning him to thresh the com. The food of the hermit was", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0021.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "xxii BURNS.\\nindoors, as well as the gloom,butcher s meat being quite\\nunknown.\\nAt the end of six years, William Burns endeavoured to\\nfind a farm of happier promise, but he sought it in vain,\\nand, continuing his anxious toils through five years, he\\nremoved, Whitsuntide, 1777, to the larger farm of Lochlea,\\nin the parish of Tarbolton. There the first four years\\npassed in comfort, until the want of a written agreement\\ninvolved the landlord and the tenant in legal disputes;\\nand during the long period of three years, William Burns\\nwas tossing and whirling in the vortex.\\nThe little chapter of Lochlea includes some important\\npassages in the story of Burns; for there his good and\\nbad blossoms began to set with large promise of fruit.\\nAlthough he confesses himself to have been the mos^\\nungainly lad in the parish, his mind was growing into\\nshape. He was familiar with the Spectator, and he\\ncarried a collection of songs in all his field-work, poring\\nover them as he drove his cart. Slowly, too, the out-\\nward man improved, and a spreading rumour of his\\nbook-knowledge made him a welcome guest.\\nIn an evil hour Burns turned flaxdresser, in the small\\ntown of Irvine, where he rented a room at a shilling a\\nweek. His health and his spirits seem to have been much\\ndisordered at this time. He speaks of his sleep as a little\\nsounder, although the weakness of his nerves troubled\\nhis whole body at the least anxiety and alarm. He\\ndespairs of making a figure in the world being neither\\nformed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the\\ngay; and when he glimmered a little into the future,\\nthe only prospect was poverty and contempt. In the\\nmidst of these doubts and fears, the flax business was\\nbrought to a sudden close for while he was giving a\\nwelcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, and\\nBurns found himself among the ashes, and, like a true\\npoet, without a sixpence. His moral loss at Ayr had,\\nprobably, been larger than his commercial; for in a young", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0022.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "BURN S. xiiii\\nman, whom an American privateer had lately stripped and\\nset ashore, he met a companion and a tempter whose practice\\nappears to have kept up wiih his theory. Meanwhile,\\nblacker shadows gathered round the homestead of Loch-\\nlea. For two years the strength of the old man had been\\ngoing, and just as the hon-ors of a jail were full in view,\\na consumption kindly stepped in- and carried him\\naway, February 13, 1784. Robert and Gilbert had made\\nsome preparation for the support of the family, when their\\nfather s affairs drew near a crisis, by taking a neighbour-\\ning farm, Mossgiel, which was held in tack, of the Earl\\nof Loudon, by that Mr. Gavin Hamilton whose name is\\nlastingly united to the poet s. The farm contained one\\nhundred and eighteen acres, and the rent was fixed at\\nninety pounds. We learn the particulars from\\nailbert\\nIt was stocked by the property and individual savings\\nof the whole family, and was a joint concern among us.\\nEvery member of the family was allowed ordinary wages\\nfor the labour he performed on the farm. My brother s\\nallowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each.\\nAnd during the whole time this family concern lasted,\\nwhich was four years, as well as during the preceding\\nperiod at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year\\nexceeded his slender income. His temperance and\\nfrugality were everything that could be wished. But\\ndarker scenes were coming.\\nThere lived in Mauchline a master stone-mason, James\\nArmour, who had a black- eyed daughter, Jean, ranking\\nhigh among the six helles of the village. It fell out on\\na certain day, that the poet s dog ran over the clothes\\nwhich Jean Aimour was spreading on the grass, and she\\nflung a stop At the trespasser. The old proverb rose to\\nthe tongr of Burns, and the love-story began. It fills a\\nmelancholy page in the lives of the man and the woman.\\nThey sinned, and they suffered. A meeting of the lovers\\nended in a gift by Burns to Jean of a written promise,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0023.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "xxiTT BURNS.\\nwhich Scottish law accepts as legal evidence of an irre-\\ngular union. The marriage was not to be disclosed until\\nthe last moment, and when it came, the stone-mason\\nshowed himself less indulgent than the law. His indig-\\nnation was great; and overpowered by the anger an(i\\ngrief of her father, Jean destroyed the document, oi\\npermitted him to burn it. James Armour proved to be\\nviolent and relentless, with a view, it is conjectured, ol\\ndriving Barns from the country, and setting his daughter\\nfree. If he had the design, it was almost fulfilled.\\nSeveral Scotchmen were at that time engaged as assistant\\noverseers in the West India Plantations. The salary wa\\nsmall, and the disagreeable nature of the occupation may\\nbe imagined. But it offered shelter to Burns, and he\\nobtained an appointment in Jamaica, engaging himself\\nto Dr. Douglas, of Port Antonio, for three years, at a\\nsalary of thirty pounds. To pay for his par.sage, he\\nresolved to publish his Poems. They had grown up,\\nsilently and sweetly, like the wild-flowers in the fields.\\nThe Daisy under the Plough the Mouse driven from her\\nnest the Winter-dirge the Cotter s Saturday Night\\nThe Vision and other pieces, seemed to steal upon his\\nfancy, in its warm spring weather, with the bloom and\\nfreshness of opening life. The Muse had vv^alked by his\\nplough, and cheered and illuminated him. Even the\\ncoal-cart v/as sometimes hallowed by song. Lochlea is\\nrich in these poetic remembrances, but Mossgiel excels it.\\nLately, perhaps now, you might see the 4ngle, and the\\n^*spence, with its boarded-floor, and the recess-beds so\\ncommon in Scotland, where he composed some of his\\nmost pathetic and humorous pieces. A small deal table\\nwas also pointed out. At the beginning of April, 1786,\\nBurns sent his Proposals to the press of John Wilson,\\nin Kilmarnock. In the meantime, he underwent a less\\nagreeable form of publication in the parish kirk, by the\\ntongue of Mr, Auld. A certificate of Bachelordom was\\nthe reward of the exposure. On June 12th, he communi-", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0024.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "BUI?NS. xx\\ncated to a Glasgow acquaintance the news of his literary\\nprogress: *^You will have heard that I am going to\\ncommence poet in print to-morrow my works go to the\\npress. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred\\npages. It is just the last foolish action. I intend to do,\\nand then turn a wise man as fast as possible.\\nThe Poems appeared in July, 1786, at the price ol\\nthree shillings. **The Cotter s Saturday Night was the\\ngem of the collection, and did for the writer what the\\nElegy had done for Gray it made him famous. When\\nGilpin, in 1789, published his Observations on th\u00c2\u00ab\\nHighlands, he described the pleasing simplicity of\\ncountry life, the small Erse Bible which was the High*\\nlander s usual companion, the mother spinning or knitting,\\nand the children standing round her reading God s Book,\\nor repeating the Catechism and by way of illustrating\\nhis description, he quoted the poem of Burns **a Bard,\\nas he calls himself, from the plough, and pronounced\\n**the whole to be equal to any praise.\\nThe edition of the Poems was exhausted in a month\\nby the subscribers and the public. Wherever the book\\ncame, it was admired. Anew issue of his Poems was\\nnow suggested to him, as likely to increase the comforts\\nof his voyage but the Kilmarnock printer required the\\ncost of the paper to be advanced, and Burns had no\\nmoney for the purpose, though friends were not imwilling\\nto provide it.\\nThe following circumstance rendered pecuniary help\\nunnecessary. Burns was acquainted vrith Dr. Laurie,\\nminister of Loudoun, and that gentleman sent a copy oi\\nthe Poems to Dr. Blacklock, with a slight outline oi\\nthe Poet s life. The amiable scholar was delighted by\\nthe pathos, the grace, and the humour of the volume, and\\nstrongly urged the immediate preparation of an enlarged\\nimpression. The pleasure of the Poet was equal to hia\\ncritic s and he exchanged the voyage to Jamaica for the\\nroad to Edinburgh. He arrived in that city November", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0025.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "iivi BURNS.\\n28, 1786. Dugald Stewart had already awakened soma\\ninterest in his behalf by reading his poems, and speaking\\nof his struggles, to several friends, and to Henry\\nMackenzie among the number.\\nAt the beginning of April, 1787, the second edition ol\\nhis poems issued from the shop of Creech. Lord Glen-\\ncairn and the Dean of the Faculty had taken him under\\ntheir wing, and the Caledonian Hunt subscribed in a\\nbody.\\nHe had long cherished the desire of making leisurely\\npilgrimages to the battle-fields, the romantic rivers, and\\nthe ruined castles of his country; and his longing was at\\nlast in some measure to be gratified in the season most\\ndear to his fancy\\nWhen rosy May comes in wi* flowers.\\nOn the 6th of that month, having one companion, Mr.\\nRobert Ainslie, he made a hasty excursion into th\u00c2\u00bb;\\nsouthern districts, in which Beattie discovered the\\nArcadia of Scotland, being distinguished by green hills,\\nclear flowing stveams, scattered or clustering trees, and\\nespecially by its songs, sweetly expressive of love and\\ntenderness, and the other emotions suited to the tran-\\nquillity of pastoral life.\\nIn three weeks. Burns visited the most interesting\\nscenes. At Jedburgh, where orchards and gardens were\\nmingled with the ruins of a stately cathedral, he received\\nthe freedom of the borough the glorious Melrose and the\\nold abbey of Dryburgh affected him greatly, and he cait\\nried away in his memory the sound j nd the colour of\\nEttrick banks now roaring red\\nFrom Arcadia, he passed into Northumberland, and\\nvisited the noble castle of the duke, and the hermitage oJt\\nWarkworth.\\nBurns returned to Mossgiel in June. (8th,) 1787, and\\nhis biographers have noticed the affecting circumstances\\nunder which he revisited his home. Several months wen", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0026.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "BURNS. xxvU\\ngone since he quitted it, a poor and desperate man he\\ncame back enriched and honoured; and, in the affec-\\ntionate welcome of his kindred, he might discover a\\nrecompence for the glare and the flattery which he had\\nleft. He did not, however, long continue under the old\\nroof, but made a fresh expedition into the Highlands,\\nand rejoined his family in July. August found him\\nagain in Edinburgh, arranging a third tour with Mr.\\nAdair, of Harrowgate.\\nHe had no sooner ended his third pilgrimage, than he\\nbegan another, and a more exten^ve, in the company of\\nhis friend Mr. Nicol. The travellers, leaving Edinburgh,\\nAugust 25, 1787, pursued their way into the heart of the\\nHighlands, and, stretching northward, about ten miles\\nbeyond Inverness, took an easterly course over the island,\\nand returned by the shore of the German Sea to Edin*\\nkirgh.\\nBums was again in Edinburgh during the winter of\\n1787. He is then supposed to have begun his acquaintance\\nwith the lady whom he celebrated under the title of\\nClarinda. Her real name was M Lchose the wife of a\\ngentleman in the West Indies, and then residing with her\\nchildren in Edinburgh. The letters which Burns addressed\\nto her, in the pastoral character of Sylvander, are sufli-\\nciently amorous and absurd but a devotee, like Clarinda,\\nrequired no common homage. She declared that the\\nadmiration of fourscore years would not pay her debt of\\ngratitude.\\nThe settlement of his accounts with Creech, February,\\n1788, placed more than five hundred pounds in the hands\\nof Burns. He made a noble use of part of the money.\\nHi3 own account to Dr. Moore January 4, 1789 ia\\nsimple and pleasing: I have a younger brother, who\\nsupports my aged mother another still younger brother\\nand three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from\\nEdinburgh, it cost me about \u00c2\u00a3180 to save them from ruin.\\nNot that I have lost so much I only interposed between", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0027.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "xxviii BURN5.\\nmy brother and hi8 impending fate by tbe loan of so much.\\n1 give myself no airs on this, lor it was mere selfisnness on\\nmy part. I was conscious that the wrong scale of the\\nbalance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that\\nthrowing a little filial and fraternal affection into the scale\\nin my favor, might help to smooth matters at the grcmd\\nreckoning y With the balance of his profits he entered\\nupon a farm, belonging to Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton.\\nEllisland was pleasantly situated on the banks of the Nith,\\nsix miles from Dumfries. The vale of the Nith sweeps\\njust below the house, and from the windows the river is\\nseen liowing with its swift, dark current, broad as tne\\nThames at Hampton Court. Burns began his new life at\\nWhitsuntide, 1788, having previously gone through the\\nceremony of a justice-of -peace marriage with Jean Armour,\\nin the office of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He considered\\nthe head of a wife to be immaterial, in comparison of hei\\nheart. He spoke from experience. His Jean had a hand-\\nsome figure, a sweet temper, and reckoned her husband\\nthe finest genius in the world. Her acquaintance with\\nprose and verse was limited to the Bible and the Psalms;\\nbut she had studied a certain collection of Scottish songs,\\nand warbled many with a delicious wood-note. In latei\\nlife, the Ettrick Shepherd frequently saw Mrs. Burns, in\\nthe old church of Dumfries, and spoke of her as a brunette,\\nwith fine eyes.\\nA modern poet has said finely:\\nAnd there were many strange and sudden lights\\nBeckoned him towards them they were wrecking lights\\nBut he shunned these, and righted when she rose,\\nMoon of his Ufe, that ebbed and flowed with her I\\nAlas! that we cannot apply the words to Burns. Hia\\nwedded life met with difilculties at the beginning. The\\nhouse of Ellisland was a miserable hovel, open to wind\\nand rain, and giving to the occupant the choice of being\\ndrenched or suffocated. Jean could not come under such\\na roof, and she remained with the poet s family. But", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0028.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "BURNS. xxix\\nforty miles make a wide gap between husband and wife.\\nBurns set himself with all speed to build a better dwel-\\nling, and the summer foimd him busy in the field. He\\nbrought Jean home in November, and for the first time\\nin his life had the opportunity of realising his own\\npicture\\nTo make a happy fire-side clime,\\nTo weans and wife\\nThat s the true pathos, and sublime\\nOf human life.\\nBut low spirits dulled his joys. He calls himself such a\\ncoward in the world, and so tired of the service, that the\\ndesire of his heart was to lie down in his mother s lap\\nand be at peace. We hear him groaning under the\\nmiseries of a diseased nervous system, and of headaches\\nthree weeks in duration.\\nIt was not always dark in Ellisland. His first winter\\nglided happily by, and golden days of the heart and the\\nfancy often shone, when the father rejoiced in the crown\\nof the poet. In this farm, by the river side, he composed\\nhis noblest lyric, ^To Mary in Heaven; and there, too,\\nthe fat and festive Grose came to visit him, and heard oi\\nthe wonderful jump of Cutty Sark and the magnificent\\nterrors of Tam.\\nBurns had made a bad choice of a farm but a momen-\\ntary sunlight broke over it, and the crops rewarded his\\nindustry and care. An agricultural friend once warned\\nhim that however situation, soil, and custom might vary,\\nFarmer Attention would be prosperous everywhere. And\\nit is conceivable that even from Ellisland he might have\\ncome in joy, bringing sheaves. But Farmer Attention\\nwas a stranger under that roof more familiar to the\\nwedding feast and the harvest dance. The appointment\\nof Buins to the Excise came, to complete the ruin of th\u00c2\u00ab\\nhusbandman. He owed it to the kindness of a surgeon\\n(Mr. Wood), who got his name placed on the list of can-\\ndidates.\\nBefore the close of 17dl, Burns relinquished his farm,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0029.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "and being placed, with a salary of seventy pounds, in the\\nDumfries department of Excise, he removed his family to\\nthat town.\\nThe biographers of Burns concur in putting his Dum-\\nfries life into shadow. I am just risen, are his own sad\\nwords from a two-hours bout after supper, with silly,\\nor sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with\\nme but the port. x^mong companions like these he had\\nlong been m the habit to adopt his striking phrase of\\nijiividing large slices of his constitution; but the biggest\\nAlices w^ere given at Dumfries. Many families from the\\nsouth of Scotland chose that town for theu* winter resi-\\ndence and we are told that it abounded in stately Tory-\\nism, which only served to embitter and aggravate the\\nhostility of the Poet. The freedom of his manners was, at\\nleast, equalled by that of his tongue, and his epigrams fell\\nthick and fast. One critic is sharp upon the gentry,\\nbecause tliey cut Burns. The cutting is certain.\\nA friend informed Mr. Lockhart, that upon a fine summer\\nevening he saw the poet walking alone on the shady side\\nof the principal street, while the opposite part was gay\\nwith successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn\\ntogether for the festivities of the night, not one of whom\\nappeared vrilling to recognise him. Assuredly he gave\\nample opportunity to evil-speakers.\\nThe glimpses which the poet gives of himself are in\\nthe highest degree mournful Regret Remorse Shame,\\ndog his steps and bay at his heels he apologises to a\\nlady for some festive ill-behaviour, by writing a letter\\nfrom the dead: his helpless little folks drive sleep\\nfrom his pillow his old friends would not know him.\\nWith every month the nerv^ous misery increases; and hi3\\nfeelings, at times, are only to be envied by a reprobate\\nspirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition.\\nExcept in the letters of Cowper, I remember no self-\\nupbraidings more dreadful or pathetic. The storm\\ndeepened. He had hardly buried liis sweet little girl,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0030.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "BURNS. xxxi\\nwhen a rheumatic fever of the severest kind bound him\\nto his bed. All these things were against him. To\\nJames Johnson he wrote:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 This protracting, slow,\\nconsuming illness which hangs over me will, I doubt\\nmuch, arrest my sun before he has well reached his\\nmiddle career, and will turn over the poet to far more\\nimportant concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit or\\nthe pathos of sentiment. However, hope is the cordial of\\nthe human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as\\nI can. The new year found him making feeble efforts\\nto crawl across his room. But no suffering could teach\\nprudence to Burns. The firstfruits of his strength were\\ngiven to a tavern dinner, prolonged into the late morning.\\nReturning home, he sunk on the snow and slept. The\\nold enemy came in his sleep, and he awoke with the\\ntorments of rheumatism, renewed and sharpened. Pale,\\nemaciated, and wanting a hand to help him from his chair,\\nhe complained of spirits fled fled! One faint hope\\nremained it was the shadow of a shade: sea-bathing\\nmight restore him. In order to obtain it, he was removed\\nto Brow, a village on the Solway Frith and there his\\npains were slightly relieved. But the fire was still burn-\\ning. He returned to Dumfries on the 18th of July, 1796,\\nwasted in body and face, and hardly able to stand. Dr.\\nMaxwell, who attended him, communicated the par-\\nticulars of his closing hours to Cunie A tremor per-\\nvaded his frame his tongue was parched, and his mind\\nsunk into delirium when not roused by conversation. On\\nthe second and third day the fever increased, and his\\nstrength diminished. Upon the fourth day the cord was\\nloosed, and the spirit took its flight.\\nHe was buried, July 26th, with military honours, as\\nbelonging to the Dumfries Volunteers, and a great multi-\\ntude followed him. The sun shone brightly all the day,\\nand while the earth was heaped up, and the green sod\\nwas laid over him, the crowd stood gazing for some\\nminutes space, and then melted silently away.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0031.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0032.jp2"}, "33": {"fulltext": "POEMS OF BURNS.\\nTHE TWA DOGS.*\\nA TALE.\\nTwAS in that place o Scotland s isle,\\nThat bears the name o Auld King Coil,*\\nUpon a bonnie day in June,\\nWhen wearing thro tlie afternoon,\\nTwa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,\\nForgather d ance upon a time.\\nThe first I ll name, they ca d him Caesar,\\nWas keepit for his Honor s pleasure\\nHis hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,*\\nShew d he was nane o Scotland s dogs\\nBut whalpit^ some place far abroad,\\nWhare sailors gang to fish for Cod.\\nHis locked, letter d, braw\u00c2\u00ae brass collar,\\nShew d him the gentleman and scholar;\\nBut though he was o high degree,\\nThe fient^ a pride, na pride had he\\nBut wad hae spent an hour caressin,\\nEv n wi a tinkler-gipsey s messin.\u00c2\u00ae\\nAt kirk or market, mill or smiddie,\u00c2\u00ae\\nNae tawted tyke, tho e er sae duddie,\\nBut he wad stan t, as glad to see him,\\nAnd stroan t on stanes and hillocks wi him.\\n1 The Tale of Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution of\\npublishing was nearly taken. Robert had a dog, which he called\\njLuath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been killed by the\\nwanton cruelty of some person the night before my father s death.\\nRobert said to me that he should hke to confer sucii immortality as\\nhe could bestow \u00c2\u00ab8i his old friend Luath, and that he had a great\\nmind to introduce something into the book under the title of\\nStanzas to the Memory of a quadruped Friend; but this plan was\\ngiven up for the Tale as it now stands. Caesar was merely thd\\ncreature of the poet s imagination, created for the purpose of hold-\\ning chat with his favourite Luath. G. B.\\nA Pictish king, said to have given a name to Kyle. Busy.\\n\u00e2\u0099\u00a6Ears. Whelped. Handsome. Fiend. a. small dog.\\nA smithy. \u00c2\u00bbo Dog with matted hair.\\nA", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0033.jp2"}, "34": {"fulltext": "2 BURNS.\\nThe tither was a ploughman^s colliei*\\nA rhyming, ranting, raving billie,\\nWha for his friend and comrade had him,\\nAnd in his freaks had Luath ca d him,\\nAfter some dog in Highland sang,\\nWas made lang syne, Lord knows how lang.\\nHe was a gash* an faithfu tyke,\\nAs ever lap a sheugh*^ or dike.\\nHis honest, sonsie, baws nt* face,\\nAy gat him friends in ilka place\\nHis breast was white, his towzie back\\nWeel clad wi coat c\u00c2\u00bb glossy black\\nHis gawcie\u00c2\u00ae tail, wi- upward curl,\\nHung owre his hurdles\u00c2\u00ae wi a swirl.\\nNae doubt but they were fain o ither.\\nAn unco pack an thick thegither\\nWi social nose whyles snuff d and snowkit\\nWhyles mice and moudieworts they howkit\\nWhyles scour d awa in lang excursion,\\nAn worry d ither in diversion\\nUntil wi dafl^ weary grown,\\nUpon a knowe they sat them down,\\nAil there began a lang digression\\nAbout the lords o the creation.\\nC^SAR.\\nI ve aften wonder d, honest Luath,\\nWhat sort o life poor dogs like you hare;\\nAn when the gentry s life I saw,\\nWhat way poor bodies liv d ava.\\nOur Laird gets in his racked rents,\\nHis coals, his kain, an a his stents\\nHe rises when he likes himsel\\nHis flunkies answer at the bell\\nHe ca s his coach he ca s his horse\\nHe draws a bonnie, silken purse\\nAs lang s my tail, whare thro the steeks,**\\nThe yellow letter d Geordie keeks.\\nFrae morn to e en it s nought but toiling,\\nAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling\\nAn tho the gentry first are stechin,\\nYet ev n the ha folk fill their pechan\\nA country cur. A brother.\\nCuchullin s dog in Ossian s Fingal.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R.B.\\nWise. A ditch. White-striped.\\nRough. Large. Loins. Scented. Digged\\n12 At all. \u00c2\u00bb3 Dues of any kmd, Stitches. Peeps.\\nCramming. i^ Stomach.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0034.jp2"}, "35": {"fulltext": "TliE T^A DOGS. 3\\nWi* sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie,\\nThat s little short o downright wastrie.\\nOur Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,*\\nPoor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,\\nBetter than ony tenant man\\nHis Honor has in a the Ian\\nAn what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,\\nI own it s past my comprehension.\\nLUATH.\\nTrowth, Caesar, whyles they re fash t enough,\\nA cotter howkin^ in a sheugh,\\nWi dirty stanes biggin* a dyke,\\nBaring a quarry, and siclike,\\nHimsel, a wife, he thus sustains,\\nA smytrie*^ o wee duddie^ weans,^\\nAn nought but his han darg, to keep\\nThem right an tight in thack an rape.*\\nAn when they meet wi sair disasters.\\nLike loss o health, or want o masters.\\nYe maist wad think, a wee touch langer,\\nAn they maun starve o oauld and hungeirT\\nBut, how it comes, I never kend yet,\\nThey re maistly wonderf u contented\\nAn buirdly^ chiels, an clever hizzies^\\nAre bred in sic a way as this is.\\nCJESAB.\\nBut then to see how ye re negleckit.\\nHow huff d, an cuff d, an disrespeckit I\\nLord, man, our gentry care as little\\nFor delvers, ditchers, an sic cattle,\\nThey gang as saucy by poor folk,\\nAs I wad by a stinking brock.\\nI ve noticed on our Laird s court-day,\\nAn mony a time my heart s been wae.\\nPoor tenant bodies, scant o cash,\\nHow they maun thole^^ a factor s snash\\nHe ll stamp an threaten, curse and swear,\\nHe ll apprehend them, poind their gear;\\nWhile they maun stan wi aspect humble.\\nAn hear it a an fear and tremble I\\nW,^der. Paunch. Digging. Building.\\nA numerous collection. Ragged. Children.\\nLabour. Clothing necessaries. Stout-grown.\\n^1 Badger. Endure. Abuse.\\nMy indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel\\nfactor s insolent threatening letters, which used to sec us all in\\ntears. ~R B. Seize their goods.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0035.jp2"}, "36": {"fulltext": "BURN S.\\nI see how folk live that hae riches:\\nBut surely poor folk maun be wretches.\\nLUATH.\\nThey re no sae wretched s ane wad think\\nTho constantly on poortith s brink\\nThey re sae accustom d wi the^ sight,\\nThe view o t gies them little fright.\\nThen chance an fortune are sae guided,\\nThey re ay in less or mair provided\\nAn tho fatigu d wi close employment,\\nA blink o rest s a sweet enjoyment.\\nThe dearest comfort o their lives,\\nTheir grushie weans an faithfu wives:\\nThe prattling things are just their pride,\\nThat sweetens a their fire-side.\\nAn wliyles twalpennie worth o nappy\\nCan mak the bodies unco happy;\\nThey lay aside their private cares.\\nTo mind the Kirk and State affairs\\nThey ll talk o patronage and priests,\\nWi kindling fury i their breasts,\\nOr tell what new taxation s comin.\\nAnd ferlie^ at the folk in Lon on.\\nAs bleak-fac d Hallowmass* returns.\\nThey get the jovial, ranting Kirns,*\\nWhen rural life, o ev ry station,\\nUnite in common recreation\\nLove blinks, Wit slaps, an social Mirth\\nForgets there s Care upo the earth.\\nThat merry day the year begins,\\nThey bar the door on frosty wins\\nThe nappy^ reeks w^i mantling ream,\\nAn sheds a heart-inspiring steam\\nThe luntin\u00c2\u00ae pipe, an sneeshin mill,\\nAre handed round wi right guid will;\\nThe cantie^^ auld folks crackin crouse,\\nThe young anes ranting thro the house,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nMy heart has been sae fain to see them,\\nThat I for joy hae barkit wi them.\\nStill it s owre true that ye hae said.\\nSic game is now owre aften play d.\\nThere s monie a creditable stock\\n0 decent, honest fawsont^^ folk,\\n1 Poverty. 2 Thriving. s Wonder. 31st October.\\nHarvest-suppers. Ale. 7 Cream.\\nSmoking. Snuff-box. 10 Cheerful.\\n1^ Conversing merrily. i^^ Seemly.", "height": "4531", "width": "2705", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0036.jp2"}, "37": {"fulltext": "THE TWA BOGS. I\\nAre riven out baith root an branch,\\nSome rascaPs pridefu greed to quench,\\nWha thinks to knit himsel the faster\\nIn favour wi some gentle Master,\\nWha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,\\nFor Britain s guid his saul indentin\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHaith, lad, ye little ken about it;\\nFor Britain s guid guid faith I doubt it.\\nSay, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him.\\nAn saying aye or no s they bid him:\\nAt operas an plays parading.\\nMortgaging, gambling, masquerading:\\nOr maybe, in a frolic daft,^\\nTo Hague or Calais taks a waft.\\nTo make a tour, an tak a whirl,\\nTo learn Ion ton an see the worP.\\nThere, at Vienna or Versailles,\\nHe rives his father s auld entails\\nOr by Madrid he taks the rout.\\nTo thrum guitars, an fecht wi nowt;*\\nOr down Italian vista startles,\\nW e-hunting amang groves o myrtles\\nThen bouses drumly^ German water.\\nTo make himsel look fair and fatter,\\nAn clear the consequential sorrows,\\nLove-gifts of Carnival Signioras.\\nFor Britain s guid! for her destruction!\\nWi dissipation, feud, an faction\\nLUATH.\\nHech,^ man! dear sirs! is that the gate\\nThey waste sae mony a braw estate\\nAre we sae foughten an harass d\\nFor gear to gang that gate at last?\\nO would they stay aback frae courts.\\nAn please themsels wi countra sports.\\nIt wad for ev rj ane be better.\\nThe Laird, the Tenant, an the Cotter!\\nFor thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,\\nFient haet^ o them s ill-hearted fellows;\\nExcept for breakin o their timmer,\\nOr speakin lightly o their Limmer,*\\nJ: Perliaps. 2 a petty oath. Giddy.\\nFight with black cattle. Muddy. Oh\u00e2\u0080\u0094 strange.\\nA petty oath of negation. Timber. A woman of ill character.", "height": "4531", "width": "2705", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0037.jp2"}, "38": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nOr sbootiii o a hare or moor-cock,\\nThe ne er-a-bit tliej^ re ill to poor folk.\\nBut will ye tell me, Master Caesar,\\nSure great folk s life s a life o pleasure?\\nISTae cauld nor hunger e er can steer^ them,\\nThe vera thought o t need na fear them.\\nLord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am\\nThe gentles ye wad ne er envy em,\\nIt s true, they need na starve or sweat,\\nThro Vv intcr s cauld, or simmer s heat;\\nThey ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,\\nAn fill auldv age \\\\\\\\v grips an granes\\nBut human bodies are sic fools,\\nFor a their colleges and schools.\\nThat when nae real ills perplex them,\\nThey mak enow themsels to vex them;\\nAn ay tlie less they hae to sturt them,\\nIn like proportion, less will hurt them.\\nA country fellov at the pleugh.\\nHis acres till d, he s right eueugh;\\nA country girl at her wheel.\\nHer dizzens^ done, she s unco weel:\\nBut Gentlemen, an Ladies w^arst,\\nWi ev n down want o wark are curst.\\nThey loiter, lounging, lank, an lazy;\\nTho deil haet ails them, yet uneasy\\nTheir days insipid, dull, an restless;\\nTheir nights unquiet, lang, an tasteless;\\nAn ev n their sports, their balls an races,\\nTheir galloping thro public places.\\nThere s sic parade, sic j)omp, an art,\\nThe joy can scarcely reach the heart.\\nThe men cast out in party matches,\\nThen sovrther^ a in deep debauches.\\nAe night, they re mad wi drink an w ring,\\nNeist day their life is past enduring.\\nThe Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters.\\nAs great an gracious a as sisters\\nBut hear their absent thoughts o ither,\\nThey re a run deils an jads thegither.\u00c2\u00ae\\nWhyles, owre the v^^ee bit cup an platie,\\nThey sip the scandal potion pretty\\nMolest. 2 Groans. Trouble. Dozens\\ns Cement. Together.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0038.jp2"}, "39": {"fulltext": "SCOTCH DRINK.\\nOr lee-lang nights, wi crobbit leuks,\\nPore owre the devil s pictur d beuks;\\nStake on a chance a farmer s stackyard,\\nAn cheat like ouy unhang d blackguard.\\nThere s some exception, man an woman;\\nBut this is Gentry s life in common.\\nBy this, the sun was ought of sight,\\nAn darker gloaming brought the night\\nThe bum-clock humm d wi lazy drone,\\nThe kye^ stood rowtin i the loan\\nWhen up they gat, an shook their lugs,\\nRejoic d they were na men^ but dA)g^\\nAn each took aff his several way,\\nResolv d to meet some ither day.\\nSCOTCH DRINK.\\nGive him strocg drink, until he wink,\\nThat s sinking in despair;\\nAn liquor guid to fire his bluid,\\nThat s prest wi grief an care;\\nThere let him bouse, an deep carouse,\\nWi bumpers flowin o er,\\nTill he forgets his loves or debts,\\nAn minds his griefs no more.\\nSolomon s Proverbs^ xxxi. 6, 7\\nLet other Poets raise a fracas\\nBout vines, an wines, an drunken Bacchus,\\nAn crabbit names an stories wrack us.\\nAn grate our lug,*\\nI sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,\\nIn glass or jug.\\nO thou, my Muse guid auld Scotch Drink,\\nWhether thro wimpling worms thou jink,\\nOr, richly brown, ream* owre the brink,\\nIn glorious faem,\\nInspire me, till I lisp an wink.\\nTo sing thy name\\nLet husky Wheat the haught^ adorn.\\nAn Aits\u00c2\u00ae set up their awnie^ horn,\\nAn* Pease an Beans at een or morn.\\nPerfume the plain,\\nLeeze me on thee,\u00c2\u00ae John Barleycorn,\\nThou King o grain I\\nCows. Lowing. Ear. Froth. Valleya\\nOats. Bearded. An endearing phrase\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I am happy in thea", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0039.jp2"}, "40": {"fulltext": "8 BURNS.\\nOn thee aft Scotland chows her cood,*\\nIn souple^ scones, the wale* o food I\\nOr tumbling in the boiling flood\\nWi kail an beef;\\nBut when thou pours thy strong heart s blood,\\nThere thou shines chief,\\nFood fills the wame, an keeps up livin\\nTho life s a gift no worth receivin,\\nWhen heavy-dragg d wi pine an grievin\\nBut oil d by thee,\\nThe wheels o life gae down-hill, scrievin,\\nWi rattlin glee.\\nThou clears the head o doited Lear\\nThou cheers the heart o drooping Cai*e;\\nThou strings the nerves o Labor sair,\\nAt s weary toil\\nThou even brightens dark Despair\\nWi gloomy smile.\\nAft, clad in massy siller weed,\\nWi Gentles thou erects thy head\\nFet humbly kind, in time o need,\\nThe poor man s win*;,\\nHis wee drap parritch, or his bread,\\nThou kitchens fine.\\nThou art the life o public haunts\\nBut thee, what were our fairs and rants\\nEv n godly meetings o the saunts,\\nBy thee inspir d,\\nWhen gaping they besiege the tents.\\nAre doubly fir d.\\nThat merry night W9 get the corn in,\\nO sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in I\\nOr reekin on a New-year mornin\\nIn cog\u00c2\u00ae or bicker,\\nAn just a wee drap sp ritual burn in,\\nAn gusty sucker!\\nWhen Vulcan gies his bellows breath.\\nAn ploughmen gather wi their graith,*^\\nO rare I to see thee fizz an freath\\nI th lugget caup I\\nThen Burnewin^ comes on like Death\\nAt ev ry chaup.^\\nChews her cud. Flexible. A kind of bread. The choioct\\nBelly. Swiftly. Stupified. A wooden dish.\\nTasteful. Gear. A wooden cup with handle.\\ni Buraewin\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Burn- the- wind\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the Blacksmith. a Blow,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0040.jp2"}, "41": {"fulltext": "SCO TCH DRINIC. 9\\nNae mercy, then, for airn^ or steel\\nThe brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,\\nBrings hard owrehip,^ wi sturdy wheel,\\nThe strong forehammer,\\nTill block an studdie^ ring an reel\\nWr dinsome clamour.\\nWhen skirlin^ weanies see the light,\\nThou maks the gossips clatter bright,\\nHow fumbling cuifs^ their dearies slight,\\nWae worth the name.\\nNae Howdie\u00c2\u00ae gets a social night,\\nOr plack^ frae them.\\nWhen neebors anger at a plea,\\nAn just as wud\u00c2\u00ae as wud can be,\\nHow easy can the barley-bree^\\nCement the quarrel!\\nIt s aye the cheapest Lawyer s fee,\\nTo taste the barrel.\\nAlake that e er my Muse has reason\\nTo w^yte^\u00c2\u00b0 her countrymen wi treason\\nBut monie daily weet their weason^^\\nWi liquors nice.\\nAn hardly, in a winter s season,\\nE er spier^^ her price.\\nWae worth that brandy, burning trash\\nFell source o monie a pain an brash\\nTwins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,^\\nO half his days\\nAn sends, beside, auld Scotland s cash\\nTo her warst faes.\\nYe Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,\\nYe chief, to you my tale I tell;\\nPoor plackless devils like mysel,\\nIt sets you ill,\\nWi bitter, dearthfu wines to mellj\\nOr foreign gill.\\nMay gravels round his blather wrench.\\nAn gouts torment him, inch by inch,\\nWha twists his gruntle wi a glunch\\nO sour disdain.\\nOut owre a glass o Whisky punch\\nWi honest men\\n5 Iron. A way of striking with their hammer on the arm. Anril\\nCrying. Blockheads.\\nA midwife. The third part of a Scotch penuy. Mad.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Juice. 10 Blame. ^^Wesand. ^sk.\\nA* 4 1 A stupid fellow. Enemies.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0041.jp2"}, "42": {"fulltext": "10 BURNS,\\nO Whisky soul o plays, an pranks I\\nAccept a Bardie s gratef u thanks\\nWhen wanting thee, what tuneless cranks\\nAre my poor verses I\\nThou comes ^they rattle 1 their ranks\\nAt ither s a s\\nThee, Ferintosh O sadly lost!\\nScotland, lament f ra coast to coast\\nNow colic-grips, an barkin hoast,\\nMay kill us a\\nFor loyal Forbes charter d boast\\nIs ta en awa!\\nThae curst horse-leeches o th Excise,\\nWha mak the Whisky stells^ their prize\\nHand up thy han Deil ance, twice, thrice I\\nThere, seize the blinkers\\nAn bake them up in brunstane pies\\nFor poor d d drinkers.\\nFortune if thou ll but gie me still\\nHale breeks,* a scone, an Whisky gill,\\nAn rowth o rhyme to rave at will,\\nTak a the rest,\\nAn deal t about as thy blind skill\\nDirects the best.\\nTHE AUTHOR S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*\\nTO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.\\nDearest of Distillation last and best\\nHow art thou lost I Parody on Miltoii,\\nYe Irish Lords, ye Knights an Squires,\\nWha represent our brughs an shires,\\nAn doucely manage our affairs\\nIn Parliament,\\nTo you a simple Bardie s prayers\\nAre humbly sent.\\nAlas my roupet^ Muse is hearse\\nYour Honor s heart wi grief twad pierce,\\n1 From Ferintosh, in Cromartyshire, where the Forbes family\\nlong had the privilege of distilling whisky, duty free.\\n2 Stills. 3 Breeches.\\nThis was written before the Act anent the S Otch Distilleries, of\\nSession 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most\\ngrateful thanks.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Hoarse.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0042.jp2"}, "43": {"fulltext": "THE A UTHOR S CR V AND PR A YER. 11\\nTo see her sitten on her a\\nLow i the dust,\\nAn scriechen out prosaic verse,\\nAn like to brust!\\nTell them whae hae the chief direction,\\nScotland an me s in great affliction,\\nE er sin they laid that curst restriction\\nOn Aquavitae;\\nAn rouse them up to strong conviction,\\nAn move their pity.\\nStand forth, and tell yon Premier Youth,\\nThe honest, open, naked truth\\nTell him o mine an Scotland s drouth,\\nHis servants humble:\\nThe muckle devil blaw ye south,\\nIf ye dissemble\\nDoes ony great man glunch and gloom?\\nSpeak out, an never fash yourthoom!\\nLet posts an pensions sink or soom\\nWi them wha grant em:\\nIf honestly they canna con:ie.\\nFar better want em.\\nIn gath rin votes you were na slack\\nNow stand as tightly by your tack\\nNe er claw your lug, an fidge your back.\\nAn hum an haw;\\nBut raise your arm, an tell your crack^\\nBefore them a\\nPaint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle\\nHer mutchkin stoup as toom s a whissle\\nAn d d Excisemen in a bussle,*\\nSeizin a Stell,\\nTriumphant crushin t like a mussel.\\nOr lampit^ shell.\\nThen on the tither hand present her,\\nA blackguard Smuggler, right behint her,\\nAn cheek-f or-cho w, a chaffie^ Vintner,\\nColleaguing join,\\nPicking h\u00c2\u00abr pouch as bare as Winter\\nOf a kind coin.\\nstory. 2 Thistle. 3 Whistle.\\nBustle. A kind of sheU flsh.\\nSide by aide. Fat-faced.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0043.jp2"}, "44": {"fulltext": "12 BURNS,\\nIs there, that bears the name o Scot,\\nBut feels his heart s bluid rising hot,\\nTo see his poor auld Mither s pot\\nThus dung in staves,\\nAn plunder d o her hindmost groat\\nBy gallows knaves?\\nAlas I m but a nameless wight,\\nTrode i the mire out o sight\\nBut could I like Montgomeries fight,\\nOr gab like Boswell,\\nThere s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,\\nAn tie some hose welL\\nGod bless your Honors, can ye see t,\\nThe kind, auld, cantie Garlin greet,\\nAn no get warmly to your feet.\\nAn gar them hear it I\\nAn tell them, wi a patriot-heat,\\nYe winna bear it I\\nSome o you nicely ken the laws,\\nTo round the period an pause,\\nAn with rhetoric clause on clause\\nTo mak harangues;\\nThen echo thro Saint Stephen s w^a s\\nAuld Scotland s wrangs.\\nDempster, a true blue Scot I se warran\\nThee, aith^-detesting, chaste Kilkerran\\nAn that glib-gabbet* Highland Baron,\\nThe Laird o Graham\\nAn ane, a chap that s d d auldfarran,\u00c2\u00ae\\nDundas his name.\\nErskine, a spunkie Norland billic\\nTrue Campbells, Frederick an Hay;\\nAn Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie;\\nAn monie ithers,\\nWhom auld Demosthenes, or Tully,\\nMight own for brithers.\\nArouse, my boys exert your mettle,\\nTo get auld Scotland back her kettle\\nOr faith I ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,\\nYe ll see t or lang,\\nShe ll teach you, wi a reekin v\u00c2\u00bb hittle.\\nAnother sang.\\ni George Dempster, Esq., of Dunnichen, in Forfarshire. Oath.\\n3 Sir Adam Ferguson.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nQuick and smooth-speaking. The Duke of Montrose.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B^\\nSagacious. Fiery. Plough-staff.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0044.jp2"}, "45": {"fulltext": "THE AUTHOR S CRY AND PRAYER. 13\\nThis while she s been in crankous^ mood\\nHer lost Militia fir d her bluid;\\nDeil na they never mair do guid,\\nAn now sux. Play d her that pliskie I)\\n~*i2KTiid-wud\\nAn Lord, if ance they pit her till t,^\\nHer tartan petticoat she ll kilt,\\nAn dnrk an pistol at her belt,\\nShe ll tak the streets,\\nAn rin her whittle to the hilt,\\nI th first she meets\\nFor God sake. Sirs then speak her fair,\\nAn straik^ her cannie wi the hair,\\nAn to the muckle house repair,\\nWi instant speed,\\nAn strive, wi a your wit and lear,\\nTo get remead.\\nYon ill-tongu d tinkler, Charlie Fox,\\nMay taunt you wi his jeers an mocks\\nBut gie him t my hearty cocks\\nE en cowe the cndic!*\\nAn send him to nis dicing-box,\\nAn sportin lady.\\nTell yon guid bluid o auld Boconnock s\\nI ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,*\\nAn drink his health in auld Nanse TinnockV\\nNine times a-week,\\nIf he some scheme, like tea an winnocks,\\nWad kindly seek.\\nCould he some commutation broach,\\nI ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,\\nHe need na fear their foul reproach\\nNor erudition.\\nYon mixtie-maxtie^ queer hotch-potch,\\nThe Coalition.\\nAuld Scotland has a raucle tongue;\\nShe s just a devil wi a rung\\nFretful. 2 Trick. Distracted. To it. Stroke.\\nLearning. Hot. Terrify the young fellow\\nThick cakes of mixed corn.\\nA worthy old hostess of the Author s in Mauchline, where he\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2ometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nR. B.\\nWindows. Confusedly mixed. Fearless, i* Cudgel.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0045.jp2"}, "46": {"fulltext": "14 BURNS,\\nAn if she promise auld or young\\nTo tak their part,\\nTho by the neck she should be strung,\\nShe ll no desert.\\nAn now, ye chosen FiYPcarL support ye\\nMay still ygu^ c^^imister grow dorty,\\nT\u00c2\u00bb- An kick your place,\\nYe ll snap your fingers, poor an hearty,\\nBefore his face.\\nGod bless your Honors a your days,\\nWi sowps o kail an brats o claise,\\nIn spite o a the thievish kaes^\\nThat haunt St. Jamie s\\nYour humble Poet sings an prays\\nWhile Rab his name is.\\nPOSTSCRIPT.\\nLet half-starv d slaves, in warmer skies\\nSee future wines, rich-clust ring, rise;\\nTheir lot auld Scotland ne er envies,\\nBut blyth an frisky.\\nShe eyes her freeborn, martial boys,\\nTak aff their Whisky.\\nWhat tho their PhoBbus kinder warms.\\nWhile fragrance blooms an beauty charms!\\nWhen wretches range, in famish d swarms,\\nThe scented groves,\\nOr, hounded forth, dishonour arms\\nIn hungry droves.\\nTheir gun s a burden on their shouther\\nThey downa bide the stiuk o powther\\nTheir bauldest thought s a hank ring swither*\\nTo Stan or rin.\\nTill skelp a shot they re aff, a throwther,*\\nTo save their skin.\\nBut bring a Scotsman frae his hill.\\nClap in his cheek a Highland gill,\\nSay, such is royal George s will.\\nAn there s the foe,\\nHe has nae thought but how to kill\\nTwa at a blow.\\ne^ucy. Clothes. Daws. Hesitation,\\nPeU-mell.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0046.jp2"}, "47": {"fulltext": "THE HOLY FAIR, 15\\nNae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him*.\\nDeath comes, wi fearless eye he sees him\\nWr bluidy han a welcome gies him\\nAn when he fa s,\\nHis latest draught o breathin lea es him\\nIn faint huzzas.\\nSages their solemn een may steek,^\\nAn raise a philosophic reek,\\nAn physically causes seek.\\nIn clime an season;\\nBut tell me Whisky s name in Greek,\\nI ll tell the reason.\\nScotland, my auld, respected Mither I\\nTho whyles ye moistify your leather,\\nTill whare ye sit, on craps o heather,\\nYe tine^ your dam;\\nFreedom and Whisky gang thegitherl\\nTak aS your dram I\\nTHE HOLY FAIR.*\\nA robe of seeming truth and trust\\nHid crafty Observation;\\nAnd secret hung, with poison d crust,\\nThe dirk of Defamation:\\nA mask that Uke the gorget show d,\\nDye-varying on the pigeon\\nAnd for a mantle large and broad,\\nHe wrapt him in Religion.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 iiZj/pocrisy d- la-mode.\\nUpon a simmer Sunday morn.\\nWhen Nature s face is fair,\\nI walked forth to view the corn,\\nAn snuff the caller^ air.\\nThe risen sun, owre Galston* muirs,\\nWi glorious light was glintin\\nThe hares were hirplin down the furs,\\nThe lav rocks\u00c2\u00ae they were chantin\\nFu sweet that day.\\n1 Shut. Smoke. Lose.\\nHoly Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a\\njwtcramental occasion.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nFerzueson, in his Hallow Fair of Edinburgh, I beheve, fur-\\npiished a hint and title of the plan of the Holy Fair. The farcical\\nscene the poet there describes was often a favourite field of his ob-\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2ervation, and the most of the incidents he mentions had actually\\npassed before his eyes.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B.\\nFresh. The adjoining parish to Mauchliue.\\nCreeping. Larks.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0047.jp2"}, "48": {"fulltext": "16 BURNS,\\nAs lightsomely I glowr d abroad,\\nTo see a scene sae gay,\\nThree Hizzies, early at the road,\\nCam skelpin^ up the way.\\nTwa had manteeles o^ dolefu black,\\nBut ane wi lyart^ linin;\\nThe third, that gaed a wee a-back,\\nWas in the fashion shinin,\\nFu gay that day.\\nThe twa appeared like sisters twin,\\nIn feature, form, an claes;\\nTheir visage withered, lang, an thin,\\nAn sour as ony slaes:^\\nThe third cam up, hap-step-an -lowp,\\nAs light as ony lambie,*\\nAn wi a curchie low did stoop,\\nAs soon as e er she saw me,\\nFu kind that day.\\nWi bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass,\\nI think ye seem to ken me\\nI m sure I ve seen that bonnie face,\\nBut yet I canna name ye.\\nQuo she, an laughing as she spak,\\nAn taks me by the hands,\\nYe, for my sake, hae gi en the feck\\nOf a the ten commands\\nA screed^ some day.\\nMy name is Fun your cronie dear,\\nThe nearest friend ye hae\\nAn this is Superstition here,\\nAn that s Hypocrisy.\\nI m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,\\nTo spend an hour in daffin\\nGin ye ll go there, yon runkl d^ pair,\\nWe will get famous laughin\\nAt them this day.\\nQuoth I, With a my heart, I ll do t;\\nI ll get my Sunday s sark^ on,\\nAn meet you on the holy spot\\nFaith, we se hae fine remarkin\\nJ Tripping\\n2 Gray.\\n8 Sloes.\\nLamb. A rent.\\nMerriment.\\n8 Shirt.\\nf Wrinkled", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0048.jp2"}, "49": {"fulltext": "THE HOL V FAIR. \\\\9\\nThen I gaed hame at crowdie-time,*\\nAn soon I made me ready\\nFor roads were clad, frae side to side,\\nWi monie a wearie bodie,\\nIn droves that day.\\nHere farmers gash, in ridin graith\\nGaed hoddin by their cotters\\nThere, swankies* young, in braw braid-claith|\\nAre springin owre the gutters.\\nThe lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,\\nIn silks an scarlets glitter;\\nWi sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whan^,*\\nAn farls,\u00c2\u00ae bak d wi butter,\\nFu crump that day.\\nWhen by the plate we set our nose,\\nWeel heaped up wi ha pence,\\nA greedy glowr Black Bonnet^ throws,\\nAn we maun draw our tippence.\\nThen in we go to see the show,\\nOn ev ry side they re gath rin.\\nSome carryin dales, some chairs and stools,\\nAn some are busy bleth rin\u00c2\u00ae\\nRight loud that day.\\nHere stands a shed to fend the show rs,\\nAn screen our countra gentry,\\nThere, racer Jess, an twa-three w s\\nAre blinkin at the entry.\\nHere sits a raw o tittlin jades,\\nWi heavin breast an bare neck,\\nAn there a batch o wabster^^ lads,\\nBlackguarding frae Kilmarnock\\nFor fun this day.\\nHere, some are thinkin on their sins\\nAn some upo their claes\\nAne curses feet that fyl d his shins,\\nAnither sighs an prays\\nOn this hand sits a chosen swatch,\\nWi screw d up, grace-proud faces;\\nOn that a set o chaps, at watch,\\nThrang winkin on the lasses\\nTo chairs that day.\\nBreaMast-time. Wise.\\nThe motion of a countryman riding on a cart-horse.\\n^\u00e2\u0080\u00a2trapping young fellows. String. Cakes of bread\\nThe Elder who holds the alms-dish.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Talking idly. Whispering, lo ^veaver. Soiled, i^ sample.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0049.jp2"}, "50": {"fulltext": "BURNS,\\nO happy is that man an blest\\nNae wonder that it pride him\\nWlia s ain dear lass, that he likes belt,\\nComes elinkin down beside him I\\nWi arm repos d on the chair back,\\nHe sweetly does compose him\\nWhich, by degrees, slips round her neck,\\nAn s loof upon her bosom\\nUnkend that day.\\nNow a the congregation o er\\nIs silent expectation;\\nFor Moodie speels^ the holy door,\\nWi tidings o damnation.\\nShould Hornio, as in ancient days,\\nMang sons o God present him,\\nThe vera sight o Moodie s face,\\nTo s ain het hame had sent him\\nWi fright that day.\\nHear how he clears the points o faith\\nWi rattlin an thumpin I\\nNow meekly calm, now wild in wrath,\\nHe s stampin an he s jumpin\\nHis lengthen d chin, his turn d-up snout.\\nHis eldritch* squeel an gestures,\\nO how they fire the heart devout,\\nLike cantharidian plasters.\\nOn sic a day\\nBut, hark! the tent has chang d its voice;\\nThere s peace and rest nae langer;\\nFor a the real judges rise.\\nThey canna sit for anger.\\nSmith^ opens out his cauld harangues,\\nOn practice and on morals;\\nAn aif the godly pour in thrangs.\\nTo gie the jars an barrels\\nA lift that day.\\nWhat signifies his barren shine\\nOf moral pow rs an reason\\nHis English style, an gesture fine,\\nAre a clean out o season.\\nPalm of the hand. Minister of Riccarton. Cllmbi.\\nUnearthly. Minister of Galston.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0050.jp2"}, "51": {"fulltext": "THE HOLY FAIR. 19\\nLike Socrates or Antonine,\\nOr some auld pagan Heathen,\\nThe moral man he does define,\\nBut ne er a word o faith in\\nThat s right that day.\\nIn guid time comes an antidote\\nAgainst sic poison d nostrum\\nFor Peebles, f rae the Water-fit,\\nAscends the holy rostrum\\nSee, up he s got the word o God,\\nAn meek an mim^ has view d it,\\nWhile Common Sense has ta en the road,\\nAn aff, an up the Cowgate,^\\nFast, fast, that day.\\nWee Miller,* neist, the Guard relieves,\\nAn Orthodoxy raibles,\\nTho in his heart he weel believes.\\nAn thinks it auld wives fables\\nBut, faith the birkie^ wants a Manse,\\nSo cannilie he hums them\\nAltho his carnal wit an sense\\nLike hafflins-ways o ercomes him\\nAt times that day.\\nNow, butt an ben, the Change-house fills,\\nWi yill-caup^ Commentators\\nHere s crying out for bakes^ an gills.\\nAn there s the pint-stowp clatters\\nWhile thick an thrang, an loud an lang,\\nWi logic, an wi Scripture,\\nThey raise a din, that, in the end.\\nIs like to breed a rupture\\nO wrath that day,\\nLeeze me on Drink it gie s us mair\\nThan either School or College\\nIt kindles Wit, it waukens Lair,\\nIt pangs*^ us fou o Knowledge.\\nBe t whisky gill, or penny wheep,\\nOr ony stronger potion,\\nIt never fails, on drinking deep.\\nTo kittle up our notion\\nBy night or day.\\nMinister of Newtown-upon-Ayr, of which the Water-fit wau\\nADOther name. Prim A street so called, which faces the tent\\nin [MauchUne.]\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Assistant-preacher at Auchenleck. Rat-\\ntlefi nonsense. Clever fellow. Kitchen and parlour. Ale-cup.\\nBiscuits. o Crams. Tickle.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0051.jp2"}, "52": {"fulltext": "20 BURNS. _;\\nThe lads an lasses, blythely bent\\nTo mind baith saiil an body,\\nSit round the table, weel content,\\nAn steer^ about the toddy.\\nOn this ane s dress, an that ane s leuk,\\nThey re makin observations;\\nWhile some are cozie i the neuk,\\nAn formin assignations\\nTo meet some day.\\nBut now the Lord s ain trumpet touts,\\nTill a the hills are rairin.\\nAn echoes back ret.irn the shouts;\\nBlack RusseP is na spairin\\nHis piercing words, like Highland sworda,\\nDivide the joints an marrow\\nHis talk o Hell, whare devils dwell,\\nOur vera sauls does harrow\\nWi fright that day,\\nA vast, unbottom d, boundless pit,\\nFill d fou o lowin* brunstane,\\nWha s raging flame, an scorching heat,\\nWad melt the hardest whun-stane 1*\\nThe half asleep start up wi fear,\\nAn think they hear it roarin.\\nWhen presently it does appear,\\nTwas but some neebor snorin\\nAsleep that day.\\nTwad be owre lang a tale, to tell\\nHow monie stories past.\\nAn how they crowded to the yill.\\nWhen they were a dismist\\nHow drink gaed round, in cogs an caupg,\\nAmang the furais and benches\\nAn cheese an bread, frae women s laps,\\nWas dealt about in lunches\\nAn dawds that day.\\nIn comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife,\\nAn sits down by the fire.\\nSyne draws her kebbuck an her knife,\\nThe lasses they are shyer.\\n1 stir.\\nMinister of Kilmarnock, and described as equally awful in looks\\nand language.\\n3 Shakspeare s Hamlet.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Flaming. Whinstone.\\nJolly. Cheese.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0052.jp2"}, "53": {"fulltext": "THE HOLY FAIR. 81\\nThe auld Guidmen, about the grace,\\nFrae side to side they bother,\\nTill some ane by his bonnet lays,\\nAn gi es them t like a tether,\\nFu lang that day,\\nWaesiicks for him that gets nae lass,\\nOr lasses that hae naething I\\nSma need has he to say a grace,\\nOr melvie^ his braw claithing!\\nO Wives be mindfu ance yoursel\\nHow bonnie lads ye wanted,\\nAn dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,\\nLet lasses be affronted\\nOn sic a day I\\nNow Clinkumbell, wi rattling tow.\\nBegins to jow* an croon\\nSome swagger hame, the best they dow,*\\nSome wait the afternoon.\\nAt slaps the billies halt a blink,\\nTill lasses strip their shoon\\nWi faith an hope, an love an drink,\\nThey re a in famous tune\\nFor crack that day.\\nHow monie hearts this day converts\\nO sinners and o lasses\\nTheir hearts o stane, gin night, are gane\\nAs saft as ony flesh is.\\nThere s some are fou o love divine,\\nThere s some are fou o brandy\\nAn monie jobs that day begin,\\nMay end in Houghmagandie\u00c2\u00ae\\nSome ither day.\\nWaes me I Soil. To peal or roar. They can.\\nGates. Fornication.\\nSharp diseases require sharp remedies; and Burns^ ridicul* ii\\nlaid to hare been of considerable use.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0053.jp2"}, "54": {"fulltext": "22 BURNS.\\nDEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.^\\nA TRUE STORY.\\nSome books are lies frae end to end,\\nAnd some great lies were never penn d\\nEv n Ministers, they hae been kenn d.\\nIn holy rapture,\\nA rousing whid,^ at times, to vend,\\nAnd nail t wi Scripture,\\nBut this that I am gaun to tell.\\nWhich lately on a night befell.\\nIs just as true s the Deil s in hell\\nOr Dublin city j\\nThat e er he nearer comes oursel\\nS a muckle pity.\\nThe Clachan yill had made me canty,\\nI wasna fou, but just had plenty\\nI stacher d^ whyles, but yet took tent ay\\nTo free the ditches;\\nAn hillocks, stanes, an bushes, kenn d ay\\nFrae ghaists an witchei.\\nThe rising moon began to glowr\\nThe distant Cumnock hills out-owre;\\nTo count her horns, wi a my pow r,\\nI set mysel\\nBut whether she had three or four,\\nI cou d na tell.\\nI was come round about the hill,\\nAnd todlin down on Willie s mill.\\nSetting my stalf wi a my skill,\\nTo keep me sicker;*\\nTho leeward whyles, against my will,\\nI took a bicker.\\n1 there wi Something did forgather,\\nThat put me in an eerie swither;^\\nAn awfu scythe, out-owre ae shouther,\\nClear-dangling, hang:\\nA three -taed leister\u00c2\u00ae on the ither\\nLay, large an lang.\\nJohn Wilson, schoolmaster of Tarboiton, who excited the angef\\nof Burns by talking of his medical skill. Wilson sold medicine and\\nfave advice gratis.\\n2 Fib. 3 staggered. Steady. A short course.\\nMeet. Frighted wavering. Three-pronged dart.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0054.jp2"}, "55": {"fulltext": "DEA TH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 23\\nIts stature seem d lang Scotch ells twa,\\nThe queerest shape that e er I saw,\\nFor fient a wame^ it had ava,\\nAnd then its shanks,\\nThey were as thin, as sharp an sma\\nAs cheeks o branks.\\nGuid-een, quo I Friend hae ye been mawin,\\nWhen ither folk are busy sawin?\\nIt seem d to mak a kind o stan\\nBut naething spak\\nAt length, says I, Friend, whare ye gaun.\\nWill ye go back?\\nIt spak right ho we* My name is Death,\\nBut be na fley d. \u00e2\u0080\u0094Quoth 1, Guid faith,\\nYe re may be come to stap my breath\\nBut tent me, billie\\nI red ye weel, tak care o skaith,\\nSee, there s a gully 1\\nGudeman, quo he, ^^put up your whittle,\\nI m no design d to try its mettle\\nBut if I did, I wad be kittle\\nTo be mislear d,^\\nI wad na mind it, no that spittle\\nOut-owre my beard.\\nWeel, weeil says I, a bargain be t;\\nCome, gies your hand, an sae we re gree t\\nWe ll ease our shanks an tak a seat,\\nCome, gies your news\\nThis while*\u00c2\u00b0 ye hae been mony a gate.\\nAt mony a house.\\nAy, ay! quo he, an shook his head,\\nIt s e en a lang, lang time, indeed.\\nSin I began to nick the thread,\\nAn choke the breath:\\nFolk maun do something for their bread,\\nAn sae maun Death.\\nBelly. A kind of wooden curb.\\nThis rencounter happened in seedtime, 1785.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nHollow. Be careful. Damage. A large knife.\\nDifficult.\\nPut out of my art. Chamxhers.\\nAn epidemical fever was then raging in that country.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0055.jp2"}, "56": {"fulltext": "Sax thousand years are near hand fled,\\nSin I was to the hutching bred,\\nAn mony a scheme in vain s been laid,\\nTo stap or scaur me\\nTill ane Hornbook s^ ta en up the trade,\\nAn* faith, he ll waur me*\\nYe ken Jock Hornbook i the Clachan,*\\nDeil mak his king s-hood in a spleuchan I*\\nHe s grown sae well acquaint wi Buchan\\nAn ither chaps,\\nThe weans hand out their fingers laughin\\nAnd pouk my hips.\\nSee, here s a scythe, and there s a dart,\\nThey hae pierc d mony a gallant heart\\nBut Doctor Hornbook, wi his art\\nAnd cursed skill,\\nHas made them baith no worth a\\nD\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d haet they ll kill.\\nTwas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,\\nI threw a noble throw at ane\\nWi less, I m sure, I ve hundreds slain:\\nBut deil-ma-care.\\nIt just play d dirl* on the bane.\\nBut did nae mair.\\nHornbook was by, wi ready art.\\nAnd had sae fortify d the part.\\nThat when I looked to my dart.\\nIt was sae blunt,\\nFient haet o t wad hae pierc d the heart\\nOf a kail-runt.\\nI drew my scythe in sic a fury,\\nI near-hand cowpit\u00c2\u00ae wi my hurry,\\nBut yet the bauld Apothecary\\nWithstood the shock;\\nI might as weel hae try d a quarry\\nC hard whin rock.\\nThis gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of\\nthe Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, dv intuition and inspiratioxi,\\nis at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n2 Worse. 3 Small village. Tobacco-pouch.\\nBuchar a Domestic Medicine. R. B. A siigh/- Jtroke.\\nA cabbage-root Tumbled.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0056.jp2"}, "57": {"fulltext": "DEA TH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 2:\\nAnd then, a doctor s saws and whittles,\\nOf a dimensions, shapes, an mettles,\\nA kinds o boxes, mugs, an bottles,\\nHe s sure to hae\\nTheir Latin names as fast he rattles\\nAs A B C.\\nCalces o fossils, earths, and trees;\\nTrue Sal-marinum o the seas;\\nThe Farina of beans and pease.\\nHe has t in plenty;\\nAqua-fontis, what you please.\\nHe can content ye.\\nForbye some new, uncommon weapons,\\nUrinus Spiritus of capons\\nOr Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,\\nDistill d per \u00c2\u00bbe\\nSal-alkali o Midge-tail clippings.\\nAnd mony mae.\\nWaes me for Johnny Ged s Hole^ now,\\nQuo I, if that thae news be true\\nHis braw calf -ward whare gowans^ grew,\\nSac white and bonnie,\\nNae doubt they ll rive it wi the plew\\nThey ll ruin Johnnie l**\\nThe creature grain d an eldritch laugh.\\nAnd says, Ye needna yoke the pleugh,\\nKirk-yards will soon be till d eneugh,\\nTak ye nae fear!\\nThey ll a be trench d wi mony a sheugh*\\nIn twa-three year.\\nWhare I kill d ane a fair strae-death,*\\nBy loss o blood or want o breath.\\nThis night I m free to take my aith,\\nThat Hornbook s skill\\nHas clad a score i their last claith,\\nBy drap and pill.\\nAn honest Wabster* to his trade,\\nWhase wife s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,\\nGat tippence-worth to mend her head.\\nWhen it was sair;\\nThe wife slade\u00c2\u00ae cannie to her bed.\\nBut ne er spak mair.\\nThe grave-digeer.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 2 Daisies. Ditch. A death in b% i.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Weaver. Did elide.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0057.jp2"}, "58": {"fulltext": "26 BURNS.\\nA countra Laird had ta en the batts,\\nOr some curmurring^ in his guts,\\nHis only son for Hornbook sets,\\nAn pays him well.\\nThe lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,\\nWas Laird himsel.\\nA bonnie lass, ye kend her name.\\nSome ill-brewn drink had hov d* her wame;\\nShe trusts hersel, to hide the shame,\\nIn Hornbook s care:\\nHorn sent her ajff to her laug hame,\\nTo hide it there.\\nThat s just a swatch^ o Hornbook s way;\\nThus goes he on from day to day.\\nThus does he poison, kill, an slay,\\nAn s weel pay d for t;\\nYet stops me o mv lawfu prev,\\nWi his d\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d dirt.\\n**But, hark! I ll tell you of a plot,\\nTho dinna ye be speaking o t\\nI ll nail the self-conceited Sot\\nAs dead s a herrin;\\nNiest time we meet, I ll wad^ a groat.\\nHe gets his f airin\\nBut just as he began to tell.\\nThe auld kirk-hamm^r strak the bell\\nSome wee short hour ayont the twal,\\nWhich rais d us baith;\\nI took the way that pleas d mysel.\\nAnd sae did Death.\\nTHE BRIGS OF AYR.\\nA POEM.\\nINSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR.\\nThe simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,\\nLearning his tuneful trade from ev ry bough\\nThe chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush\\nHailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;\\nThe soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill.\\nOr deep-ton d plovers, grey, wild-whistling o er the hill;\\nBots. 2 rumbling. Two-year old sheep. Swelled,\\nSampis. Set.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0058.jp2"}, "59": {"fulltext": "THE BRIGS OF A YR. S7\\nShall he, nurst in the Peasant s lowly shed,\\nTo hardy independence bravely bred,\\nBy early poverty to hardship steel d,\\nAnd train d to arms in stern Misfortune s field,\\nBhall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,\\nThe servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?\\nOr labour hard the panegyric close,\\nWith all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?\\nNo though his artless strains he rudely sings,\\nAnd throws his hand uncouthly o er the strings,\\nHe glows with all the spirit of the Bard,\\nFame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.\\nStill, if some Patron s gen rous care he trace,\\nSkill d in the secret, to bestow with grace\\nWhen Ballantyne befriends his humble name,\\nAnd hands the rustic Stranger up to fame.\\nWith heartfelt throes his gi-ateful bosom swells,\\nThe godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.\\nTwas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,\\nAnd thack* and rape secure the toil-won crap\\nPotato -bings are snugged up frae skaith^\\nO coming Winter s biting, frosty breath\\nThe bees, rejoicing o er their summer toils,\\nUnnumber d buds an fiow rs delicious spoil?,\\nSeal d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles..\\nAre doom d by man, that tyrant o er the weak,\\nThe death o devils, smoor d* wi brimstone reek;\\nThe thund ring guns are heard on ev ry side,\\nThe wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide\\nThe feathered field-mates, bound by Nature s tie.\\nSires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie\\n(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds.\\nAnd execrates man s savage, ruthless deeds\\nNae mair the flow r in field or meadow springs.\\nNae mair the grove with airy concert rings,\\nExcept perhajDs the Robin s whistling glee,\\nProud o the height o some bit half-lang tree:\\nThe hoary morns precede the sunny days.\\nMild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,\\nWhile thick the gossamour waves wanton in the raySc\\n^Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,\\nUnknown and poor, simplicity s reward,\\nThatch. 3 Potato heaps. injury. ^moihered", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0059.jp2"}, "60": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nAe night, within the ancient brugh of Ay?,\\nBy whim inspir d, or haply prest wi care,\\nHe left his bed and took his wayward rout,\\nAnd down by Simpson s^ w^heel d the left ^bout:\\n(Whether impelPd by all-directing Fate,\\nTo witness what I after shall narrate\\nOr whether, rapt in meditation high,\\nHe wander d out he knew not where nor why\\nThe drowsy Dungeon clock had numbered two,\\nAnd Wallace Tow r^ had sworn the fact was true;\\nThe tide-swoln Firth, wi sullen-sounding roar.\\nThrough the still night dash d hoarse along the shore:\\nAll else was hush d as Nature s closed e e\\nThe silent moon shone high o er tow r and tree:\\nThe chilly frost, beneath the silver beam.\\nCrept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream.\\nWhen, lo 1 on either hand the list ning Bard,\\nThe clanging sugh* of whistling wings is heard;\\nTwo dusky forms dart thro the midnight air,\\nSwift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare;\\nAne on th Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,\\nThe ither flutters o er the rising piers\\nOur warlock Rhymer instantly descry d\\nThe Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.\\n(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,\\nAnd ken the lingo of the sp ritual folk\\nFays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a they can explain them,\\nAnd even the ^era deils they brawly ken them.)\\nAuld Brig appcar d o ancient Pictish race.\\nThe vera wrinkles Gothic in his face\\nHe seem d as he T\\\\i Time had warstl d lang.\\nYet, teughly\u00c2\u00ae doure, he bade an unco bang.\\nNew Brig was buskit, in a braw new coat,\\nThat he, at Lon on, frae ane Adams got\\nIn s hand five taper staves as smooth s a bead,\\nWi virls an whirlygigums\u00c2\u00ae at the head.\\nThe Goth was stalking round with anxious search.\\nSpying the time-worn flaws in ev ry arch;\\nIt chanc d his new-come neebor took his e e,\\nAnd e en a vex d and angry heart had he\\nWi thieveless snec^r to see his modish mien.\\nHe down the water, gies him this guideen\\nA noted tavern at the Auld Brig End.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 B. B.\\nIn the old prison of Ayr. 3 Which formerly stood in the High-street\\nA rushing sound of wind. The gos-hawk, or falcon.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nToughly stout. Dressed. Useless ornaments.\\nGood erening.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0060.jp2"}, "61": {"fulltext": "THE BRIGS OF A YR. 2^\\nAULD BRIG.\\nI doubt na, Frien ye U think ye re nae sheep-shank,\\nAnce ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank I\\nBut gin ye be a brig as au^d as me,\\nTho faith 1 that date, I doubt, ye ll never see;\\nThere ll be, if that day come, I ll wad a bodle,\\nSome fewer whigmeleeries^ in your noddle.\\nNEW BRIG.\\nAuld Vandal, ye but show your little meiise,\\nJust much about it wi your scanty sense\\nWill your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,\\nWhere twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet.\\nYour ruin d formless bulk o stane and lime,\\nCompare wi bonnie Brigs o modem time?\\nThere s men of taste wou d tak the Ducat-stream,*\\nTho they should cast the vera sark and swim,\\nEre they would grate their feelings wi the view\\nO sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as yon.\\nAUIiD BRIG.\\nConceited gowk I* puff d up wi vrindy pride I\\nThis mony a year I ve stood the flood an tide\\nAnd tho wi crazy eild I m sair forfairn,*\\nI ll be a Brig, when ye re a shapeless cairn I\\nAs yet ye little ken about the matter,\\nBut twa-three winters will inform ye better.\\nWhen heavy, dark, continued, a -day rains,\\nWi deepening deluges o erflow the plains\\nWhen from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,\\nOr stately Lugar s mossy fountains boil,\\nOr where the Greenock winds his moorland course.\\nOr haunted Garpar draws his feeble source,\\nArous d by blust ring winds an spotting thowes,*\\nIn mony a torrent down his snaw-broo^ rowes\\nWhile crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,^*\\nSweeps dams, an mills, an brigs, a to the jate\\nAnd from Glenbuck,^^ down to the Ratton-key,*^\\nAuld Ayr is just one lengthen d, tumbling sea;\\nA smaU gold coin. 2 Fancies. Good manners.\\nA noted ford, just above the Auld Brig-.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nA term of contempt; fool. Distressed.\\nT The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the Weal\\nof Scotland where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name\\n\\\\i ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nThaws. Snow-water. Torrent.\\n11 The source of the River Ayr.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n*2 A small landing place above the large key. R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0061.jp2"}, "62": {"fulltext": "BURIES.\\nThen down ye ll burl, dell uor ye never rise!\\nAnd dash the gunilie^ jaups^ up to the pouring skies;\\nA lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,\\nThat Architecture s noble art is lost\\nNEW BRIG.\\nPine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say t o t)\\nThe Lord be thankit that we ve tint the gate o tl*\\nGaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,\\nHanging with threat ning jut, like precipices:\\nO er arching, mouldy, gloom -inspiring coves;\\nSupporting roofs fantastic, stony groves\\nWindov/s and doors in nameless sculptures drest.\\nWith order, symmetry, or taste unblest;\\nForms like some bedlam Statuary s dream,\\nThe craz d creations of misguided whim\\nForms might be worshipp d on the bended knee,\\nAnd still the second dread command be free,\\nThere likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea.\\nMansions that would disgrace the building taste\\nOf any mason reptile, bird, or beast;\\nFit only for a doited monkish race,\\nOr frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace;\\nOr cuiis* of later times, wha held the notion,\\nThat sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion;\\nFancies that our guid Brugh^ denies protection.\\nAnd soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!\\nAULD BRIG.\\nO ye, my dear-remembcr d, ancient yearlings,*\\nWere ye but here to share my wounded feelings I\\nYe worthy Proveses, an mony Bailie,\\nWha in the paths o righteousness did toil ay;\\nYe dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveeners,\\nTo whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners.\\nYe godiy C ouncils wha hae blest this town;\\nYe godly Brethren o the sacred gown,\\nWha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters;\\nAnd (^vhat would now be strange) jq godly Writers:^\\nA ye douce folk I ve borne aboon the broo,^\\nWere ye but here, v/hat would ye say or do!\\nHow would your spirits groan in deep vexation.^\\nTo see each m.elancholy alteration\\nAnd agonizing, curse the tim and place\\nWhen ye begat the base, degen rate race;\\nMuddy. 2 Jerks of water. Lost the way of it. Blockheads*\\nBurgh. Coevdls. Lawyers. Water.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0062.jp2"}, "63": {"fulltext": "THE BRIGS OF A YR. 31\\nNae langer Rev rend Men, their country s glory,\\nlu plain, braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story;\\nNae langer thrifty Citizens, an douce.\\nMeet owre a pint, or in the Council-house;\\nBut staumrel,^ corky-headed, graceless Gentry,\\nThe herryment^ and ruin of the country\\nMen, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers,\\nWha waste your weel-hain d^ gear on d d new Brigs\\nand Harbours I\\nNEW BRIG.\\nNow baud you there! for faith ye ve said enough,\\nAnd muckie mair than ye can mak to through\\nAs for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,\\nCorbies^ and Clergy are a shot right kittle\\nBut, under favour o your langer beard,\\nAbuse o Magistrates might weel be spar d;\\nTo liken them to your auld-warld squad,\\nI must needs say, comparisons are odd.\\nIn Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle\\nTo mouth **a Citizen, a term o scandal:\\nNae mair the Council waddles down the street,\\nIn all the pomp of ignorant conceit\\nMen wha grew wise priggin^ owre hops an raisins,\\nOr gather d lib ral views in Bonds and Seisins.\\nIf haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,\\nHad shor d^ them wi a glimmer of his lamp,\\nAnd would to Common-sense for once betray d them,\\nPlain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.\\nWhat farther clishmaclaver\u00c2\u00ae might been said,\\nWhat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,\\nNo man can tell but all before their sight\\nA fairy train appeared in order bright\\nAdown the glittering stream they f eatly\u00c2\u00ae danc d\\nBright to the moon their various dresses glanc d\\nThey footed o er the wat ry glass so neat.\\nThe infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet\\nWhile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,\\nAnd soul-ennoblincr Bards heroic ditties\\nC?\\nsung\\nO had M Lauchlan,^\u00c2\u00b0 thairm^^ inspiring sage,\\nBeen there to hear this heavenly band engage,\\nWhen thro his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland\\nrage,\\nHalf-witted. 2 Devastation. Well-saved,\\nMake out. Crows. Cheapening. Threatened.\\nIdle conversation. Sprucelr.\\nwell-known performer of Scottish music on the Violin.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n1^ Fiddle -string.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0063.jp2"}, "64": {"fulltext": "32 BURNS.\\nOr when they struck old Scotia s melting air\u00c2\u00bb,\\nThe lover s raptured joys, or bleeding cares\\nHow would his highland lug* been nobly fir d,\\nAnd ev n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir dl\\nNo guess could tell what instrument appear d,\\nBut all the soul of Music s self was heard\\nHarmonious concert rung in every part,\\nWhile simple melody pour d moving on the heart.\\nThe Genius of the Stream in front appears,\\nA venerable chief, advanc d in years\\nHis hoary head with water-lilies crown d,\\nHis manly leg with garter-tangle bound.\\nNext came the loveliest pair in all the ring,\\nSweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;\\nThen, crown d with flow ry hay, came Rural Joy,\\nAnd Summer, with his fervid -beaming eye\\nAll-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,\\nLed yellow Autumn wreath d with nodding corn\\nThen Winter s time-bleach d locks did hoary show,\\nBy Hospitality with cloudless brow.\\nNext followed Courage with his martial stride,\\nFrom where the FeaP wild- woody coverts hide;\\nBenevolence, with mild, benignant air,\\nA Female form, came from the tow rs of Stair;*\\nLearning and Worth in equal measures trode\\nFrom simple Catrine, their long-lov d abode\\nLast, white-rob d Peace, crown d with a hazel wreath.\\nTo rustic Agriculture did bequeath\\nThe broken, iron instruments of death\\nAt sight of whom our Sprites f orgat their kindling wrath.\\nTHE ORDINATION/\\nFor sense, they little owe to frugal Heav n\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nTo please the mob, they hide the little giv n.\\nKilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw,\\nAn pour your creeshie\u00c2\u00ae nations\\nAn ye wha leather rax\u00c2\u00ae an draw,\\nOf a denominations,\\n^Ear. 2 Sea-weed.\\nFeal is a small stream that runs near Coilsfield.\\nThe allusion is to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair.\\nOn the banks of Ayr, where Professor Stewart resided, when not\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2ccupied by his work at Edinboro\\nThe Ordination ^ew out of a Kirk squabble, in Kilmarnock,\\nbetween the high-flymg and the moderate i)arty, who wer\u00c2\u00ab\\nvanquished in the fray; a high-flying minister having obtained the\\nappointment. Burns endeavored to console the defeated moder-\\nates with a vision of the expected ceremony. Maggie Lauder,\\nas we are informed by Burns, was the maiden name of the Rev. Mr.\\nLindsay s wife., Weavers. Greasy, Stretch.,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0064.jp2"}, "65": {"fulltext": "THE ORDINATION. 33\\ntBwith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an\\nAn there tak up your stations\\nThen aff to Begbie sin a raw,\\nAn pour divine libations\\nFor joy this day.\\nCurst Common-sense, that imp o hell.\\nCam in wi Maggie Lauder\\nBut Oliphant aft made her yell,\\nAn Russel sair misea d her\\nThis day M Kinlay taks the flail,\\nAn he s the boy will blaud her!\\nHe ll clap a shangan* on her tail,\\nAn set the bairns to daud^ her\\nWi dirt this day.\\nMak haste an turn king David owre,\\nAn lilt* wi holy clangor\\nO double verse come gie us four,\\nAn skirP up the Bangor\\nThis day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,*\\nNae mair the knaves shall wrang hcr^\\nFor Heresy is in her pow r.\\nAnd gloriously she ll whang her\\nWi pith this day.\\nCome let a proper text be read.\\nAn touch it off wi vigour,\\nHow graceless Ham^ leugh^^ at his Dad,\\nWhich made Canaan a niger\\nOr Phineas^*^ drove the murdering bladd\\nWi w e-abhorring rigour\\nOr Zipporah, the scauldin jade,\\nWas like a bluidy tiger\\nI th Inn that day.\\nThere, try his mettle on the creed,\\nAnd bind him down wi caution,\\nThat Stipend is a carnal weed\\nHe taks but for the fashion\\nAn gie him o er the flock, to feed,\\nAnd punish each transgression\\nEspecial, rams that cross the breed,\\nGie them sufficient threshin\\nSpare them nae day.\\nGet away. 2 Row. Slap.\\nA gtick cleft at one end. Pelt. Sing. shriek.\\nDust. Genesis ix. 22.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 10 Did laugh.\\ni negro. Nurabers xxv. 8.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Exodus iv. 25.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. BL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0065.jp2"}, "66": {"fulltext": "34 BURNS.\\nNow auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,\\nAn toss thy horns f u canty\\nNae mair thou lt rowte^ out-owre the dalt.\\nBecause thy pasture s scanty;\\nFor lapfu s large o gospel kail\\nShall fill thy crib in plenty,\\nAn runts o grace the pick an wale,*\\nNo gie n by way o dainty.\\nBut ilka day.\\nNae mair by Babel streams we ll weep,\\nTo think upon our Zion\\nAnd hing our fiddles up to sleep,\\nLike baby-clouts a-dryin\\nCome, screw the pegs wi tunefu cheep,*\\nAnd o er the thairms* be tryin\\nOh rare! to see our elbucks wheep,*\\nAnd a like lamb-tails flyin\\nFu fast this day 1\\nLang, Patronage, wi rod o airn,\u00c2\u00ae\\nHas shor d the Kirk s undoin,\\nAs lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,\\nHas proven to its ruin\\nOur Patron, honest man Glencaim,\\nHe saw mischief was brewin\\nAnd like a godly, elect bairn,\\nHe s waVd us out a true ane,\\nAnd sound this day.\\nNow Robinson harangue nae mair,\\nBut steek\u00c2\u00ae your gab for ever\\nOr try the wicked town of Ayr,\\nFor there they ll think you clever;\\nOr, nae refiection on your lear,\\nYe may commence a Shaver;\\nOr to the Netherton^ repair,\\nAnd turn a Carpet-weaver\\nAff-hand this day.\\nMutrie and you were just a match.\\nWe never had sic twa drones;\\nAuld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,\\nJust like a winkin baudrons,^^\\n1 BeUow. 2 Choice. Chirp.\\nStrings. Elbows jerk. Iron. Chogen\\n8 Shut. s A district of Ejlmarnock. i\u00c2\u00ab Cat.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0066.jp2"}, "67": {"fulltext": "THE ORDINATIOI^, 35\\nAnd ay he catch d the tither wretch,\\nTo fry them in his caudrons\\nBut now his Honor maun detach,\\nWi a his brimstone squadrons,\\nFast, fast this day.\\nSee, see auld Orthodoxy s faes,\\nShe s swingein thro the city\\nHark, how the nine-tail d cat she plays 1\\nI vow it s unco pretty\\nThere Learning, with his Greekish face,\\nGrunts out some Latin ditty\\nAnd Common Sense is gaun, she says,\\nTo mak to Jamie Beattie\\nHer plaint this day.\\nBut there s Morality himsel,\\nEmbracing all opinions\\nHear, how he gies the tither yell,\\nBetween his twa companions\\nSee, how she peels the skin an fell,\\nAs ane were peelin onions\\nNow there, they re packed aff to hell,\\nAnd banish d our dominions,\\nHenceforth this day,\\nO happy day rejoice, rejoice\\nCome bouse about the porter!\\nMorality s demure decoys\\nShall here nae mair find quarter\\nM Kinlay, Russel are the boys\\nThat Heresy can torture\\nThey ll gie her on a rape a hoyse^\\nAnd cowe^ her measure shorter\\nBy th head some day.\\nCome, bring the tither mutchkin in,\\nAnd here s, for a conclusion,\\nTo every New Light^ mother s son,\\nFrom this time forth. Confusion\\nIf mair they deave^ us with their din,\\nOr Patronage intrusion.\\nWe ll light a spunk, and, ev ry skin,\\nWe ll rin them aff in fusion\\nLike oil, some day.\\nA pull upwards. lqp 3 An English pint.\\nNew Light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for thow\\nreligious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has so strenuously\\ndefended\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Deafen. A match.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0067.jp2"}, "68": {"fulltext": "36 BURNS\\nTHE calf;\\nTO THE RKY. MR. JAMES STEVEN, ON HIS TEXT, MIULCHX,\\nCH, rv. VKR. 2.\\n*And they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stalL**\\nRight, Sir your text I ll prove it true,\\nTho Heretics may laugh\\nFor instance there s yoursel just now\\nGod knows, an unco Calf!\\nAnd should some Patron be so kind,\\nAs bless you wi a kirk,\\nI doubt na, sir, but then we ll find,\\nYe re still as great a Stirk.**\\nBut, if the Lover s raptur d hour\\nShall ever be your lot.\\nForbid it, ev ry heavenly Power,\\nYou e er should be a Stot!*\\nTho when some kind, connubial Dear,\\nYour But-and-ben* adorns.\\nThe like has been that you may wear\\nA noble head of horns.\\nAnd, m your lug, most reverend James,\\nTo hear you roar and ro wte,\\nFew men o sense will doubt your claim*\\nTo rank amang the No wte.\\nAnd when ye re number d wi the dead,\\nBelow a grassy hillock,\\nWi justice they may mark your head\\n*^Here lies a famous Bullock!\\nThe Poem was nearly an extemporaneous production on a wager\\nthat he would not produce a poem on the subject hi a given\\ntime.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Bullock of a vear old. ^n ox.\\nKitchen and parlour. Bellow. Black cattle.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0068.jp2"}, "69": {"fulltext": "ADDIiESS TO THE DEIL, 37\\nADDRESS TO THE DEIL.\\nOh Prince Oh Chief of many throned Pow*rs,\\nThat led th embattled Seraphim to war.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ilfi7f on.\\nO THOU whatever title suit thee,\\nAuld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,\\nWha in yon cavern grim an sootie,\\nClosed under hatches,\\nSpairges^ about the brunstane cootie,^\\nTo scaud poor wretches!\\nHear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,\\nAn let poor damned bodies be\\nI m sure sma pleasure it can gie,\\nEv n to a deil.\\nTo skelp* an scaud poor dogs like me,\\nAn hear us squeell\\nGreat is thy pow r, an great thy fame\\nFar kend an noted is thy name\\nAn tho yon lowin heugh s^ thy hame,\\nThou travels far\\nAn faith I thou s neither lag nor lame,\\nNor blate nor scaur/\\nWhyles, ranging like a roarin lion,\\nFor prey a holes an corners tryin\\nWhyles on the strong- wing d tempest flyin,\\nTirlin\u00c2\u00ae the kirks\\nWhyles in the human bosom pryin,\\nUnseen thou lurks.\\nI ve heard my reverend Grannie say,\\nIn lanely glens ye like to stray\\nIt was, I think, in the winter, as we were going together with\\ncarts for coal to the family Are (and I could yet point out the par*\\nticular spot), that the author first repeated to me the Address to\\nthe Deil. The curious idea of such an address was suggested to\\nhim by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and\\nrepresentations we have from various quartei-s of this august per*\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2onage.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B. 2 Dashest. 3 Wooden dish. Strike.\\nThe third stanza was originally\\nLangs3me in Eden s happy scene,\\nWhen strappin Adam s days were green,\\nAnd Eve was like my bonnie Jean,\\nMy dearest part,\\nA dancln sweet, young, handsome quean\\nWi guileless heart.\\nFlaming pit. Neither bashful nor apt to b\u00c2\u00a9 scared.\\nUncovering.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0069.jp2"}, "70": {"fulltext": "38 BURNS.\\nOr where auld ruin d castles, gray,\\nNod to the moon,\\nYe fright the nightly wand rer s way,\\nWi eldritch croon.*\\nWhen twilight did my Grannie summon,\\nTo say her pray rs, douce, honest woman!\\nMt yont the dyke she s heard you bummin,*\\nWe eerie drone;\\nOr, rustlin, thro the boortries^ comin,\\nWi heavy groan.\\nAe dreary, windy, winter night.\\nThe stars shot down wi sklentm* light,\\nWi you, mysel, I gat a fright,\\nAyont the lough;\\nYe, like a rash-bush,^ stood in sight,\\nWi waving sugh.\\nThe cudgel in my nieve^ did shake,\\nEach bristrd hair stood like a stake,\\nWhen wi an eldritch stoor,^ quaick, quaick,\\nAmang the springs,\\nAwa ye squatter d,\u00c2\u00ae like a drake.\\nOn whistling wings.\\nLet warlocks^ grim, an wither d hags,\\nTell how wi you on ragweed^ nags,\\nThey skin the muirs, an dizzy crags,\\nWi wicked speed;\\nAnd in kirk-yards renew their leagues,\\nOwre howkit dead.\\nThence, countra wives, wi toil an pain.\\nMay plunge an plunge the kirn^^ in vain;\\nFor, Oh I the yellow treasure s taen\\nBy witching skill;\\nAn dawtit,^^ twal-pint^^ Hawkie s gaen\\nAsyell s^Uhebill.^*\\nThence, mystic knots mak great abuse,\\nOn young Guidman, fond, keen, an crouse;*\\nWhen the best wark-lume^\u00c2\u00ae i the house,\\nBy cantraip^^ wit.\\nIs instant made no worth a\\nJust at the bit.\\nFrightful moan. 2 Humming.\\nti^ shrub elder, common in the hedges of barn-yards. Slant\\n|WA\\\\ A bush of rushes. Fist. ^Hoarse. Fluttered. Wijt\\nUC8. Ragwort. \u00c2\u00bbi Digged up. Chum. pQu^jied. 1* Twelve\\nDint. 1\u00c2\u00b0 Barren. Bull. Courageous. Working tool\\nJ\u00c2\u00bb Magical.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0070.jp2"}, "71": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS TO THE DEIL, 39\\nWhen thowes^ dissolve the snawy hoord,\\nAn float the jinglin icy-boord,\\nThen Water-kelpies haunt the foord,\\nBy your direction,\\nAn nighted Travellers are allur d\\nTo their destruction.\\nAn aft your moss-traversing Spunkies\\nDecoy the wight that late an drunk is\\nThe bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies\\nDelude his eves,\\nTill in some miry slough he sunk is.\\nNe er mair to rise.\\nWhen Mason s mystic word an grip,\\nIn storms an tempests raise you up,\\nSome cock or cat your rage maun stop,\\nOr, strange to tell!\\nThe youngest Brother ye wad whip\\nAff straught to heU.\\nLang syne, in Eden s bonnie yard,\\nWhen youthfu lovers first were pair d,\\nAn all the soul of love they shar d,\\nThe raptur d hour,\\nSweet on the fragrant, flow ry swaird,\\nIn shady bow r:\\nThen you, ye auld, snec-drawing* dog I\\nYe came to Paradise incog,\\nAn play d on man a cursed brogue,^\\n(Black be you fa 1)\\nAn gied the infant warld a shog,*\\nMaist ruin d a\\\\\\nD ye mind that day, when in a bizz,^\\nWi reekit duds,\u00c2\u00ae an reestit gizz,*\\nYe did present your smoutie phiz,\\nMang better folk,\\nAn sklented^ on the man of Uzz\\nYour spitefu joke?\\nAn how ye gat him i your thrall,\\nAn brak him out o house an hal\\nWhile scabs an blotches did him gall,\\nWi bitter claw,\\nAn lows d his ill-tongu d, wicked Scawl,\\nWast warst ava?^^\\nThaws. Hoard. Will-o -whisp. Trick-contriving.\\nTrick. Shock. Bugtie. s smoky clothes. Stunted periwig\\n\u00c2\u00bbo Played. Loosed. Scold. Of aH.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0071.jp2"}, "72": {"fulltext": "40 BURETS.\\nBut a your doings to rehearse,\\nYour wily snares an fechtin^ fierce,\\nSin that day MichaeP did you pierce,\\nDown to this time,\\nWad ding^ a Lallan tongue, or Erse,\\nIn prose or rhyme.\\nAn now, auld Cloots, I ken ye re thinkin,\\nA certain Bardie s rantin, drinkin.\\nSome luckless hour will send him linkin,*\\nTo your black pit\\nBut, faith! he ll turn a corner jinkin,*^\\nAn cheat you yet.\\nBut, fare you weel, auld Nickie-benI\\nO wad ye tak a thought an men 1\\nYe aiblins\u00c2\u00ae might I dinna ken\\nStill hae a stake\u00e2\u0080\u0094*\\nI m wae to think upo yon den,\\nEv n for your sake I\\nTHE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAa-\\nLIE, THE AUTHOR S ONLY PET YOWE.\\nAN UNCO MOUKNFU TALE.\\nAs Mailie an her lambs thegither.\\nWere ae day nibbling on the tether,\\nUpon her cloot\u00c2\u00ae she coost^ a hitch,\\nAn owre she warsl d in the ditch:\\nThere, groaning, dying, she did lie,\\nWhen Hughoc^^ he cam doytin by.\\nWi glowrin een, an lifted ban s.\\nPoor Hughoc like a statue stan s;\\nHe saw her days were near-hand ended.\\nBut, waes my heart he could na mend it.\\n1 Fighting. 2 vide Miltou, Book vi.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 3 Worst.\\n4 Tripping. Dodging. Perhaps.\\nThe circumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much as he\\nhas described them: he had, partly by way of frohc, bought a ewe\\nand two lambs from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field ad-\\njoining the house at Lochlie. He and I were going out with our\\nteams, and our two younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-d\u00c2\u00bby;\\nwhen Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking, awkward boy, clad in plaid-\\ning, came to us, came to us, with much anxiety in his face, with the\\ninformation that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and\\nwas lying in the ditch. Robert was much tickled with Huoc s ap-\\npearance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set tc\\nrights, and when we returned from the plough in the evening, he re\\npeated to me her Death and Dying Words, pretty much in Xhi\\nway they now stand.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B.\\nHoof. Cast. 10 Loop. i^ Wrestled,\\n12 A neibor herd-caJlan.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0072.jp2"}, "73": {"fulltext": "THE DEATH OF POOR MAILIE. 41\\nHe gaped wide, but naething spak,\\nAt length poor Mailie silence brak.\\nthou, whase lamentable face\\nAppears to mourn my woefu case,\\nMy dying words attentive hear,\\nAn bear them to my Master dear.\\nTell him, if e er again he keep\\nAs muckle gear as buy a sheep,\\nO, bid him never tie them mair\\nWi wicked strings o hemp or hair!\\nBut ca them out to park or hill,\\nAn let them wander at their will\\nSo may his flocks increase, an grow\\nTo scores o lambs, an packs o woo 1*\\nTell him, he was a Master kin\\nAn ay was guid to me an mine\\nAn now my dying charge I gie him,\\nMy helpless lambs, I trust them wi him.\\nO, bid him save their harmless lives,\\nFrae dogs, an tods, an butchers knives.\\nBut gie them guid cow-milk their fill,\\nTill they be fit to f end^ themsel\\nAn tent them duly, e en an morn,\\nWi teats^ o hay, an ripps* o corn.\\nAn may they never learn the gaets*\\nOf ither vile, wanrestfu pets\\nTo slink thro slajjs, an reave* an steal,\\nAt stacks o pease, or stocks o kail.\\nSo may they, like their great Forbears,\\nFor monie a year come thro the shears\\nSo wives will gie them bits o bread.\\nAn bairns greet for them when they re dead.\\n^My poor toop-lamb, my son an heir,\\nO, bid him breed him up wi care\\nAn if he live to be a beast,\\nTo pit some havins^^ in his breast I\\nAn warn him, what I winna name\\nTo stay content wi yowes at hame\\nAn not to rin an wear his cloots.\\nLike ither menseless, graceless brutes.\\nAn niest my j^owie,^^ silly thing,\\nGude keep thee frae a tether string\\nWool. Live comfortably. Small quantities. Hi\\nWays. Restless. Gates, or breaks in fences\\nRove. Forefathers. Weep.\\nRam. Good manners. Ewe.\\nHandfulu", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0073.jp2"}, "74": {"fulltext": "12 BURNS.\\nO, may thou ne er forgather up\\nWi ony blastit, moorland toop\\nBut ay keep mind to moop^ an mell,\\nWr sheep o credit like thysel I\\nAnd now, nay bairns, wi my last breath,\\nI lea e my blessin wi you baith\\nAn when you think upo your Mither,\\n!Mind to be kind to ane anither.\\n**Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,\\nTo tell my master a my tale\\nAn bid him burn this cursed tether,\\nAn for thy pains, thou se get my blather.\\nThis said, poor Mailie turn d her head.\\nAn* clos d her een amang the dead I\\nPOOR MAILIE S ELEGY.\\nLament in rhyme, lament in prose,\\nWi saut tears trickling down your nose;\\nOur Bardie s fate is at a close.\\nPast a remead\\nThe last, sad cape-stane^ of his woes\\nPoor Mailie s dead I\\nIt s no the loss o warl s gear,\\nThat could sae bitter draw the tear,\\nOr mak our Bardie, dowie,^ wear\\nThe mourning weed:\\nHe s lost a friend and neebor dear.\\nIn Mailie dead.\\nThro a the toun she trotted by him\\nA lang half-mile she could descry him\\nWi kindly bleat, when she did spy him.\\nShe ran wi speed:\\nA friend mair faithfu ne er cam nigh him\\nThan Mailie dead.\\nI wat she was a sheep o sense.\\nAn could behave hersel wi mense\\nI ll say t, she never brak a fence.\\nThro thievish greed,\\nOur Bardie, lanely, keeps the Spence**\\nSin Mailie s dead.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Kibble. 3 Meddle. 3 Bladder. Copeston\u00c2\u00a9\\nWorn with grief. Parlour.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0074.jp2"}, "75": {"fulltext": "TO JAMES SMITH. 43\\nOr, if he wanders up the ho we,\\nHer living image, in her yowe,\\nComes bleating to him owre the knowe,\\nFor bits o bread\\nAn down the briny pearls rowe\\nFor Mailie dead.\\nShe was nae get o moorland tips,^\\nWi tawted* ket, an hairy hips\\nFor her forbears were brought in ships,\\nFrae yont the Tweed;\\nA bonnier fleesh ne er cross d the clips^\\nThan Mailie dead.\\nWae worth the man wha first did shape\\nThat vile, wanchancie^ thing a rape\\nIt make guid fellows girn^ an gape,\\nWi chokin dread;\\nAn Robin s bonnet wave wi crape,\\nFor Mailie dead.\\nO, a* ye Bards on bonnie Doon\\nAn wha on Ayr your chanters\u00c2\u00ae tune\\nCome, join the melancholious croon*\\n0 Robin s reed!\\nHis heart will never get aboon\\nHis Mailie dead I\\nTO JAMES SMITH.\\nFriendship! mysterious cement of the soul!\\nSweet ner of Life, and solder of Society I\\nI owe thee much. Blair,\\nDear Smith, the sleest, paukie^^ thief,\\nThat e er attempted stealth or rief,\\nYe surely hae some warlock-breef\\nOwre human hearts;\\nFor ne er a bosom yet was prief^^\\nAgainst your arts.\\nFor me, I swear by sun and moon.\\nAnd ev ry star that blinks aboon,\\nYe ve cost me twenty pair o shoon\\nJust gaun to see you;\\nAnd ev ry ither pair that s done,\\nMair ta en I m wi you.\\nDell. 2 HUlock. 8 Rams. Matted wool. Shearg.\\nUnlucky, Qrin. s parts of bagpipes. Moan.\\nSmith kept a shop in Mauchline. ii Cunmng. wizard spell\\n13 Proof.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0075.jp2"}, "76": {"fulltext": "44 Burns.\\nThat auld, capricious carlin, Nature,\\nTo mak amends for scrimpit^ stature,\\nShe s turn d you aff, a human creature\\nOn her first plan,\\nAnd in her freaks, on ev ry feature,\\nShe s wrote, The Man/\u00c2\u00bb\\nJust now I ve taen the fit o rhyme,\\nMy barmie noddle s working prime,\\nMy fancy yerkit^ up sublime\\nWi hasty summon\\nHae ye a leisure moment s time\\nTo hear what s comin?\\nSome rhyme a neebor s name to lash\\nSome rhyme (vain thought for needf a cash,\\nSome rhyme to court the contra clash,\\nAn raise a din\\nFor me, an aim I never fash\\nI rhyme for fun.\\nThe star that rules my luckless lot.\\nHas fated me the russet coat,\\nAn d d my fortune to the groat\\nBut, in requit,\\nHas blest me wi a random shot\\nO countra wit.\\nThis while my notion s taen a sklent.\\nTo try my fate in guid, black prent\\nBut still the mair I m that way bent.\\nSomething cries, Hoolie 1*\\nI red you, honest man, tak tent!\\nYe ll shaw your folly.\\nThere s ither poets, much your betters,\\nFar seen in Greek, deep men o letters,\\nHae thought they had ensur d their debtors,\\nA future ages\\nNow moths deform in shapeless tatters.\\nTheir unknown pages.\\nThen fareweel hopes o laurel-boughs.\\nTo garland my poetic brows\\nHenceforth Til rove where busy ploughs\\nAre whistling thrang.\\nAn teach the lanely heights an howes\\nMy rustic sang.\\nOld woman. Scanty. Lashed. Care for. Gently.\\nI warn j )u.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0076.jp2"}, "77": {"fulltext": "TO JAMES SMITH. 45\\nni wander on, wi tentless^ heed\\nHow never-halting moments speed,\\nTill fate shall snap the brittle thread\\nThen, all unknown,\\nI ll lay me with th inglorious dead,\\nForgot and gone\\nBut why o Death begin a tale?\\nJust now we re living, sound an hale\\nThen top and maintop crowd tlie sail,\\nHeave Care o er side I\\nAnd large, before Enjoyment s gale,\\nLet s tak the tide\\nThis life, sae far s I understand,\\nIs a enchanted fairy- land.\\nWhere pleasure is the magic wand,\\nThat, wielded right,\\nMaks hours like minutes, hand in hand,\\nDance by fu light.\\nThe magic-wand then let us wield\\nFor, ance that five-an -f orty s speel d,\\nSee, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,\\nWi wrinkl d face.\\nComes hostin,^ hirplin owre the field,\\nWi creepin pace.\\nWhen ance life s day draws near the gloamin,\\nThen f areweel vacant careless roamin\\nAn f areweel chearfu tankards foamin,\\nAn social noise\\nAn fareweel dear deluding woman.\\nThe joy of joys!\\nO Life how pleasant in thy morning,\\nYoung Fancy s rays the hills adorning!\\nCold-pausing Caution s lesson scorning.\\nWe frisk away,\\nLike school-boys, at th expected warning,\\nTo joy and play.\\nHeedless.\\nIn your epistle to J. S., the stanzas, from that beginning with\\nIhis line, This life, c., to that which ends with, Short while it\\nl^eves, are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian\\nelegance. The language is EngUsh, with a few Scottish words, and\\nsome of those so harmonious as to add to the beauty; for what poet\\nwould not prefer gloaming to timlight?\u00e2\u0080\u0094Dr. Moore, June 10, 1789.\\nClimbed. Coughing. Limping.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0077.jp2"}, "78": {"fulltext": "46 BURVS\\nWe wander there, we wander here,\\nWe eye the rose upon the brier,\\nUnmindful that the thorn is near,\\nAmong the leaves;\\nAnd tho the puny wound appear,\\nShort while it grieves.\\nSome, lucky, find a flow ry spot,\\nFor which they never toil d nor swat\\nThey drink the sweet and eat the fat,\\nBut care or pain\\nAnd, haply, eye the barren hut\\nWith high disdain.\\nWith steady aim, some Fortune chase;\\nKeen Hope does ev ry sinew brace\\nThro fair, thro foul, they urge the race,\\nAnd seize the prey:\\nThen cannie, in some cozie place,\\nThey close the day.\\nAnd others, like your humble servan\\nPoor wights nae rules nor roads observin\\nTo right or left, eternal swervin\\nThey zig-zag on\\nTill curst with age, obscure an starving\\nThey aften groan.\\nAlas what bitter toil an straining\\nBut truce wi peevish, poor complaining I\\nIs Fortune s fickle Luna waning?\\nE en let her gang\\nBeneath what light she has remaining,\\nLet s sing our sang.\\nMy pen I here fling to the door,\\nAnd kneel, Ye Pow rs! and warm implore,\\n**Tho I should wander TeiTa o er,\\nIn all her climes.\\nGrant me but this, I ask no more.\\nAy rowth^ o rhymes.\\nGie dreeping^ roasts to countra Lairds,\\nTill icicles hing frae their beards\\nGie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards,\\nAnd Maids of Honour;\\nAnd yilP and whisky gie to Cairds,*\\nUntil they sconner.\\nPlenty. Dropping. \u00c2\u00abAle. Tinkers. Loath\u00c2\u00abi", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0078.jp2"}, "79": {"fulltext": "TO JAMES SMITH. ti\\nA Title, Dempster^ merits it\\nA Garter gie to Willie Pitt\\nGie TVealth to some be-ledger d Cit,\\nIn cent per cent;\\nBut gie me real, sterling Wit,\\nAnd I m content.\\nWhile Ye are pleased to keep me hale,\\nI ll sit down o er my scanty meal,\\nBe t water-brose or muslin-kail,\\nWi cheerfu face,\\nAs lang s the Muses dinna fail\\nTo say the grace.\\nAn anxious e e I never throws\\nBehiQt my lug, or by my nose\\nI jouk beneath ^Misfortune s blows\\nAs weel s I may\\nSworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose,\\nI rhyme away.\\nye douce folk, that live by rule,\\nGrave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool.\\nCompared wi you O fool I fool I fool I\\nHow much unlike\\nYour hearts are just a standing pool,\\nYour lives, a dyke I\\nNae hair-brain d sentimental traces,\\nIn your unletter d, nameless faces I\\nIn arioso trills and graces\\nYe never stray.\\nBut gravissimo, solemn basses,\\nYe hum away.\\nYe are sae grave, nae doubt ye re wifle;\\nNa\u00e2\u0082\u00ac ferly^ tho ye do despise\\nThe hairum-scaii*um, ram-stam* boys,\\nThe rattling squad:\\n1 see you upward cast your eyes\\nYe ken the road.\\nWhilst I but I shall haud me there\\nWi you I ll scarce gang ony where\\nThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,\\nBut quat\u00c2\u00ae my sang,\\nContent with You to mak a pair,\\nWhare er I gang.\\nAn active Member of Parliament, who died in 1818,\\nBrofti made of water, shelled barley, and greens. Stoojx\\nAn expression of contempt. Thoughtless, Quit.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0079.jp2"}, "80": {"fulltext": "48 BURNS.\\nA DREAM.\\nThoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames witfe reason;\\nBut surely Dreams were ne er indicted Treason\\nOn reading, in the public papers, the Laureate s Ode,\\nwith the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was na\\nsooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transportecl\\nto the Birth-day Levee and in his dreaming fancy, madt\\nthe following Address. R. B.\\nGuiD-MORNiN to your Majesty\\nMay heaven augment your blisses,\\nOn ev ry new birth-day ye see,\\nA humble Poet wishes\\nMy Bardship here, at your Levee,\\nOn sic a day as this is,\\nIs sure an uncouth sight to see,\\nAmang thae Birth-day dresses\\nSae fine this day,\\nI see ye re complimented thrang,\\nBy many a lord an lady\\nGod save the King 1 s a cuckoo sang\\nThat s unco easy said ay\\nThe Poets, too, a venal gang,\\nWi rhymes weel tum d and ready,\\nWad gar^ you trow ye ne er do wrang.\\nBut ay unerring steady.\\nOn sic a day.\\nFor me I before a Monarch s face,\\nEv n there I winna flatter\\nFor neither pension, post, nor place,\\nAm I your hmnble debtor\\nSo, nae reflection on Your Grace,\\nYour Kingship to bespatter\\nThere s monie waur been o the Race,\\nAnd aiblins ane been better\\nThan You this day.\\nTis very true my sovereign King,\\nMy skill may weel be doubted\\nBut Facts are cheels^ that winna ding,*\\nAn downa^ be disputed\\nMake. Perhaps. Yoimg f ellow*\\n4 Will not be beaten, Cannot.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0080.jp2"}, "81": {"fulltext": "A DREAM. 4^1\\nYour Royal nest, beneath Your wing,\\nIs e en right reft an clouted,\\nAnd now the third part of the string,\\nAn less, will gang about it\\nThan did ae day.\\nFar be c frae me that I aspire\\nTo blame your legislation,\\nOr say, ye wisdom want, or fire,\\nTo rule this mighty nation\\nBut faith I muckle doubt, my Sire,\\nYe ve trusted Ministration\\nTo chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,^\\nWad better filled their station\\nThan courts yon day.\\nAnd now ye ve gien auld Britain peace.\\nHer broken shins to plaister\\nYour sair taxation does her fleece,\\nTill she has scarce a tester\\nFor me, thank God, my life s a lease,\\nNae bargain wearing faster.\\nOr, faith I fear, that we the geese,\\nI shortly boost^ to pasture\\nI the craft^ some day.\\nI m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,\\nWhen taxes he enlarges,\\n(An Will s a true guid fallow s get,*\\nA name not envy spairges,\\nThat he intends to pay your debt,\\nAn lessen a your charges;\\nBut, God s sake let nae saving-fit\\nAbridge your bonnie barges\\nAn boats this day.\\nAdieu, my Liege may freedom geek\\nBeneath your high protection\\nAn may Ye rax\u00c2\u00ae Corruption s neck,\\nAnd gie her for dissection\\nBut since I m here, I ll no neglect,\\nIn loyal, true affection.\\nTo pay your Queen, with due respect,\\nMy fealty an subjection\\nThis great Birth-day.\\nTKm and patched the allusion is to the separation of Ajnerica,\\nCow-stable. Must needs. Field. Child. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Bemires. Exult\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Stretch.\\nC", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0081.jp2"}, "82": {"fulltext": "50 BURNS.\\nHail, Majesty most Excellent\\nWhile nobles strive to please Ye,\\nWill Ye accept a compliment\\nA simple Poet gies Ye?\\nThae bonny bairntime, Heav n has lent^\\nStill higher may they heeze^ Ye\\nIn bliss, till Fate some day is sent,\\nFor ever to release Ye\\nFrae care that day.\\nFor you, young Potentate o^ Wales,\\nI tell your Highness fairly,\\nDown Pleasure s stream, wi swelling saiL^\\nI m tauld ye re driving rarely\\nBut some day ye may gnaw your nails,\\nAn curse your folly sairly.\\nThat e er ye brak Diana s pales,\\nOr rattl d dice wi Charlie^\\nBy night or day.\\nYet aft a ragged cowte s^ been known\\nTo mak a noble aiver\\nSay, ye may doucely fill a Throne,\\nFor a their clish-ma-claver\\nThere, Him^ at Agincourt wha shone,\\nFew better were or braver\\nAnd yet, wi funny, queer Sir John,\\nHe was an unco shaver\u00c2\u00ae\\nFor monie a day.\\nFor you, right rev rend Osnaburg,\u00c2\u00ae\\nNane sets the lawn-sleeves sweeter,\\nAltho a ribbon at your lug\\nWad been a dress completer\\nAs ye disown yon paughty dog\\nThat bears the Keys of Peter,\\nThen, swith an get a wife to hug.\\nOr, trouth ye ll stain the Mitre\\nSome luckless day.\\nYoung, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,\\nYe ve lately come athwart her\\nA glorious galley, stem and stern,\\nWeel rigg d for Venus barter\\nRaise. 2 Mr. Fox. 3 Colt. Cart-horse. Idle talk.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2King Henry V.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 1 Sir John Falstaflf mde Shakspeare.-R.B.\\nWag. Osnaburg gave the title of Bishop to the second son\\nof George EH. 10 Proud. Get away. 12 xhe Royal Breeks\\nwas the Duke of Clarence. Alluding to the newspaper account\\nof a certain Royal sailor s amour.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0082.jp2"}, "83": {"fulltext": "THE VISION. 61\\nBut first hang out, that she ll discern\\nYour hymeneal charter.\\nThen heave aboard your grapple aim,*\\nAn large upon her quarter,\\nCome full that day.\\nYe, lastly, bonnie blossoms a\\nYe royal Lasses dainty,\\nHeav n mak you guid as weel as braw,\\nAn gie you lads a plenty\\nBut sneer na British boys awa\\nFor Kings are unco scant ay;\\nAn German Gentles are but sma\\nThey re better just than want ay\\nOn onie day.\\nGod bless you a consider now\\nYe re unco muckle dautet\\nBut, ere the course o life be through,\\nIt may be bitter sautet\\nAn I hae seen their coggie^ fou,\\nThat yet hae tarrow t* at it\\nBut or the day was done, I trow,\\nThe laggen^ they hae clautet\u00c2\u00ae\\nFu clean that day.\\nTHE VISION.\\nDUAN FIRST.\\nThe sun had closed the winter day,\\nThe Curlers quat their roarin play,\\nAnd hunger d Maukin^ taen her way\\nTo kail-yards green,\\nWhile faithless snaws ilk step betray\\nWhere she has been#\\nThe Thresher s weary flingin-tree\\nThe lee-lang day had tired me\\nAnd when the day had clos d his e e,\\nFar i the west,\\nBen i the Spence, right pensivelie,\\nI gaed to rest.\\nIron. 8 Caressed. Little wooden dish. Murmured.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2The angle between the side and bottom of the dish. Scraped.\\nDuan, a term of Ossian s for the different divisions of a digre*\\nlive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M Pherson s translation.\\nB.B. Players at a game on the ice, called curling. Hare.\\nThe parlour.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0083.jp2"}, "84": {"fulltext": "52 BURNS.\\nThere, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,\\nI sat and ey d the spewing reek,\\nThat fill d, wi hoast-provoking smeek,\\nThe auld, clay biggin\\nAn heard the restless rattons^ squeak\\nAbout the riggin.\\nAll in this mottie, misty clime,\\nI backward mus d on wasted time.\\nHow I had spent my youthfu prime,\\nAn done nae-thing,\\nBut stringin blethers up in rhyme,\\nFor fools to sing.\\nHad I to guid advice but harkit,\\nI might, by this, hae led a market,\\nOr strutted in a bank, and clarkit\\nMy cash-account:\\nWhile here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit*\\nIs a th amount.\\nI started, mutt ring, blockhead! coof\\nAnd heav d on high my waukit loof,^\\nTo swear by a yon starry roof.\\nOr some rash aith.\\nThat I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof\\nTill my last breath\\nWhen, click! the string the snick\u00c2\u00ae did dra^r;\\nAnd, jee the door gaed to the wa\\nAnd by my ingle-lowe^ I saw.\\nNow bleezin bright,\\nA tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw,\\nCome full in sight.\\nYe need na doubt, I held my whist\\nThe infant aith, half-form d, was crusht;\\nI glowr d as eerie s I d been dusht*\\nIn some wild glen\\nWhen sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,\\nAnd stepped ben.\\nGreen, slender, leaf -clad holly-boughs\\nWere twisted, gracefu round her brows,\\nI took her for some Scottish Muse,\\nBy that same token\\nAnd come to stop those reckless vows.\\nWould soon been broken.\\nHouse. 2 Rats. Half -provided with shirts. Ninny.\\nThickened or stained palm. Latch. Hearth-flam^.\\nSilence. Struck down. i\u00c2\u00ae Inward.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0084.jp2"}, "85": {"fulltext": "THE VISION. 63\\nA *hair-brain d, sentimental trace,\\nWas strongly marked in her face\\nA wildly- witty, rustic grace\\nShone full upon her;\\nHer eye, ev n turn d on empty space,\\nBeam d keen with Honour.\\nDown flow d her robe, a tartan sheen\\nTill half a leg was scrimply^ seen\\nAnd such a leg I my bonnie Jean\\nCould only peer it\\nSae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,\\nNane else came near it.\\nHer mantle large, of greenish hue,\\nMy gazing wonder chiefly drew\\nDeep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw\\nA lustre grand;\\nAnd seem d, to my astonish d view,\\nA well known land-\\nHere, rivers in the sea were lost;\\nThere, mountains to the skies were tost:\\nHere, tumbling billows mark d the coast,\\nWith surging foam\\nThere, distant shone Art s lofty boast.\\nThe lordly dome.\\nHere, Doon pour d down his far-fetch d floods;\\nThere, well-fed Irwine stately thuds\\nAuld hermit Ayr staw^ thro his woods,\\nOn to the shore\\nAnd many a lesser torrent scuds.\\nWith seeming roar.\\nLow, in a sandy valley spread.\\nAn ancient Boarough rear d her head\\nStill, as in Scottish story read.\\nShe boasts a race,\\nTo ev ry nobler virtue bred,\\nAnd polish d grace.\\nBy stately tow r or palace fair,\\nOr ruins pendent in the air.\\nBold stems of Heroes, here and there,\\nI could discern\\nSome seem d to muse, some seem d to dare,\\nWith features stem.\\nPartly, Loud noise. Did staid.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0085.jp2"}, "86": {"fulltext": "54 BURNS.\\nMy heart did glowing transport feel,\\nTo see a Race^ heroic wheel,\\nAnd brandish round the deep-dy d steel\\nIn sturdy blows;\\nWhile back-recoiling seem d to reel\\nTheir Suthron foes.\\nHis Country s Saviour,^ mark him well I\\nBold Richardton s^ heroic swell;\\nThe Chief on Sark* who glorious fell,\\nIn high command;\\nAnd he whom ruthless fates expel\\nHis native land.\\nThere, where a sceptr d Pictish shade*\\nStalk d round his ashes lowly laid,\\nI mark d a martial Race, portrayed\\nIn colours strong;\\nBold, soldier-featur d, undismayed\\nThey strode along.\\nThro many a wild, romantic grove,\\nNe ;r many a hermit-fancy d cove,\\n(Fit haunts for Friendship, or for Love,\\nIn musing mood,)\\nAn aged Judge, I saw him rove,\\nDispensing good.\\nWith deep-struck reverential awe\\nThe learned Sire and Son I saw,^\\nTo Nature s God and Nature s law\\nThey gave their lor\u00c2\u00ab,\\nThis, all its source and end to draw\\nThat, to adore.\\nBrydone s brave Ward\u00c2\u00ae I well could spy,\\nBeneath old Scotia s smiling eye;\\nWho call d on Fame, low standing by,\\nTo hand him on,\\nWhere many a Patriot name on high,\\nAnd Hero shone.\\n1 The Wallaces.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 2 William Wallace. -R. B.\\nAdam Wallace, of Richarton, cousin of the immorial preserver\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2f Scotish independence. R. B.\\nWallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under\\nDouglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of\\nSark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally\\nowing to the judicloutj conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant\\nLaird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nCoilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is\\nsaid to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-\\nseat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still\\nshown.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nBorskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice Clerk [Miller].\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R.B.\\nCatrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and prese^it Professor\\nStewart \u00e2\u0080\u0094B. B. nolonel Fullarton.\u00e2\u0080\u0094E. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0086.jp2"}, "87": {"fulltext": "THE VISION. 55\\nDUAN SECOND.\\nWith musing-deep, astonish d stare,\\nI view d the heav nly-seeming Fair\\nA whisp ring throb did witness bear.\\nOf kindred sweet,\\nWhen with an elder Sister s air\\nShe did me greet*\\nAll hail! my own inspired Bard J\\nIn me thy native Mnse regard I\\nNor longer mourn thy fate is hard,\\nThus poorly low 1\\nI come to give thee such reward\\nAs we bestow.\\n*^Know, the great Genius of this land\\nHas many a light, aerial band.\\nWho, all beneath his high command,\\nHarmoniously,\\nAs Arts or Arms they understand,\\nTheir labours ply.\\nThey Scotia s Race among them share;\\nSome fire the Soldier on to dare\\nSome rouse the Patriot up to bare\\nCorruption s heart\\nSome teach the Bard, a darling care,\\nThe tuneful art.\\nMong swelling floods of reeking gore,\\nThey, ardent, kindling spirits pour\\nOr, mid the venal Senate s roar.\\nThey, sightless, stand\\nTo mend the honest Patriot-lore,\\nAnd grace the hand.\\nAnd when the Bard, or hoary Sage,\\nCharm or instruct the future age.\\nThey bind the wild, Poetic rage\\nIn energy,\\nOr point the inconclusive page\\nFull on the eye.\\nHence, Fullarton, the brave and young;\\nHence, Dempster s zeal-inspired tongue\\nHence, sweet harmonious Beattie sung\\nHis Minstrel lays\\nOr tore, with noble ardour stung,\\nThe Sceptic s bays.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0087.jp2"}, "88": {"fulltext": "56 BURNS.\\nTo lower orders are assign d\\nThe humbler ranks of human-kind,\\nThe rustic Bard, the laboring Hind,\\nThe Artisan\\nAll chuse, as various they re inclined,\\nThe various man.\\nWhen yellow waves the heavy grain,\\nThe threat ning storm some, strongly, rein;\\nSome teach to meliorate the plain\\nWith tillage-skill;\\nAnd some instruct the Shepherd-train,\\nBlythe o er the hill.\\nSome hint the Lover s harmless wile;\\nSome grace the Maiden s artless smile\\nSome soothe the Lab rer s weary toil.\\nFor humble gains,\\nAnd make his cottage-scenes beguile\\nHis cares and pains.\\n**Some, bounded to a district-space,\\nExplore at large Man s infant race,\\nTo mark the embryotic trace\\nOf rustic Bard\\nAnd careful note each op ning grace,\\nA guide and guard.\\nOf these am I Coila my name;\\nAnd this district as mine I claim,\\nWhere once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,\\nHeld ruling pow r:\\nI mark d thy embryo-tuneful flame,\\nThy natal hour.\\nWith future hope, I oft would gaze,\\nFond, on thy little early ways,\\nThy rudely-caroll d, chiming phrase,\\nIn uncouth rhymes,\\nFir d at the simple, artless lays\\nOf other times.\\nI saw thee seek the sounding shore.\\nDelighted with the dashing roar\\nOr when the ISTorth his fleecy store\\nDrove thro the sky,\\nI saw grim Nature s visage hoar.\\nStruck thy yoimg eye.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0088.jp2"}, "89": {"fulltext": "THE VISION. 57\\nOr when the deep green-mantPd Earth\\nWarm-cherish d ev ry flow ret s birth,\\nAnd joy and music pouring forth\\nIn ev ry grove,\\nI saw thee eye the gen ral mirth\\nWith boundless love.\\nWhen ripen d fields, and azm^e skies,\\nCaird forth the Keaper s rustling noise,\\nsaw thee leave their ev ning joys,\\nAnd lonely stalk,\\nI d vent thy bosom s swelling rise\\nIn pensive walk.\\nWhen youthful Love, warm-blushing strong,\\nKeen-shivering shot thy nerves along.\\nThose accents, grateful to thy tongue,\\nTh adored Name,\\nI taught thee how to pour in song.\\nTo soothe thy flame.\\nI saw thy pulse s maddening play.\\nWild send thee Pleasure s devious way,\\nMisled by Fancy s meteor ray.\\nBy Passion driven\\nBut yet the light that led astray\\nWas light from Heaven,\\n*^I taught thy manners-painting strains,\\nThe loves, the ways of simple swains.\\nTill now, o er all my wide domains\\nThy fame extends\\n-And some, the pride of Coila s plains.\\nBecome thy friends.\\nThou canst not learn, nor can I show,\\nTo paint with Thomson s landscape glow;\\nOr wake the bosom-melting throe,\\nWith Shenstone s art;\\nOr pour, with Gray, the moving flow\\nWarm on the heart.\\nYet, all beneath th unrivall d rose.\\nThe lowly daisy sweetly blows\\nTho large the forest s monarch throws\\nHis army shade,\\nYet green the juicy hawthorn grows,\\nAdown the glade.\\n0*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0089.jp2"}, "90": {"fulltext": "68 BURNS.\\nThen never murmur nor repine;\\nStrive in thy humble sphere to shine;\\nAnd trust me, not Potosi^s mine,\\nNor Kings regard,\\nCan give a bliss overmatching thine^\\nA. rustic Bard.\\nTo give my counsels all in one,\u00e2\u0080\u0094*\\nThy tuneful flame still careful fan\\nPreserve the dignity of Man,\\nWith Soul erect;\\nAnd trust, the Universal Plan\\nWill all protect.\\n**And wear thou this she solemn said,\\nAnd bound the Holly round my head\\nThe polish d leaves, and berries red,\\nDid rustling play;\\nAnd, like a passing thought, she fled\\nIn light away.\\nADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUTD, OR THE RIGIDLl\\nRIGHTEOUS.\\nMy son, these maxims make a rule,\\nAnd lump them aye the^^ither;\\nThe Rigid Righteous is a fool,\\nThe Rigid Wise anither:\\nThe cleanest corn that e er was dight\\nMay hae some pyles o cafif in;\\nSo ne er a fellow-cVeature shght\\nFor random fits o daffln.\\n5 o/o7?i07i.~-Eccles vlL Id.\\nO YE wha are sae guid yoursel,\\nSae pious and sae holy,\\nYe ve nought to do but mark and toll\\nYour Xeebour s f auts and folly\\nWhase life is like a weel-gaun mill,\\nSupply d ^\\\\V store o water,\\nThe heapet happer s ebbing still.\\nAnd still the clap plays clatter.\\nHear me, ye venerable Core,^\\nAs counsel for poor mortals,\\nThat frequent pass douce Wisdom s door.\\nFor glaikit^ Folly s portals\\nOoT]^ CareleM,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0090.jp2"}, "91": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS. 59\\nI, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,\\nWould here propone defences,\\nTheir donsie^ tricks, their black mistakw^\\nTheir failings and mischances.\\nYe see your state wi theirs compared,\\nAnd shudder at the niffer,*\\nBut cast a moment s fair regard,\\nWhat maks the mighty differ?\\nDiscount what scant occasion gave\\nThat purity ye pride in,\\nAnd (what s aft mair than a the lave)\\nYour better art o hidin\\nThink, when your castigated pulse\\nGies now and then a wallop.\\nWhat raging must his veins convulse,\\nThat still eternal gallop\\nWi wind and tide fair i your tail,\\nRight on ye scud your sea-way;\\nBut in the teeth o baith to sail,\\nIt maks an unco leeway.\\nBee Social life and Glee sit down,\\nAll joyous and unthinking,\\nTill, quite transmugrify d, they re grown\\nDebauchery and Drinking:\\nO would they stay to calculate\\nTh eternal consequences;\\nOr your more dreaded hell to state,\\nDamnation of expenses\\nTe high, exalted, virtuous Dames,\\nTy d up in godly laces.\\nBefore ye gie poor Frailty names,\\nSuppose a change o cases\\nA dear lov d lad, convenience snug,\\nA treacherous inclination\\nBut, let me whisper i your lug,\\nYe re aiblins^ nae temptation.\\nThen gently scan your brother Man,\\nStill gentler sister Woman\\nTho they may gang a kennie^ wrang.\\nTo step aside is human\\nOne point must still be greatly dark.\\nThe moving Why they do it\\nAnd just as lamely can ye mark.\\nHow far perhaps they rue it.\\nilTBViekj. Exchange. Transformed. May be. \u00c2\u00bbSmaUmatC\u00c2\u00abi", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0091.jp2"}, "92": {"fulltext": "60 BURNS,\\nWho made the heart, tis He alone\\nDecidedly can try us,\\nHe knows each chord its various tone.\\nEach spring ^its various bias\\nThen at the balance let s be mute,\\nWe never can adjust it;\\nWhat s done we partly may compute,\\nBut know not what s resisted.\\nTAM SAMSON S ELEGY.\\nAn honest man s the noblest work of God.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Popa,\\nHas auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil?\\nOr great M Kinlay^ thrawn his heel?\\nOr Robinson^ again grown weel,\\nTo preach an read?\\n^Ua, waur than a l cries ilka chiel,\\nTam Samson s dead\\nKilmarnock lang may grunt an grane.\\nAn sigh, an sab, an greet her lane,*\\nAn pleed^ her bairns, man, wife, an wean,\\nIn mourning weed\\nTo Death she s dearly paid the kane,*\\nTam Samson s dead\\nThe Brethren o the mystic level\\nMay hing their head in woefu bevel,\\nWhile by their nose the tears will revel,\\nLike ony bead\\nDeath s gien the Lodge an unco devel,\\nTam Samson s dead I\\nWhen Winter muffles up his cloak,\\nAnd binds the mire like a rock\\nWhen to the loughs the Curlers flock\\nWi gleesome speed,\\nWha will they station at the cock?\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nWhen this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl \u00c2\u00abeasoB|\\nhe supposed it was to be, in Ctesian s phrase, the last of hisfieldsr\\nand expressed an ardent witeh to die and be buried in the muirs.\\nOn this hint the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nA certain preacher, a great favourite with the million.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Vide\\nThe Ordination, stanza ii.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nAnother preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at\\nthat time ailmg. For him, see also The Ordination, stanza ix.~R.B.\\nHerself aloas. Clothe. Rent.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0092.jp2"}, "93": {"fulltext": "TAM SAMSON S ELEGY. 61\\nHe was the king o a the Core,\\nTo guard, or draw, or wick a bore,\\nOr up the rink like Jehu roar\\nIn time o need\\nBut now he lags on Death s hog-score,*\\nTarn Samson s dead!\\nNow safe the stately Sawmonf^ sail,\\nAnd Trouts bedropp d wi crimson hail,\\nAnd Eels weel ken d for souple tail,\\nAnd Geds for greed,\\nSince dark in Death s fish-creel we wail\\nTarn Samson deadl\\nRejoice, ye birring Paitricks^ a\\nYe cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw\\nYe Maukins, cock your f ud\u00c2\u00ae f u braw,\\nWithouten dread;\\nYour mortal Fae is now awa\\nTam Samson s deadl\\nThat woefu morn be ever mourn d\\nSaw him in shootin graith adorn d,\\nWhile pointers round impatient burn d,\\nFrae couples freed;\\nBut, Och he gaed and ne er retum d\\nTam Samson s deadl\\nIn vain auld age his body batters\\nIn vain the gout his ancles fetters\\nIn vain the burns cam down like waters,\\nAn acre braid\\nNow ev ry auld wife, greetin, clatters,\\nTam Samson s dead I\\nOwre mony a weary hag he limpit.\\nAn aye the tither shot he thumpit,\\nTill coward Death behind him jumpit\\nWi deadly f eide f\\nNow he proclaims, wi tout o trumpet,\\nTam Samson s deadl\\nWhen at his heart he felt the dagger,\\nHe reel d his wonted bottle-swagger.\\nBut yet he drew the mortal trigger\\nWi weel-aim d heed\\nLord, five! he cry d, an owre did stagger:\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nX digtance line in curling, drawn across the rink. Salno^Ji.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Partridges. Cheerfully crow Hares. \u00c2\u00abTail. Dress. Foud.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0093.jp2"}, "94": {"fulltext": "62 BURNS.\\nIlk hoary hunter mourn d a brither\\nIlk sportsman youth bemoan d a father;\\nYon auld gray stane, amang the heather,\\nMarks out his head,\\nWhere Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,\\nTarn Samson s dead 1\\nThere, low he lies, in lasting rest\\nPerhaps upon his mould ring breast\\nSome spitefu muirfowl bigs her nest,\\nTo hatch and breed;\\nAlas nae mair he ll them molest\\nTam Samson s dead I\\nWhen August winds the heather wave,\\nAnd sportsmen wander by yon grave.\\nThree volleys let his mcm rj crave\\nO pouther an lead,\\nTill Echo answer frae her cave,\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nHeav n rest his souh whare er he be I\\nIs th wish o mony mac than me\\nHe had twa faults, or maybe three,\\ny et what remead?\\nAe social, honest man want we\\nTam Samson s dead!\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nTam Samson s weel-worn clay here lie\u00c2\u00ab,\\nYe canting zealots, spare him I\\nIf honest worth in heaven rise,\\nYe U mend or ye win near him.\\nPER CONTRA.*\\nGo, Fame, an canter like a filly\\nThro a the streets an neiiks o Killie,*\\nTell ev ry social, honest billie\\nTo cease his grievin.\\nFor yet, unskaith d by Death s gleg gullie,*\\nTam Samson s livin\\nThe Per Contra was a peace-offering to the old sportsman,\\n4ngry at his poetical dissolution. Burns retired to the window in\\nTam s apartment for a few minutes, and returned with this stanza\\non his lips.\\n2 KiUie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes us\u00c2\u00a9 for the name\\nof a certain town in the west [Kilmarnock], \u00c2\u00ab-R. B.\\n3 Sharp kuif", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0094.jp2"}, "95": {"fulltext": "HALLOWEEN. 63\\nHALLOWEEN.\\nThe following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough\\nunderstood but for the sake of those who are unacquaint-\\ned with the manners and traditions of the country where\\nthe scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of\\nthe principal charms and spells of that night, so big with\\nprophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The\\npassion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the\\nhistory of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and\\nnations; and it may be some entertainment to a philoso^\\nphic mind, if any such should honour the Author with\\nperusal, to see the remains of it, among the more unen*\\nlightened in our own. R. B.\\nYes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain.\\nThe simple pleasures of the lowly train;\\nTo me more dear, congenial to my heart,\\nOne native charm, than all the gloss of art.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G^W^mit?^\\nUpon that night, when Fairies light\\nOn Cassilis Downans^ dance.\\nOr owre the lays, in splendid blaze,\\nOn sprightly coursers prance\\nOr for Colean the route is ta en,\\nBeneath the moon s pale beams\\nThere, up the Cove^ to stray an rove,\\nAmang the rocks and streams\\nTo sport that night.\\nAmang the bonnie, winding banks,\\nWhere Doon rins, wimplin,^ clear,\\nWhere Bruce^ ance ruPd the martial rankf,\\nAn shook his Carrick spear.\\nSome merry, friendly, contra folks,\\nTogether did convene.\\nTo burn their nits, an pou their stocks,\\nAn baud their Halloween\\nFu blythe that night.\\n1 Halloween is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and\\nother mischief -making beings are all abroad on their baneful, mid-\\nnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said,\\non that night to hold a grand anniversary.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nCertain httle, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood\\nof the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Fields.\\nA noted cavern near Colean-house. called the Cove of Colean;\\nwhich, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for\\nbeing a favourite haunt of fairies.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nMeandering.\\nThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the\\ngreat deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nNuts. Plants of kail.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0095.jp2"}, "96": {"fulltext": "64 BURJVS.\\nThe lasses feat,^ an cleanly neat,\\nMair braw than when they re fine\\nTheir faces blythe, fu sweetly kythe,\\nHearts leal, an warm, an kin\\nThe lads sae trig,^ wi wooer-babs,*\\nWeel knotted on their garten,\\nSome unco blate, an some wi gabs,\\nGar lasses hearts gang startin\\nWhyles fast at night.\\nThen, first, an foremost, thro the kail.\\nTheir stocks^ maun a be sought ance\\nThey steek their een, an grape\u00c2\u00ae an wale,\\nFor muckle anes, an straught anes.\\nPoor hav reP Will fell aff the drift,\\nAn wander d thro the bow-kail,*\\nAn pow t, for want o better shift,\\nA runt was like a sow-tail,\\nSae bow t^^ that night.\\nThen, straught or crooked, yird^* or nane.\\nThey roar an cry a throu ther;^*\\nThe vera wee things, toddlin, rin,\\nWi stocks out-owre their shouther\\nAn gif the custocs^^ sweet or sour,\\nWi joctelegs^^ they taste them;\\nSyne coziely, aboon the door,\\nWi cannie care, they ve plac d them\\nTo lie that night.\\nThe lasses staw^\u00c2\u00ae frae mang them a\\nTo pou their stalks o corn;^\u00c2\u00ae\\nBut Rab slips out, an jinks*^ about,\\nBehint the muckle thorn\\n1 Spruce. 2 Shewn. Smart. Garters knotted with loops.\\nThe first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock, or plant\\nof kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the\\nfirst they meet with. Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is\\nprophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells\\n\u00e2\u0080\u0094the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is\\ntocher, or fortune and the taste of thecustoc, that is, the heart of the\\nstem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the\\nstems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are\\nplaced somewhere above the head of the door; and the christian\\nnames of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, accord-\\ning to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nGrope. Choose. Half-witted. Cabbage.\\n*o Pulled. 11 A cabbage stem.\\n13 Crooked. Earth. i* In confusion,\\nifi Hearts of stems. i\u00c2\u00ab Knives, i Snugly, i^ Steal.\\ni* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times,\\na stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the\\ngrain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to th\u00c2\u00ab\\nmarriage bed anything but a maid.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. 20 podges.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0096.jp2"}, "97": {"fulltext": "HALLOWEEN. 65\\nHe grippet Nelly hard an fast\\nLoud skirled a the lasses\\nBut her tap-pickle maist was lost,\\nWhen kiutlin in the fause-house^\\nWi him that night.\\nThe auld guidwife s weel-hoordet^ nits*\\nAre round an round divided,\\nAn monie lads and lasses fates\\nAre there that night decided\\nSome kindle, couthie,^ side by side,\\nAn burn thegither trimly\\nSome start awa, wi saucy pride,\\nAn jump out-owre the chimlie\\nFu high that night.\\nJean slips in twa wi tentie\u00c2\u00ae e e\\nWha twas, she wadna tell\\nBut this is Jock, and this is me,\\nShe says in to hersel\\nHe bleez d owre her, an she owre him,\\nAs they wad never mair part\\nTill, fuff he started up the lum,^\\nAn Jean had e en a sair heart\\nTo see t that night.\\nPoor Willie, wi his bow-kail runt,\\nWas brunt wi primsie\u00c2\u00ae Mallie,\\nAn Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,\\nTo be compared to Willie\\nMall s nit lap out, wi pridefu fling,\\nAn her ain fit it brunt it\\nWhile Willie lap, an swoor^^ by jing,\\nTwas just the way he wanted\\nTo be that night.\\nNell had the fause-house in her min\\nShe pits hersel an Rob in\\nIn loving bleeze they sweetly join,\\nTill white in ase*^ they re sobbin\\nCuddling.\\nWhen the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet,\\nthe stack-builder, by means of old timber, c., makes a large\\napartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest\\nexposed to the wind: this he calls a fause-house.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n3 Well-hoarded.\\nBurning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and\\nthe lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire and ac-\\ncordingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside on^\\nanother, the course and issue of the courtship will be.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nLoving. Cautious. The chimney. Demure.\\nPet. 10 Swore. Mind. Ashes.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0097.jp2"}, "98": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nITelPs heart was dancin at the view;\\nShe whispered Rob to leuk f or t\\nBob, stownlins,^ prie d^ her bonnie mou,\\nFu cozie in the neuk for t,\\nUnseen that night.\\nBut Merran sat behint their backs,\\nHer thoughts on Andrew Bell;\\nShe leases* them gashin at their cracks,\\nAn slips out by hersel\\nShe thro the yard the nearest taks,\\nAn to the kiln she goes then,\\nAn darklins grapit for the banks,*\\nAnd in the blue-clue* throws them,\\nBight fear t that night.\\nAn aye she win t, an ay she swat,\\nI wat she made nae jaukin\\nTill something held within the pat,\\nGuid Lord but she was quaukin V\\nBut whether twas the Deil himsel\\nOr whether twas a bauk-en\\nOr whether it was Andrew Bell,\\nShe did na wait on talkin\\nTo spier\u00c2\u00ae that night.\\nWee Jennie to her Graimie says,\\nWill ye go wi me Grannie?\\nI ll eat the apple* at the glass,\\nI gat frae uncle Johnie\\nShe fuff t*\u00c2\u00b0 her pipe wi sic a lunt,^*\\nIn wrath she was sae vap rin.\\nShe notic t na, an aizle^ brunt\\nHer braw new worset apron\\nOut thro that night.\\nBy stealth. Tasted. Leaves.\\nCross-beams.\\nWhoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe\\nthese directions:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling\\nthrow into the pot a clue of blue yam; wind it in a new clue ofif the\\njoldone; and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread;\\n/demand, Wha bauds? i. e., who holds? an answer will be returned\\nfrom the kiln-pot, by naming the christian and surname of your\\nfuture spouse.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nDallying. Quaking. Inquire.\\nTake a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple be-\\nfore it, and some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the\\ntime: the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen ia\\nthe glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n\u00c2\u00bbo Did blow. 11 Column of smoke. Hot cinder.\\n13 Worsted.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0098.jp2"}, "99": {"fulltext": "HALLOWEEN, 67\\nYe little skelpie^-limmer s face I\\nI daur you try sic sportin,\\nAs seek the foul Thief onie place,\\nFor him to spae your fortune\\nNae doubt but ye may get a sight\\nGreat cause ye hae to fear it\\nFor monie a ane has gotten fright,\\nAn liv d an di d deleerit,\\nOn sic a night.\\nAe Hairst* afore the Sherra-moor/\\nI mind t as weel s yestreen,\\nI was a gilpey* then, I m sure\\nI was na past f yf teen\\nThe simmer had been cauld an WAt,\\nAn stuff was unco green\\nAn ay a rantin kirn we gat,\\nAn just on Halloween\\nIt fell that night.\\nOur stibble-rig was Rab M^Graen^\\nA clever, sturdy fallow\\nHis sin gat Eppie Sim wi wean,\\nThat liv d in Auchmacalla\\nHe gat hemp-seed,\u00c2\u00ae I mind it weelj\\nAn he made unco light o t\\nBut monie a day was by himsel,\\nHe was sae sairly frighted\\nThat vera night.\\nThen up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck,\\nAn he swoor by his conscience,\\nThat he could saw hemp-seed a peck\\nFor it was a but nonsense\\nThe auld guidman raught down the pock,\\nAn out a handf u gied him\\nSyne bad him slip frae mang the folk,\\nSometime when nae ane see d him.\\nAn try t that night.\\nA word of scolding. 2 Prophesy. Delirious. Harvest.\\nSheriff-moor, the battle fought in the Rebellion, 1715.\\nA romping girl. Head reaper.\\nSteal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed harrow-\\ning it with any thing you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat\\nnow and then, Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and\\nhim (or her) thatisto be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.\\nLook over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the\\nperson invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions\\nBay, Come after me, and shaw thee, that is, show thyself: in\\nwhich case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say,\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Come after me, and harrow thee. R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0099.jp2"}, "100": {"fulltext": "68 BURN S.\\nHe marches thro amang the stacks,\\nTho he was something sturtin;*\\nThe graip he for a harrow taks,\\nAn haurls^ at his curpin:*\\nAn ev ry now an then, he says,\\nHemp-seed, I saw thee,\\nAn her that is to be my lass,\\nCome after me, an draw thee\\nAs fast this night.\\nHe whistl d up Lord Lenox march,\\nTo keep his courage cheary\\nAltho his hair began to arch.\\nHe was sae fley d^ an eerie\\nTill presently he hears a squeak,\\nAn then a grane an giimtle\\nHe, by his shouther gae a keek,\\nAn tumbl d wi a wintle\\nOut-owre that night.\\nHe roar d a horrid murder-shout,\\nIn dreadfu desperation\\nAn young an auld came rinnin out,\\nAn hear the sad narration\\nHe swoor twas hilchin\u00c2\u00ae Jean M Craw,\\nOr crouchie^ Merran Humphie,\\nTill stop! she trotted thro them a\\nAn wha was it but Grumphie\\nAsteer^\u00c2\u00b0 that night 1\\nMeg fain wad to the barn hae gaen\\nTo winn three wechts o naething\\nBut for to meet the Deil her lane,\\nShe put but little faith in\\nShe gies the herd a pickle nits,\\nAnd twa red-cheekit apples.\\nTo watch, while for the barn she sets.\\nIn hopes to see Tam Kipples\\nThat vera night.\\nFrightened. Stable fork. Drags. Crupper.\\nScared. A peep. Stagger. Halting. Crook-backed.\\n10 Abroad.\\n11 This charm must likewise be performed unperceived, and alone.\\nYou go to the barn, and open both doore, taking them off the hinges,\\nif possible; for there is danger, that the being, about to appear, may\\nshut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instru-\\nment used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, w\u00c2\u00a9\\ncall a wecht and go through all the attitudes of letting do-wTi com\\nagainst the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an ap-\\nparition will pass through the bam, in at the windy door, and out at\\nthe other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance of\\nretinue marking the employment or station in life.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0100.jp2"}, "101": {"fulltext": "BALLOWEEN. 69\\nShe turns the key, wi cannie thraw,\\nAn owre the threshold ventures;\\nBut first on Sawnie gies a ca\\nSyne bauldly in she enters\\nA ratton^ rattl d up the wa\\nAn she cry d, Lord preserve her!\\nAn ran thro midden-hole^ an a\\nAn pray d wi zeal an fervour,\\nFu fast that night.\\nThey hoy t^ out Will, with sair advice;\\nThey hecht* him some fine braw ane\\nIt chanc d the stack he faddom t^ thrice*\\nWas timmer ^-propt from thrawin\\nHe taks a swirlie,\u00c2\u00ae auld moss-oak,\\nFor some black grousome Carlin\\nAn loot a vrinze,\u00c2\u00ae an drew a stroke,\\nTill skin in blypes^ cam haurlin\\nAff s nieves^^ that night,\\nA wanton widow Leezie was,\\nAs cantie^^ as a kittlen;\\nBut, Och that night, amang the shaws,**\\nShe got a f earf u settlin\\nShe thro the wins, an by the cairn,\\nAn owre the hill gaed scrievin,\\nWhare three lairds lands met at a bum/*\\nTo dip her left sark-sleeve in,\\nWas bent that night.\\nWhyles owre a linn the burnie plays.\\nAs thro the glen it whimpl t\\nWhyles round a rocky scar it strays;\\nWhyles in a wieP^ it dimpl t\\nWhyles glitter d to the nightly rays,\\nWi bickering, dancing dazzle\\nWhyles cookit^\u00c2\u00ae underneath the braes,\\nBelow the spreading hazel,\\nUnseen that night.\\nRat. Gutter at the bottom of a dung-hill.\\nUrged. Foretold. Fathomed.\\nTake an opportimity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, and\\nfathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you\\nwill catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal\\nyoke-fellow.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 K. B.\\nT Timber. s Knotty. Oath. lo Shreds. 1\\nFists. 12 Merry. is Woods.\\n1* You go out, one or more, (for this is a social spell,) to a south\\nrunning spring or rivulet, where three lairds lands meet, and\\ndip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang\\nyour wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake and sometime near\\nmidnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object\\nin question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side\\nof it.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. ifi Small whirlpool, or eddy. Appeared and vanished.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0101.jp2"}, "102": {"fulltext": "iO BURNS.\\nAmang the brachens, on the brae,\\nBetween her an the moon,\\nThe Deil, or else an on tier Quey,\\nGat up an gae a croon\\nPoor Leezie s heart ma^st lap the hool:*\\nNear lav rock-heiglit she jumpit,\\nBut mist a fit, an in the pool\\nOut-owre the lugs^ she plumpit,\\nWi a plunge that night\\nIn order, on the clean hearth-stane,\\nThe luggies^ three\u00c2\u00ae are ranged;\\nAnd ev ry time great care is ta en,\\nTo see them duly changed\\nAuld Uncle John, wha wedlock s joys\\nSin Mar s-year did desire.\\nBecause he gat the toom dish thrice,\\nHe heaved them on the fire\\nIn wrath that night\\nWi merry sangs, an friendly cracks,\\nI wat they did na weary\\nAnd unco tales, an funnie jokes,\\nTheir sports were cheap an cheary;\\nTill butter d So ns,\u00c2\u00ae wi fragrant lunt,*\\nSet a their gabs a steerin;\\nSyne, wi a social glass o strunt,*\\nThey parted aff careerin^^\\nFu blythe that night.\\nFern. A deep moan. s Leaped out of the case. Ears.\\nSmall wooden dishes with handles.\\nTake three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another,\\nleave the third empty; blindfold a person, and lead him to the\\nhearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left\\nhand; if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife\\nwill come to the bar of matrimony, a maid; if in the foul, a widow;\\nif in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage\\nat all It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement\\nof the dir.hes is altered.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n7 Empty.\\n8 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Hal-\\nloween supper.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Soweiis is a kind of oatmeal pudding.\\nSmoke. -o Mouths. i* A-stirring.\\n12 Spirituous liquor of any kind. Cheerfully,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0102.jp2"}, "103": {"fulltext": "THE yOLL V BEGGARS, 71\\nTHE JOLLY BEGGARS.\\nA CANTATA.\\nRECITATITO.\\nWhen lyart^ leaves bestrew the yird,\\nOr, wavering like the bauckie^ bird,\\nBedim cauld Boreas blast\\nWhen hailstanes drive wi bitter skyte,\\nAnd infant frosts begin to bite,\\nIn hoary cranreuch* drest\\nAe night, at e en, a merry core\\nO randie, gangreP bodies,\\nIn Poosie-Xansie s held the splore,*\\nTo drink their orra duddies\\nWi quaffing and laughing,\\nThey ranted and they sang;\\nWr jumping and thimiping,\\nThe vera girdle^ rang.\\nFirst, neist the fire, in auld red rags,\\nAne sat, weel braced wi mealy bags,\\nAnd knapsack a in order;\\nHis doxy lay within his arm,\\nWi usquebae and blankets warm\\nShe blinket on her sodger\\nAn aye he gies the tozie\u00c2\u00ae drab\\nThe tither skelpin^ kiss,\\nWhile she held up her greedy gab,*\u00c2\u00ae\\nJust like an aumous dish\\nHk smack still, did crack still,\\nJust like a cadger s whup,\\nThen staggering, and swaggering,\\nHe roar d this ditty up\\nSir Walter Scott was unable to conceive any good reason why\\nDr. Currie did not introduce this Cantata into hi^ collection. For\\nhumorous description and nice discrimination of character, he\\nthought it inferior to no poem of the same length in the whole range\\nof Enghsh verse and the mirth of the songs, combined with the\\nvividness of the pictures, he considered to be unequalled. This is\\nvery exaggerated praise and few readers. I should suppose, v.ill\\nadmit the truth of Scott s remark, that even in describing the\\nmovements of such a group, the native taste of the poet has never\\nsuffered his pen to slide into anything coarse or disgusting. See\\nScott s Prose Works. xvii. Mr. Lockhart is yet more profuse\\nof admiration, and doubts if Shakspeare, out of such materials,\\ncould have constructed a piece, in which the sympathy awakening\\npower could have been displayed more triumphantly. And Allan\\nCunningham outstrips his predecessoi-s, by affirming that nothing\\nIn the language, in Ufe and character, approaches this song. The\\nBeggar s Opera being a burial; compared to it. Surely this\\nis the Durlesque of criticism, and onl}* brings it into contempt.\\nDiscoloured Bat. Hoar-frost. Vagrant. Frolic.\\nTil\u00c2\u00a9 iron plate for baking cakes. Tipsy. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Slapping. Mouth.\\n*i The beggar s alm-disli.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0103.jp2"}, "104": {"fulltext": "72 BURNS.\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 soldier s JOT.\\nI AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,\\nAnd show my cuts and scars wherever I come\\njThis here was for a wench, and that other in a trench\\nWhen welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.\\nLai de daudle, c.\\nMy prenticeship I past where my leader breath d his last,\\nWhen the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram\\nI served out my trade when the gallant game was play d,\\nAnd the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.\\nLai de daudle, c.\\nI lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt ries,\\nAnd there I left for witnesses an arm and a limb\\nYet let my country need me, with Elliott to head me,\\nI d clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum.\\nLai de daudle, c.\\nAnd now, though I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,\\nAnd many a tatter d rag hanging over my bum,\\nI m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet*\\nAs when I us d in scarlet to follow the drum.\\nLai de daudle, c.\\nWhat tho with hoary locks, I must stand the winter\\nshocks.\\nBeneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home\\nWhen the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell,\\nI could meet a troop of h at the sound of the drum.\\nRECITATIVO.\\nHe ended and the kebars^ sheuk\\nAboon the chorus roar\\nWhile frighted rattons* backward leuk,\\nAnd seek the benmost^ bore\\nA fairy fiddler frae the neuk,\\nHe skirled out encore\\nBut up arose the martial chuck,\\nAnd laid the loud uproar.\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SOLDIER LADDIE.\\nI ONCE was a maid, tho I cannot tell when,\\nAnd still my delight is in proper young men\\nQuebec, where Wolfe fell.\\nA Spanish castle taken by the English army, in 1762. Rafter^\\nRats. Inneiinost.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0104.jp2"}, "105": {"fulltext": "THE JOLL Y BEGGARS, 73\\nSome one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,\\nNo wonder I m fond of a sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lai de lal, c.\\nThe first of my loves was a swaggering blade,\\nTo rattle the thundering drum was his trade\\nHis leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,\\nTransported I was with my sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lal de lal, c.\\nBut the goodly old chaplain left him in the lurch,\\nSo the sword I forsook for the sake of the church;\\nHe ventured the soul, and I risked the body,\\nTwas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lal de lal, c.\\nFull soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot.\\nThe regiment at large for a husband I got\\nFrom the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,\\nI asked no more but a sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lal de lal, c.\\nBut the peace it reduced me to beg in despaii;\\nTill I met my old boy at Cunningham fair\\nHis rags regimental they fluttered so gaudy,\\nMy heart it rejoic d at my sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lal de lal, c.\\nAnd now I have liv d I know not how long,\\nAnd still I can join in a cup or a song\\nBut whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady^\\nHere s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.\\nSing, Lal de lal, c.\\nRECITATrVO.\\nPoor Merry Andrew, in the neuk.\\nSat guzzling wi a tinkler hizzie\\nThey mind t na wha the chorus took.\\nBetween themselves they were sae bizzy;\\nAt length, wi drink and courting dizzy,\\nHe stoitered up an made a face\\nThen turn d, an laid a smack on Grizzy,\\nSyne tun d his pipes wi grave grimace.\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 AULD sir SIMON.\\nSir Wisdom s a fool when he s fou,\\nSir Knave is a fool in a session\\nHe s there but a prentice I trow,\\nBut I am a fool by profession,\\n1 Staggered.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0105.jp2"}, "106": {"fulltext": "74 BURNS.\\nMy grannie she bought me a beuk,\\nAnd I held awa to the school\\nI fear I my talent misteuk,\\nBut what will ye hae of a fool?\\nFor drink I would venture my necK;\\nA hizzie s the half o my craft\\nBut what could ye other expect,\\nOf ane that s avowedly daft?\\nI ance was ty d up like a stirk,\\nFor civilly swearing and quaffing;\\nI ance was abused i the kirk,\\nFor touzling a lass i my daffin.^\\nPoor Andrew that tumbles for sport,\\nLet naebody name wi a jeer;\\nThere s ev n, I m tauld, i tJie Court,\\nA tumbler ca d the Premier.\\nObserv d ye, yon reverend lad\\nMaks faces to tickle the mob\\nfie rails at our mountebank squad,\\nIt s rivalship just i the job.\\nAnd now my conclusion I ll tell,\\nFor faith I m confoundedly dry;\\nThe chiel that s a fool for himsel\\nGude Lord, is far dafter than L\\nRECITATIVO.\\nThen neist outspak a raucle carlin,\\nWha kent fu weel to cleek the sterling\\nFor monie a pursie she had hooked.\\nAnd had in monie a well been ducked\\nHer dove had been a Highland laddie,\\nBut weary fa the waefu woodie\\nWi sighs and sabs, she thus began\\nTo wail her braw John Highlandman:\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 0, AN YE WERE DEAD, QUIDMAN.**\\nA HiGKLAND lad my love was bom,\\nThe Lawlan laws he held in scorn\\nBut he still was faithful to his clan,\\nMy gallant braw John Highlandman.\\nBullock. 2 Merriment. gtout old woman. A rop\u00c2\u00abL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0106.jp2"}, "107": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 75\\nCHORUS.\\nSing, hey, my braw John HighlandmanI\\nSing, ho, my braw John HighlandmanI\\nThere s no a lad in a the Ian\\nWas match for my John Highlandman.\\nWith his philibeg an tartan plaid,\\nAnd gude claymore down by his side,\\nThe ladies hearts he did trepan,\\nMy gallant braw John Highlandman.\\nSing, hey, c.\\nWe ranged a from Tweed to Spey,\\nAnd liv d like lords and ladies gay\\nFor a Lawlan face he feared nane,\\nMy gallant braw John Highlandman.\\nSing, hey, c.\\nThey banish d him beyond the sea,\\nBut ere the bud was on the tree,\\nAdown my cheeks the pearls ran,\\nEmbracing my John Highlandman.\\nSing, hey, c.\\nBut, oh I they catch d him at the last,\\nAnd bound him in a dungeon fast\\nMy curse upon them every ane,\\nThey ve hang d my braw John Highlandman*\\nSing, hey, c.\\nAnd now a widow, I must mourn\\nThe pleasures that will ne er return\\nNo comfoi-t but a hearty can,\\nWhen I think on John Highlandman.\\nSing, hey, c.\\nRECITATIVO.\\nA pigmy Scraper wi his fiddle,\\nWha us d at trysts and fairs to driddle,\\nHer strappin limb and gaucy^ middle\\n(He reach d nae higher),\\nHad holed his heartie like a riddle,\\nAnd blawn t on fire.\\nWP hand on haunch, and upward e e,\\nHe croon d his gamut, ane, twa, three,\\nPlay. a Jolly.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0107.jp2"}, "108": {"fulltext": "76 BURNS,\\nThen, in an Arioso key,\\nThe wee Apollo\\nSet aff wi Allegretto glee,\\nHis giga solo.\\nAIK.\\nTUNE whistle O ER THE LAVE O T.\\nLet me ryke^ up to dight^ that tear,\\nAnd go wi me and be my dear,\\nAnd then your eveiy care and fear\\nMay whistle owre the lave o t.\\nCHOKUS.\\nI am a fiddler to my trade,\\nAnd a the tunes that e er I play d,\\nThe sweetest still to wife or maid,\\nWas Whistle o er the lave o t.\\nAt kirns and weddings we se be there,\\nAnd oh sae nicely s we will fare\\nWe ll bouse about, till Daddie Care\\nSings Whistle owre the lave o t.\\nI am, c.\\nSae merrily s the banes we ll pyke,\\nAnd sun oursels about the dyke,\\nAnd at our leisure, when ye like,\\nWe ll whistle owre the lave o t.\\nI am, c.\\nBut bless me wi your heav n o charms,\\nAnd while I kittle hair on thairms,\\nHimger, cauld, and a sic harms,\\nMay whistle owre the lave o t.\\nI am, c.\\nKECITATIVO.\\nHer charms had struck a sturdy caird,*\\nAs well as poor gut- scraper;\\nHe taks the fiddler by the beard,\\nAnd draws a rusty rapier\\nHe swoor, by a was swearing worth.\\nTo speet him like a pliver.\\nUnless he wad from that time forth\\nRelinquish her for ever.\\n/teach. Wipe. pick. While I apply hair to catgut.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CAam-\\nbers. Gipsy.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0108.jp2"}, "109": {"fulltext": "THE JOLLY BEGGARS, 77\\nWi ghastly ee, poor Tweedle-dee\\nUpon his hunkers bended,\\nAnd pray d for grace, wi ruefu face,\\nAnd sae the quarrel ended.\\nBut tho his little heart did grieve\\nWhen round the tinkler prest her,\\nHe feign d to snirtle^ in his sleeve,\\nWhen thus the Caird addressed her;\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CLOUT THE CAUDRON.\\nMy bonnie lass, I work in brass,\\nA tinkler is my station\\nI ve travell d round all Christian ground\\nIn this my occupation\\nI ve ta en the gold, I ve been enroll d\\nIn many a noble squadron\\nBut vain they search d, when off I march d\\nTo go and clout the caudron.\\nI ve ta en the gold, c.\\nDespise that shrimp, that wither d imp,\\nWi a his noise and caprin.\\nAnd tak a share wi those that bear\\nThe budget and the apron\\nAnd by that stoup, my faith and houp^\\nAnd by that dear Kilbagie,\\nIf e er ye want, or meet wi scant,\\nMay I ne er weet my craigie.^\\nAnd by that stoup, c.\\nRECITATIVO.\\nThe Card prevail d ^th unblushing fair\\nIn his embraces sunk.\\nPartly wi love o ercome sae sair,\\nAnd partly she was drunk.\\nSir Violino, with an air\\nThat show d a man o spunk,\\nWish d unison between the pair,\\nAnd made the bottle clunk.\\nTo their health that night.\\ntiftugD. A peculiar sort of whisky. ThroaK", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0109.jp2"}, "110": {"fulltext": "78 BURNS.\\nBut liurchin Cupid shot a shaft\\nThat play d a dame a shavie,*\\nThe fiddler rak d her fore and aft,\\nAhint the chicken cavie.\\nHer lord, a wight o- Homer s craft,\\nTho limping wi the spavie,\\nHe hirpl d up, and lap like daft,\\nAnd shor d^ them Dainty Davie\\nO boot that night.\\nHe was a care-defjdng blade\\nAs ever Bacchus listed,\\nTho Fortime sair upon him laid,\\nHis heart she ever miss d it.\\nHe had nae wish, but to be glad,\\nFor want but when he thirsted;\\nHe hated nought but to be sad,\\nAnd thus the Muse suggested\\nHis sang that night.\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 FOR A* THAT, AND A THAT.\\nI AM a bard of no regard\\nWi gentlefolks, an a that;\\nBut Homer-like, the glowrin byke,*\\nFrae town to town I draw that\\nCHORUS.\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nAnd twice as meikle s a that;\\nI ve lost but ane, I ve twa behin\\nI ve wife enough for a that.\\nI never drank the Muses stank,*\\nCastalia s burn, an a that\\nBut there it streams, and richly reami,\\nMy Helicon I ca that.\\nFor a that, c.\\nGreat love I bear to a the fair,\\nTheu humble slave, an a that;\\nBut lordly will, I hold it still\\nA mortal sin to thraw that.\\nFor a that, c.\\nJ Trick. 2Qrept. Threatened. Staring crowd. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2FooL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0110.jp2"}, "111": {"fulltext": "THE JOLL V BEGGARS. 79\\nIn raptures sweet, this hour we meet,\\nWr mutual love, an a that\\nBut for how lang the flie may stang,\\nLet inclination law that.\\nFor a that, c.\\nTheir tricks and craft hae put me daft,\\nThey ve ta en me in, and a that;\\nBut clear your decks, and Here s the Sex,\\nI like the jads for a that.\\nFor a that, and a that,\\nAnd twice as meikle s a that,\\nMy dearest bluid, to do them guid,\\nThey re welcome till t, for a that.\\nKECITATIVO.\\nSo sung the bard and Nansie s^ wa s\\nShook with a thunder of applause,\\nRe-echo d from each mouth;\\nThey toom d their pocks, an pawn d their duds,\\nThey scarcely left to co er their fuds,*\\nTo quench their lowan^ drought.\\nThen owre again, the jovial thrang\\nThe poet did request,\\nTo loose his pack, an wale\u00c2\u00ae a sang,\\nA ballad o the best\\nHe, rising, rejoicing,\\nBetween his twa Deborahs,\\nLooks round him, and found them\\nImpatient for the chorus.\\nAIR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nSee I the smoking bowl before us,\\nMark our jovial ragged ring\\nRound and round take up the chorus.\\nAnd in raptures let us sing\\nPoosie Nansie, otherwise Affnes Gibson, kept a sort of cadger i\\nhouse, nearly opposite to the church-yard gate in Mauchline. Wo\\nare told by the biographers of Burns, that passing by the house, one\\nnieht, In the company of James Smith, he was allured by the mirth-\\nful uproar to go in and join the crew. The Cantata gives the poetical\\nexperience of the night.\\na Emptied. Rags. Tails.\\nFlaming. Choose.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0111.jp2"}, "112": {"fulltext": "80 BURNS.\\nCHORUS.\\nA fig for those by law protected I\\nLiberty s a glorious feast\\nCourts for cowards were erected,\\nChurches built to please the priest.\\nWhat is title? what is treasure?\\nWhat is reputation s care?\\nIf we lead a life of pleasure,\\nTis no matter how or where 1\\nA fig, (fee.\\nWith the ready trick and fable,\\nRound w^e wander all the day\\nAnd at night, in barn or stable,\\nHug our doxies on the hay.\\nA fig, c.\\nDoes the train-attended carriage\\nThro the country lighter rove?\\nDoes the sober bed of marriage\\nWitness brighter scenes of love?\\nA fig, a\\nLife is all a varionun,\\nWe regard not how it goes\\nLet them cant about decorum,\\nWho have characters to lose.\\nA ^g^ c.\\nHere s to budgets, bags, and wallets!\\nHere s to all the wandering train\\nHere s our ragged brats and callets 1\\nOne and all cry out. Amen\\nA fig, c.\\nTHE AULD FARMER S NEW-YEAR MORNING SAL.\\nUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE. ON\\nGIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN\\nTO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.\\nA GUiD New-Year I wish thee, Maggie\\nHae, there s a ripp^ to thy auld baggie\\nTho thou s howe-backit^ now, an knaggie,\\nI ve seen the day.\\nThou could hae gane like onie staggie\\nOut-owre the lay.\\nHandful. Sunk in the back. Sharp-pointed.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0112.jp2"}, "113": {"fulltext": "THE AULD FARMER S SALUTATION-. 81\\nTho now thou s dowie, stiff, and crazy,\\nAn thy auld hide s as white s a daisie,\\nI ve seen thee dappl t, sleek, an glaizie,\\nA bonnie gray\\nHe should been tight that daur t to raize thee\\nAnce in a day.\\nThou ance was i the foremost rank,\\nA filly buirdly,^ steeve,^ an swank,*\\nAn set weel down a shapely shank.\\nAs e er tread yird\\nAn could hae flown out owre a stank,*\\nLike onie bird.\\nIt s now some nine-an -twenty year,\\nSin thou was my guid-f ather s meere\\nHe gie me thee o tocher^ clear,\\nAn fifty mark\\nTho it was sma twas weel won gear,\\nAn thou was stark.\\nWhen first I gaed to woo my Jenny,\\nYe then was trottin wi your minnie\\nTho ye was trickle, slee, an funnie,\\nYe ne er was donsie\\nBut hamely, tawie, quiet, cannie,\\nAn unco sonsie.^\\nThat day, ye pranc d wi muckle pride,\\nWhen ye bure^ hame my bonnie bride;\\nAn sweet an gracefu she did ride,\\nWi maiden air\\nKyle Stewart I could bragged wide.\\nFor sic a pair.\\nTho now ye dow^^ but hoyte and hobble^\\nAn wintle like a saumont-coble,\\nThat day ye was a j inker noble,\\nFor heels an win\\nAn ran them till they a did wauble,^*\\nFar, far, behin\\nWhen thou an I were young and skeigh,**\\nAn stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,\\nHow thou wad prance, an snore, an skreigh\\nAn tak the road\\nTown s bodies ran, and stood abeigh,^*\\nAn ca t thee mad.\\nWorn out. Stout-made. strong-set. Stately. Morasa\\nMarriage portion. Stout, Unlucky. Easily handled.\\nDid bear, ^^Can. 12 gaimon flshing boat. ReeL\\nHigh-mettled. i^ Xedious. At a safe distance.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0113.jp2"}, "114": {"fulltext": "82 BURNS.\\nWhen thou was corn t, an I was mellow^\\nWe took the road ay like a swallow:\\nAt Brooses^ thou had ne er a fellow,\\nFor pith an speed\\nBut ev ry tail thou pay t them hollow,\\nWhare er thou gaed.\\nThe sma droop-rumpPt, hunter cattle,\\nMight aiblins^ waur t thee for a brattle\\nBut sax Scotch miles thou try t their mettle,\\nAn gart them whaizle\\nNae whip nor spur, but just a wattle\\nO saugh or hazel.\\nThou was a noble fittie-lan\\nAs e er in tug^ or tow^ was drawn I\\nAft thee an I, in aught hours gaun,\\nOn guid March-weather,\\nHae turn d sax rood beside our han\\nFor days thegither.\\nThou never braindg t,\u00c2\u00ae an fech t, an fliskit^**\\nBut thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,\\nAn spread abreed thy weel-filled briske^\\nWi pith an pow r,\\nTill spritty knowes wad rair t and riskit,\\nAn slypet^^ owre.\\nWhen frosts lay lang, an snaws were deep.\\nAn threaten d labour back to keep,\\nI gied thy cog^^ a wee-bit heap\\nAboon the timmer;\\nI ken d my Maggie wadna sleep\\nFor that, or simmer.\\nIn cart or car thou never reestit\\nThe steyest^* brae thou wad hae face t it;\\nThou never lap, an sten t, and breastit,\\nThen stood to blaw\\nBut just thy step a wee thing hastit,\\nThou snoov t awa.\\nMy pleugh is now thy bairn-time a\\nFour gallant brutes as e er did draw;\\n1 A broose is a race at a wedding.\\nThat droops at the crupper. s Perhaps. Short race.\\nThe near horse of the hindmost pair in the plough.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Traces of hide. Rope. Plunged forward. Pulled bfAtA\\nFretted. h Rushy hillocks. FeUorer.\\n^3 Manp-er. i* Steepest. i\u00c2\u00bb Leaped.\\nReared. Went at an even i ao\u00c2\u00ab.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0114.jp2"}, "115": {"fulltext": "TO A MOUSE.\\nPorbye sax mae, IVe sell t awa,\\nThat thou has nirst:\\nThey drew me thretteen^ pund an twa,\\nThe vera warst.\\nMonie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,\\nAn wi the weary warV fought\\nAn monie an anxious day, I thought\\nWe wad be beat\\nYet here to crazy age we re brought,\\nWi something yet.\\nAnd think na, my auld, trusty servan\\nThat now perhaps thou s less deservm,\\nAn thy auld days may end in starvin\\nFor my last fou,\\nA heapit stimpart, I ll reserve ane\\nLaid by for you.\\nWe ve worn to crazy years thegither\\nWe ll toyte* about wi ane anither;\\nWi tentie care I ll flit thy tether\\nTo some ham d* t\\\\^,\\nWhare ye may nobly rax your leather,\\nWi sma fatigue.\\n83\\nTO A MOUSE ON TUEKma HER UP IN HEB\\nSeST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.^\\nWee, eleekit, cowrin, tim rous beastie,\\nO, what a panic s in thy breastie\\nThou need na start awa sae hasty,\\nWi bickering brattle r\\nI wad be laith to rin an chase thee,\\nWi murd ring pattlel\\nI m trulv sorrv man s dominion\\nHas broken Nature s social union.\\nAn justifies that ill opinion.\\nWhich makes thee startle\\nAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,\\nAn fellow-mortal I\\n1 Thirteen, Day^s labour. Eighth P^^t o^ a^^^^^^^\\n...ann*s^?^llf. lately ^B^.Z^^^", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0115.jp2"}, "116": {"fulltext": "S4 BURNS.\\nI doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;\\nWhat then? poor beastie, thou maun liv\u00c2\u00ab!\\nA daimen-icker^ in a thrave\\nS a sma request:\\nni get a blessin wi the lave,\\nAnd never miss t I\\nThy wee bit housie, too, in ruin I\\nIts silly wa s the win s are strewin\\nAn naething, now, to big^ a new ane,\\nO foggage green 1\\nAn bleak December s winds ensuin,\\nBaith snelP an keen I\\nThou saw the fields laid bare an waste,\\nAn weary winter comin fast,\\nAn cozie here, beneath the blast,\\nThou thought to dwell,\\nTill, crash 1 the cruel coulter past\\nOut thro thy cell.\\nThat wee bit heap o leaves an stibble,\\nHas cost thee mony a weary nibble 1\\nNow thou s turn d out, for a thy trouble,\\nBut house or hald/\\nTo thole* the winter s sleety dribble.\\nAn cranrouch cauldl\\nBut, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,\\nIn proving foresight may be vain:\\nThe best laid schemes o mice an men,\\nGang aft a-gky,\u00c2\u00ae\\nAn lea e us nought but grief and pain,\\nFor promis d joy.\\nBtill thou art blest, compar d wi me I\\nThe present only toucheth thee\\nBut, Och I I backward cast my e e\\nOn prospects drear 1\\nAn forward, tho I canna see,\\nI guess an fear\\nAn ear of corn now and then*, a thrave is twenty-four sheaves\\nBuild. 8 Bitter. Without abiding place. Endure. Hoai^\\ntro\u00c2\u00abt. Thyself alone. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Wrong.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0116.jp2"}, "117": {"fulltext": "A WINTER NIGHT.\\nA WINTER NIGHT.\\nPoor naked wret ;hes, wheresoe er you are,\\nThat bide the pelting of this pitiless storm I\\nHow shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,\\nYour loop d and window d raggedness, defend you,\\nFrom seasons such as these Shakspear^\\nWhen biting Boreas, fell and doure,^\\nSharp .shivers thro the leafless bow r;\\nWhen Phoebus gies a short-liv d glow r,\\nFar south the lift,\\nDim-dark ning thro the flaky show r,\\nOr whirling drift\\nAe night the storm the steeples rocked,\\nPoor labour sweet in sleep was locked,\\nWhile burns, wi snawy wreeths^ up-choked\\nWild-eddying swirl.\\nOr thro the mining outlet bocked,*\\nDown headlong hurl\\nListening the doors an winnocks* rattle,\\nI thought me on the ourie\u00c2\u00ae cattle,\\nOr silly sheep, wha bide this brattle\\nO winter war.\\nAnd thro the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle/\\nBeneath a scar.\\nHk happing^ bird, wee, helpless thing\\nThat, in the merry months o spring,\\nDelighted me to hear thee sing.\\nWhat comes o thee?\\nWhare wilt thou cow r thy chittering^ wing,\\nAn close thy e e?\\nEv n you on murd ring errands toil d.\\nLone from your savage homes exiPd,\\nrhe blood-stain d roost, and sheep-cote spoil d,\\nMy heart forgets,\\nWhile pityless the tempest wild\\nSore on you beats.\\nNow Phoebe, in her midnight reign.\\nDark muffl d, view d the dreary plain\\nSullen. 3 The sky, Drifted heaps of snow. Flung out.\\nWindows. Shivering. Deep wading.\\nScramble. Hopping. Shivering.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0117.jp2"}, "118": {"fulltext": "S6 BURNS.\\nStill crowding thoughts, a pensive train,\\nRose in my soul,\\nWhen on my ear this plaintive strain,\\nSlow, solemn, stole\\n**Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!\\nAnd freeze, thou bitter-biting frost\\nDescend, ye chilly, smothering snows\\nNot all your rage, as now united, shows\\nMore hard unkindness, unrelenting,\\nVengeful malice, unrepenting,\\nThan heav n-illumin d man on brother man bestows*\\nSee stern Oppression s iron grip.\\nOr mad Ambition s gory hand.\\nSending, like blood-hounds from the slip,\\nWoe, want, and murder o er a land!\\nEv n in the peaceful rural vale,\\nTruth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,\\nHow pamper d Luxury, Flatt ry by her side,\\nThe parasite empoisoning her ear.\\nWith all the servile wretches in the rear.\\nLooks o er proud property, extended wide\\nAnd eyes the simple rustic hind.\\nWhose toil upholds the glitt ring show,\\nA creature of another kind.\\nSome coarser substance, unrefin d,\\nPlac d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below I\\nWhere, where is Love s fond, tender throe,\\nWith lordly Honour s lofty brow.\\nThe pow rs you proudly own?\\nIs there, beneath Love s noble name,\\nCan harbour, dark, the selfish aim,\\nTo bless himself alone\\nMark maiden-innocence a prey\\nTo love-pretending snares.\\nThis boasted Honour turns away.\\nShunning soft Pity s rising sway.\\nRegardless of the tears, and unavailing pray rsl\\nPerhaps, this hour, in mis ry s squalid nest\\nShe strains your infant to her joyless breast.\\nAnd with a mother s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!\\nOh ye who, sunk in beds of down.\\nFeel not a want but what yourselves create,\\nThink, for a moment, on his wretched fate,\\nWhom friends and fortune quite disown\\nHi-satisfied keen nature s clam rous call.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0118.jp2"}, "119": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 87\\nStretch d on his straw he lays himself to sleep,\\nWhile thro the ragged roof and chinky wall,\\nChill o er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap\\nThink on the dungeon s grim confine,\\nWhere Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!\\nGuilt, erring man, relenting view\\nBut shall thy legal rage pursue\\nThe wretch, already crushed low\\nBy cruel Fortune s undeserved blow?\\nAffliction s sons are brothers in distress\\nA brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss I\\nI heard nae mair, for Chanticleer\\nShook off the pouthery snaw,\\nAnd haird the morning with a cheer,\\nA cottage -rousing craw.^\\nBut deep this truth impress d my mind\\nThro all His works abroad.\\nThe heart benevolent and kind\\nThe most resembles God.\\nEPISTLE TO DAYIE,^ A BROTHER POET.\\nJanuary, 1784\\nWhile winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,\\nAnd bar the doors wi driving snaw,\\nAnd hing us owre the ingle,\\nI sat me down, to pass the time.\\nAnd spin a verse or twa o rhyme.\\nIn ham.ely, westlin jingle.\\nWhile frosty winds blaw in the drift,\\nBen to the chimla-lug,^\\nI grudge a v/ee the great folk s gift,\\nThat live sae bien^ an snug:\\nI tent^ less, and want less\\nTheir roomy fire-side\\nBut hanker and canker,\\nTo see their cursed pride.\\nCrow.\\nDavie was David Sillar, the author of a book of Scottish verses.\\nGilbert Burns writes respeetins^ his brother: It was, I think, in\\nsummer 1784, when, in the iiitej val of harder labour, he and I were\\nweeding: in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin-\\ncipal part of this Epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert s becom\\ning author was started on this occasion.\\nFire-place. To the parlour hearth. Plentiful. Heed.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0119.jp2"}, "120": {"fulltext": "88 BUR vS,\\nIt s hardly in a body s povV,\\nTo keep, at times, frae being soai^\\nTo see how things are shar-d\\nHow best o chiels are whiles in want^\\nWhile coofs on countless thousands ritnt,\\nAnd ken na how to wair t\\nBut, Davie, lad, ne er fash^ your head,\\nTho we hae little gear,\\nWe re fit to win our daily bread,\\nAs lang s we re hale and fier:^\\n*^Mair spier na, nor fear na,\\nAuld age ne er mind a feg,*\\nThe last o t, the warst o t,\\nIs only for to beg.\\nTo lie in kilns and barns at e en.\\nWhen banes are craz d, and bluid is thin,\\nIs, doubtless, gi-eat distress\\nYet then content could mak us blest;\\nEv n then, sometimes, we d snatch a taste\\nOf truest happiness.\\nThe honest heart that s free frae a\\nIntended fraud or guile,\\nHowever fortune kick the ba\\nHas aye some cause to smile\\nAnd mind still, you ll find still,\\nA comfort this nae sma\\nNae mair then, we ll care then,\\nNae farther can we fa\\nWhat tho like commoners of air,\\nWe wander out, we know not where,\\nBut either house or hal\\nYet nature s charms, the hills and woods.\\nThe sweeping vales, and foaming floods.\\nAre free alike to all.\\nIn days when daises deck the ground.\\nAnd blackbh ds whistle clear,\\nWith honest joy our hearts will bound\\nTo see the coming year\\nOn braes when we please, then.\\nWe ll sit and sowth^ a tune\\nSyne rhyme till t, we ll time till t.\\nAnd sing t when we hae done.\\n3 Spend it. Trouble. Sound.\\n4 Ramsay.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. pig. Ball\\nWhistle over. ^Then. \u00c2\u00bbToit", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0120.jp2"}, "121": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO DA VIE. 8d\\nIt s no in titles nor in rank\\nIt s no in wealth like Lon on bank,\\nTo purchase peace and rest\\nIt s no in making muckle mair\\nIt s no in books; it s no in lear,*\\nTo make us truly blest\\nIf happiness hae not her seat\\nAnd centre in the breast,\\nWe may be wise, or rich, or great^\\nBut never can be blest\\nNae treasures, nor pleasures,\\nCould make us happy lang\\nThe heart aye s the part aye,\\nThat makes us right or wrang.\\nThink ye, that sic as you and I,\\nWha drudge and drive thro wet an dry,\\nWi never-ceasing toil\\nThink ye, are we less blest than they,\\nWha scarcely tent us in their way,\\nAs hardly worth their while?\\nAlas how aft in haughty mood,\\nGod s creatures they oppress\\nOr else, neglecting a that s guid,\\nThey riot in excess\\nBaith careless, and fearless,\\nOf either heav n or hell I\\nEsteeming and deeming\\nIt s a an idle tale\\nThen let us cheerfu acquiesce\\nNor make our scanty pleasures less.\\nBy pining at our state\\nAnd, even should misfortunes come,\\nI, here wha sit, hae met wi some,\\nAn s thankfu for them yet.\\nThey gie the wit of age to youth\\nThey let us ken oursel\\nThey make us see the naked truth|\\nThe real guid and ill,\\nTho losses, and crosses,\\nBe lessons right severe,\\nThere s wit there, ye U get there,\\nYe U find nae other where.\\nBut tent me, Davie, ace o hearts!\\n(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,*\\n1 Learning. Heed. Cardf.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0121.jp2"}, "122": {"fulltext": "90 BURNS,\\nAnd flatt ry I detest)\\nThis life has joj^s for you and I\\nAnd joys that riches ne er could buy;\\nAnd joys the very best.\\nThere s a W\\\\q pleasures o the heart,\\nThe lover an the frien\\nYe hae your Meg, your dearest part,\\nAnd I my darling Jean\\nIt warms me, it charms me,\\nTo mention but her name\\nIt heats me, it beets me,\\nAnd sets me a on flame\\nO all ye pow rs who rule above\\nO Thou, whose very self art love\\nThou know st my words sincere\\nThe life-blood streaming thro my heart,\\nOr my more dear immortal part,\\nIs not more f ondl}^ dear\\nWhen heart-corroding care and grief\\nDeprive my soul of rest,\\nHer dear idea brings relief\\nAnd solace to my breast.\\nThou Being, All-seeing,\\nO hear my fervent pray r;\\nStill take her, and make her\\nThy most peculiar care\\nAll hail, ye tender feelings dear\\nThe smile of love, the friendly tear.\\nThe sympathetic glow I\\nLong since, this world s thorny ways\\nHad numbered out my weary days,\\nHad it not been for you\\nFate still has blest me with a fnend,\\nIn every care and ill\\nAnd oft a more endearing band,\\nA tie more tender still.\\nIt lightens, it brightens\\nThe tenebrific scene.\\nTo meet with, and greet with\\nMy Davie, or my Jean.\\nO, how that name inspires my style!\\nThe words come skelpin, rank and file,\\nI Meg was Margaret Orr, the nursery -maid of Mrs Stewart oi\\nSUtir.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A. C,\\nAdds fuel. Marching lightly.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0122.jp2"}, "123": {"fulltext": "THE LAMENT. 91\\nAmaist before I ken\\nThe ready measure rins as fine,\\nAs Phoebus and the famous Nme\\nWere glowrin owre my pen.\\nMy spaviet^ Pegasus will limp,\\nTill ance he s fairly het\\nAnd then he ll hilch,^ and stilt, and jimp,\\nAn rin an unco fit\\nBut lest then, the teast then,\\nShould rue this hasty ride,\\nI ll L ght now, and dight^ now\\nHis sweaty, wizen d* hide.\\nTHE LAIVIENT/\\nOCCASIONID BT THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OP i. FRIEKD S AKOUR.\\nAlas how oft does Goodness wound itself,\\nAnd Sweet Affection prove the spring of woe I\\nHome.\\nTHOU pale Orb, that silent shines,\\nWhile care-untroubled mortals sleep\\nThou seest a wretch that inly pines.\\nAnd wanders here to wail and weep 1\\nWith woe I nightly vigils keep,\\nBeneath thy wan un warming beam\\nAnd mourn, in lamentation deep.\\nHow life and love are all a dream.\\n1 joyless view the rays adorn\\nThe faintly-marked, distant hill\\nI joyless view thy trembling horn,\\nReflected in the gurgling rill\\nMy fondly-fluttering heart, be still\\nThou busy pow r, Remembrance, cease!\\nAh I must the agonizing thrill\\nFor ever bar returning peace\\nNo idly-feigned poetic pains,\\nMy sad, love-lorn lamentings claim\\nNo shepherd s pipe Ai-cadian strains\\nNo fabled tortures, quaint and tame.\\nSpavined. Hobble. ^ipe. 4 Shrunk.\\nIt is scarcely necessary to mention, that Th^ Lament was\\ncomposed on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial history,\\nwhicn I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first\\ndistraction of his feelings had a little subsided.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G.B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0123.jp2"}, "124": {"fulltext": "-2 BURNS,\\nThe plighted faith the mutual flame\\nThe oft attested pow rs above\\nThe promised Father s tender name\\nThese were the pledges of my love\\nEncircled in her clasping arms,\\nHow have the raptur d moments flown\\nHow have I wished for fortune s charms,\\nFor her dear sake, and hers alone\\nAnd must I think it is she gone,\\nMy secret heart s exulting boast?\\nAnd does she heedless hear my gi oan?\\nAnd is she ever, ever lost?\\nOh can she bear so base a heart,\\nSo lost to honour, lost to truth.\\nAs from the fondest lover part.\\nThe plighted husband of her youth\\nAlas life s path may be unsmooth\\nHer way may lie thro rough distress\\nThen, who her pangs and pains will soothe,\\nHer sorrows share, and make them less?\\nYe winged hours that o er us past,\\nEnraptur d more, the more enjoy d.\\nYour dear remembrance in my breast,\\nMy fondly-treasui- d thoughts employ d.\\nThat breast, how dreary now, and void,\\nFor her too scanty once of room\\nEv n ev ry ray of hope destroy d,\\nAnd not a wish to gild the gloom\\nThe mom that warns th approaching day,\\nAwakes me up to toil and woe\\nI see the hours in long array.\\nThat I must suffer, lingering, slow,\\nFull many a pang, and many a throe,\\nKeen recollection s direful train.\\nMust wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low.\\nShall kiss the distant, western main.\\nAnd when my nightly couch I try.\\nSore harass d out with care and grief.\\nMy toil-beat nerves, and tear- worn eye.\\nKeep watchings with the nightly thief\\nOr if I slumber, fancy, chief.\\nReigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:\\nEv en day, all-bitter, brings relief.\\nFrom siich a^horror-breathing night.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0124.jp2"}, "125": {"fulltext": "DESPONDENCY, 93\\nO thou bright Queen, who o er the expanse\\nNow highest reign st, with boundless sway 1\\nOft has thy silent-marking glance\\nObserved us, f ondly-wand ring, stray 1\\nThe time, imheeded, sped away,\\nWhile love s luxurious pulse beat high,\\nBeneath thy silver-gleaming ray,\\nTo mark the mutual-kindling eye.\\nOh scenes in strong remembrance set\\nScenes, never, never to return\\nScenes, if in stupor I forget.\\nAgain I feel, again I burn\\nFrom ev ry joy and pleasure torn.\\nLife s weary vale I wander thro\\nAnd hopeless, comfortless, I ll moiu*n\\nA faithless woman s broken vow.\\nDESPONDENCY.\\nAN ODE.\\nOppeess d with grief, oppressed with care,\\nA burden more than I can bear,\\nI sit me down and sigh\\nO life thou art a galling load.\\nAlong a rough, a weary road.\\nTo wretches such as I\\nDim backward as I cast my view,\\nWhat sick ning scenes appear\\nWhat sorrows yet may pierce me thro\\nToo justly I may fear\\nStill caring, despairing,\\nMust be my bitter doom\\nMy woes here shall close ne er,\\nBut with the closing tomb\\nHappy, ye sons of busy life.\\nWho, equal to the bustling strife,\\nNo other view regard\\nEv n when the wished end s deny^d,\\nYet while the busy means are ply d.\\nThey bring their own reward\\nWhilst I, a hope-abandon d wight,\\nUnfitted with an aim,\\nMeet ev ry sad returning night.\\nAnd joyless morn the same", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0125.jp2"}, "126": {"fulltext": "94 BURNS.\\nYou, l)U3tling, and justling,\\nForget each grief and pain\\nI, listless, yet restless,\\nFind every prospect vain.\\nHow blest the Solitary s lot,\\nWho, all-forgetting, all-forgot,\\nWithin his humble cell,\\nThe cavern wild with tangling rootg,\\nSits o er his newly-gather d fruits,\\nBeside his crystal well\\nOr, haply, to his ev ning thought,\\nI3y unfrequented stream.\\nThe ways of men are distant brought,\\nA faint-collected dream\\nWhile praising, and raising,\\nHis thoughts to Heaven on high,\\nAs wand iing, meandering,\\nHe views the solemn sky.\\nThan I, no lonely hermit plac d\\nWhere never human footstep trac d,\\nLess fit to play the part\\nThe lucky moment to improve,\\nAnd just to stop, and just to move,\\nWith self-respecting art\\nBut, ah those pleasures, loves, and joya^\\nWhich I too keenly taste.\\nThe Solitary can despise.\\nCan want, and yet be l3lest\\nHe needs not, he heeds not,\\nOr human love or hate,\\nWhilst I here must cry here,\\nAt perfidy ingrate\\nOh enviable, early days.\\nWhen dancing thoughtless pleasure s max*,\\nTo care, to guilt unknown\\nHow ill exchang d for riper times.\\nTo feel the follies, or the crimes.\\nOf others, or m.y own\\nYe tiny elves that guiltless sport,\\nLike linnets in the bush,\\nYe little know the ills ye court.\\nWhen manhood is your wish 1\\nThe losses, the crosses,\\nThat active man engage,\\nThe fears all, the tears all,\\nOf dim -declining age!", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0126.jp2"}, "127": {"fulltext": "THE COTTER S SA TURD A V NIGHT 95\\nWINTER.\\nA DIRGE.\\nThe wintery west extends his blast,\\nAnd hail and rain does blaw\\nOr the stormy north sends driving forth\\nThe blinding sleet and snaw\\nWhile, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,\\nAnd roars f rae bank to brae\\nind bird and beast in covert rest.\\nAnd pass the heartless day,\\n*^The sweeping blast, the sky o ercast,\\nThe joyless winter-day,\\nijct others fear, to me more dear\\nThan all the pride of May\\nThe tempest s howl, it soothes my soul,\\nMy griefs it seems to join\\nThe leafless trees my fancy please,\\nTheir fate resembles mine\\nThou Pow r Supreme, whose mighty scheme\\nThese woes of mine fulfil,\\nHere, firm, I rest, they must be best.\\nBecause they are Thy vdll I\\nThen all I want (Oh do thou grant\\nThis one request of mine\\nSince to enjoy thou dost deny.\\nAssist me to resign.\\nTHE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT.\\nINSCRIBED TO ROBEKT AIKEN, ESQ. ,2 OF AYR.\\nLet not ambition mock their useful toil,\\nTheir homely joys, and destiny obscure;\\nNor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,\\nThe short but simple annals of the Poor.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 (rr\u00c2\u00aby.\\nMy lov d, my honoured, much respected friend\\nNo mercenary bard his homage pays\\nWith honest pride, I scorn each selfish end\\nMy dearest meed, a friend s esteem and praise\\nDr. Young.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n*Mr. Aiken was a writer in Ayr; Gilbert Burns affectionately\\nnotices him in a letter to Currie, as a man of worth and taste, and\\nwarm affections, and who eagerly spread among his friends the\\nmerits of the new Poet,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0127.jp2"}, "128": {"fulltext": "06 BURNS,\\nTo you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,\\nThe lowly train in life s sequestered scene\\nThe native feelings strong, the guileless ways\\nWhat Aiken in a cottage would have been\\nAh though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween.\\nNovember chill blaws loud wi angry sugh\\nThe short ning winter day is near a close\\nThe miry beasts retreating f rae the pleugh\\nThe black ning trains o craws to their repose\\nThe toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,\\nThis night his weekly moil is at an end,\\nCollects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,\\nHoping the mom in ease and rest to spend.\\nAnd weary, o er the moor, his course does hameward bend.\\nAt length his lonely cot appears in view,\\nBeneath the shelter of an aged tree\\nTh expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher^ thro\\nTo meet their Dad, wi flichterin^ noise an glee.\\nHis wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,\\nHis clane hearth -stane, his thriitie wifie s smile,\\nThe lisping infant prattling on his knee,\\nDoes a his weary-carking cares beguile.\\nAn makes him quite forget his labour an his toil.\\nBelyve,* the elder bairns come drapping in.\\nAt service out, amang the farmers roim\\nSome ca the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin\\nA cannie errand to a neebor town\\nTheir eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,\\nIn youthfu bloom, love sparkling in her e e,\\nComes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,\\nOr deposite her sair-won penny-fee.\\nTo help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.\\nWi joy unfeign d brothers and sisters meet,\\nAn each for other s welfare kindly spiers;\\nThe social hours, swift- wing d, unnoticed fleet;\\nEach tells the uncos^ that he sees or hears\\nThe parents, partial, eye their hopeful years\\nRushine sound. Stagger. ^Tluttering. By and by.\\nAlthougn the Cotter, in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2f my father in his manners, his family devotions, and exhortationg,\\nvet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family.\\nNone of us ever were At service out amang the neebors roun.\\nInstead of our depositing our sair-won penny-fee with our parents,\\nmy father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy,\\nthat he might be able to keep his children at home.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Giitcrt Bum^\\nto Dr. Ourrie, Oct. 21, 1800.\\nCautious, News.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0128.jp2"}, "129": {"fulltext": "THE COTTER S SA TURD A Y NIGHT. 97\\nAnticipation forward point\u00c2\u00abi the view.\\nThe mother, wi her needle an her shears,\\nGars^ anld claes look amaist as weel s the new;\\nThe father mixes a wi admonit/on due.\\nTheir master s an their mistress s command,\\nThe younkers a are warned to obey\\nAn mind their labours wi an eydent* hand.\\nAn ne er, tho out o sight, to jauk or play.\\nAn oh! be sure to fear the Lord ahvay,\\nAn mind your duty, duly, morn an night I\\nLest in temptation s path ye gang astray,\\nLnplore His counsel and assisting might\\nThey never sought in vain that sought the ^rH aright I\\nBut, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;\\nJenny, wha kens the meaning o the same,\\nTells how a neebor lad cam o er the moor,\\nTo do some errands, and convoy her hame.\\nThe wily mother sees the conscious flame\\nSparkle in Jenny s e e, and flush her cheek\\nWi heart-struck anxious care, inquires his nam^^\\nWhile Jenny hafl3.ins^ is afraid to speak\\nWeel pleas d the mother hears, it s nae wild wnrViless\\nrake.\\nWi kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben\\nA strappan youth he takes the mother s eye\\nBlythe Jenny sees the visit s no ill ta en\\nThe father cracks* of horses, pleughs, and kye.\\nThe youngster s artless heart o ei-flows wi joy.\\nBut, blate^ and laithfu scarce can weel behave;\\nThe woman, wi a woman s wiles, can spy\\nWhat makes the youth sae bashf u an sae grave\\nWeel pleas d to think her bairn s respected like the lar^r\\nO happy love where love like this is found\\nO heart-felt raptures bliss beyond compare\\nI ve paced much this weary, mortal round.\\nAnd sage experience bids me this declare\\nIf Heav n a draught of heav nly pleasure spare,\\nOne cordial in this melancholy vale,\\nTis when a youthful, loving, modest pair.\\nIn other s arms breathe out the tender tale.\\nBeneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev ning\\ngale\\n1 Makes. a Diligent. 3 Half. Talks.\\nBashful. e Sheepish. The rest.\\n1", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0129.jp2"}, "130": {"fulltext": "I BURNS.\\nIs there, in human form, that bears a heart\\nA wretch I a villain lost to love and truth I\\nThat can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,\\nBetray sweet Jenny s unsuspecting youth?\\nCurse on his perjur d arts dissembling smooth I\\nAre honom virtue, conscience, all exil d?\\nIs there no pity, no relenting ruth.\\nPoints to the parents fondling o er their child?\\nThen pants the ruin d maid, and their distraction wildc\\nBut now the supper crowns their simple board.\\nThe halesome panitch, chief o Scotia s food:\\nThe soupe their only hawkie^ does afford,\\nThat yont the hallan snugly chows her cood\\nThe dame brings forth in complimental mood,\\nTo grace the lad, her weel-hain d^ kebbuck,* fell,\\nAn aft he s prest, an aft he ca s it guid\\nThe frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell\\nHow twas a towmond^ auld, sin lint was i the bell.*\\nThe cheerfu supper done, wi serious face,\\nThey, round the ingle, form a circle wide;\\nThe sire turns o er, wi patriarchal grace,\\nThe big ha -Bible, ance his father s pride\\nHis bonnet rev rently is laid aside.\\nHis lyart haffets wearing thin an bare\\nThose strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,\\nHe wales^ a portion with judicious care\\nAnd Let us worship God! he says, with solemn air.\\nThey chant their artless notes in simple guise\\nThey tuue their hearts, by far the noblest aim\\nPerhaps Dundee s wild warbling measures rise.\\nOr plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;\\nOr noble Elgin beets the heav nward flame.\\nThe sweetest far of Scotia s holy lays\\nCompar d with these, Italian thrills are tame\\nThe tickl d ears no heart-felt raptures raise,\\nNae unison hae they with our Creator s praise.\\nThe priest-like father reads the sacred page.\\nHow Abram was the friend of God on high\\nOr Moses bade eternal warfare wage\\nWith Amalek s ungi acious progeny\\nOr how the royal Bard did groaning lie\\nCJow. 2 Partition waU. 3 Well-saved. Chee\u00c2\u00ab#.\\ntwelvemonth. Since the flax was in flower.\\n7 Grey locks. chooses.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0130.jp2"}, "131": {"fulltext": "THE COTTER S SA TURD A Y NIGHT 99\\nBeneath the stroke of Heaven s avenging ire\\nOr Job s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry\\nOr rapt Isaiah s wild, seraphic fire\\nOr other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.\\nPerhaps the Christian volume is the theme,\\nHow guiltless blood for guilty man was shed\\nHow He, who bore in Heav n the second name,\\nHad not on earth whereon to lay His head:\\nHow His first followers and servants sped\\nThe precepts sage they wrote to many a land\\nHow he, who lone in Patmos banished,\\nSaw in the sun a mighty angel stand\\nAnd heard great Bab lon s doom pronounced by Heav n l\\ncommand.\\nThen kneeling down, to Heaven s Eternal King,\\nThe saint, the father, and the husband prays\\nHope springs exulting on triumphant wing,\\nThat thus they all shall meet in future days:\\nThere ever bask in uncreated rays,\\nNo more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,\\nTogether hymning their Creator s praise,\\nIn such society, yet still more dear\\nWhile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.\\nCompar d with this, how poor Religion s pride,\\nIn all the pomp of method, and of art,\\nWhen men display to congregations wide\\nDevotion s ev ry grace, except the heart\\nThe Pow r, incens d, the pageant will desert.\\nThe pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole\\nBut haply, in some cottage far apart.\\nMay hear, well pleas d, the language of the soul;\\nAnd in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.\\nThen homeward all take off their sev ral way\\nThe youngling cottagers retire to rest\\nThe parent- pair their secret homage pay.\\nAnd proffer up to Heav n the warm request.\\nThat He, who stills the raven s clam rous nest.\\nAnd decks the lily fair in flow ry pride\\nWould, in the way His wisdom sees the best\\nFor them, and for their little ones provide\\nBut chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.\\nL. of CI Pope s WiJidsor Forest. R. B,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0131.jp2"}, "132": {"fulltext": "100 BUR^S.\\nFrom scenes like these old Scotia s grandeur springs\\nThat makes her lov d at home, rever d abroad:\\nPrinces and lords are but the breath of kings;\\nAn honest man s the noblest work of God;\\nAnd certes, in fair virtue s heav nly road,\\nThe cottage leaves the palace far behind\\nWhat is a lordling s pomp? a cumbrous load,\\nDisguising oft the wretch of human kind,\\nStudied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined I\\nScotia my dear, my native soil\\nFor whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent I\\nLong may thy hardy sons of rustic toil\\nBe blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!\\nAnd, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent\\nFrom luxury s contagion, weak and vile\\nThen, howe er crowns and coronets be rent,\\nA virtuous populace may rise the while.\\nAnd stand a wall of fire around their much-lov d Isle.\\nO Thou who pour d the patriotic tide\\nThat stream d thro Wallace s undaunted heart;\\nWho dar d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,\\nOr nobly die, the second glorious part,\\n(The patriot s God, peculiarly Thou art,\\nHis friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward 1)\\nO never, never Scotia s realm desert\\nBut still the patriot, and the patriot-bard.\\nIn bright succession raise, her ornament and guard I\\nMAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.\\nA DIRGE.\\nWhen chill November s surly blast\\nMade fields and forests bare.\\nOne ev ning, as I wander d forth\\nAlong the barks of Ayr,\\nI spy d a man, whose aged step\\nSeem d weary, worn with care;\\nHis face was furrow d o er with years,\\nAnd hoary was his hair.\\n1 Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringinfi\\nforward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used to re*\\nmark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying pic-,\\ntare of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in\\nhis mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the ela^y,\\nMan was made to mourn. was composed.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0132.jp2"}, "133": {"fulltext": "MAN Was made to mourn. loi\\nYoung stranger, whither wand rest thou?\\nBegan the rev rend sage\\nDoes thirst of wealth thy step constrain,\\nOr youthful pleasure s rage?\\nOr, haply, prest with cares and woes,\\nToo soon thou hast began\\nTo wander forth, with me, to mourn\\nThe miseries of Man.\\nThe sun that overhangs yon moors.\\nOut-spreading far and wide.\\nWhere hundreds labour to support\\nA haughty lordling s pride\\nI ve seen yon weary winter-sun\\nTwice forty times return\\nAnd ev ry time has added proofs,\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nOh man while in thy early years,\\nHow prodigal of time\\nMis-spending all thy precious hours,\\nThy glorious youthful prime\\nAlternate follies take the sway\\nLicentious passions burn\\nWhich tenfold force give nature s law.\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nLook not alone on youthful prime,\\nOr manhood s active might\\nMan then is useful to his kind,\\nSupported is his right.\\nBut see^im on the edge of life,\\nWitlr^ares and sorrows worn\\nThen age and want, oh! ill-match d pair!\\nShow Man was made to mourn.\\nA few seem favourites of fate,\\nIn pleasure s lap carest\\nYet, think not all the rich and great\\nAre likewise truly blest.\\nBut, oh what crowds in ev ry land\\nAre wretched and forlorn.\\nThro weary life this lesson learn,\\nThat Man was made to mourn.\\nMany and sharp the num rous ills\\nInwoven with our frame\\nMore pointed still we make ourselves,\\nRegret, remorse, and shame!", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0133.jp2"}, "134": {"fulltext": "102 BURNS.\\nAnd man, whose heav n erected fact\\nThe smiles of love adorn,\\nMan s inhmnanity to man\\nMakes countless thousands mourn I\\nSee yonder poor, o erlabour d wight.\\nSo abject, mean, and vile.\\nWho begs a brother of the earth\\nTo give him leave to toil\\nAnd see his lordly fellow- worm\\nThe poor petition spurn,\\nUnmindful, tho a weeping wife\\nAnd helpless offspring mourn.\\nK I m design d yon lordling s slav\u00c2\u00a9\u00e2\u0080\u0094 i\\nBy Nature s law design d,\\nWhy was an independent wish\\nE er planted in my mind?\\nIf not, why am I subject to\\nHis cruelty, or scorn?\\nOr why has man the will and pow r\\nTo make his fellow mourn?\\nYet, let not this too much, my son,\\nDisturb thy youthful breast\\nThis partial view of human kind\\nIs surely not the last\\nThe poor, oppressed, honest man\\nHad never, sure, been born.\\nHad there not been some recompence\\nTo comfort those that mourn\\nO death the poor man s dearest friend,\\nThe kindest and the best\\nWelcome the hour my aged limbs\\nAre laid with thee at rest\\nThe great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,\\nFrom pomp and pleasure torn\\nBut, oh a blest relief to those\\nThat weary-laden mourn\\nWhatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, It fa\\nl\u00c2\u00bbut too evident that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own\\nbosom. The indignation with which he contemplated the inequality\\nof human condition, and particularly the contrast between his owa\\nworldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bit*\\nterly nor more loftily expressed than in some of these stani^a.---\\nLockhart", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0134.jp2"}, "135": {"fulltext": "STANZAS. 103\\nA PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.\\nO Thou unknown, Almighty Cause\\nOf all my hope and fear\\nIn whoee dread presence, ere an hour,\\nPerhaps I must appear 1\\nIf I have wander d in those paths\\nOf life I ought to shun\\nAs something, loudly in my breast,\\nRemonstrates I have done\\nThou know st that thou hast formed me,\\nWith passions wild and strong\\nAnd list ning to their witching voice\\nHas often led me wrong.\\nWhere human weakness has come short,\\nOr frailty stept aside,\\nDo thou, All-Good for such Thou art,\\nIn shades of darkness hide.\\nWhere with intention I have err d.\\nNo other plea I have.\\nBut, Thou art good and Goodness still\\nDelighteth to forgive.\\nSTANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.\\nWhy am I loth to leave this earthly scene\\nHave I so found it full of pleasing charms?\\nSome drops of joy with draughts of ill between\\nSome gleams of sunshine mid renewing storms\\nIs it departing pangs my soul alarms?\\nOr death s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?\\nFor guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms\\nI tremble to approach an angry God,\\nAnd justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.\\nFain would I say, Forgive my foul offence 1\\nFain promise never more to disobey\\nBut, should my Author health again dispense,\\nAgain I might desert fair virtue s way\\nAgain in folly s path might go astray\\nBurns has entitled his verses, A prayer, when fainting fits, and\\nother alarming symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous disor-\\nder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm.\\n2 August, [1874,] Misgivings in the hour of Despondency an(i\\nprospect of Death,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0135.jp2"}, "136": {"fulltext": "BURNS,\\nAgain exalt the brute, and sink the man\\nThen how should I for Heav nly mercy pray,\\nWho act so counter Heav nly mercy s plan?\\nWho sin so oft have moum d, yet to temptation ran?\\nO Thou, great Governor of all below\\nIf I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,\\nThy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,\\nAnd still the timiult of the raging sea\\nWith that controlling pow r assist ev n me,\\nThose headlong furious passions to confine,\\nFor all unfit I feel my powers to be,\\nTo rule their torrent in th allowed line\\nO, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine\\nLYING AT A REYERElSrD FRIEISTD S HOUSE ONE\\nNIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING\\nVERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.\\nO Thou dread Pow r, who reign st above\\nI know Thou wilt me hear;\\nWhen for this scene of peace and love,\\nI make my pray r sincere.\\nT\\\\ie hoary sire the mortal stroke.\\nLong, long, be pleas d to spare\\nTo bless his little filial flock.\\nAnd show what good men are.\\nShe, who her lovely offspring eyes\\nWith tender hopes and fears.\\nOh, bless her with a mother s joys.\\nBut spare a mother s tears\\nTheir hope, their stay, their darling youth,\\nIn manhood s da^wning blush;\\nBless him, Thou God of love and truth,\\nUp to a parent s wish.\\nThe beauteous, seraph sister-band.\\nWith earnest tears I pray.\\nThou knows t the snares on ev ry hand.\\nGuide Thou their steps alway.\\n1 The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon was at the\\nhouse of Dr. Lawrie, then ministei- of the parish of Loudon, now in\\nGlasgow, having given up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Law-\\nrie has several daughters one of them played the father and\\nmother led down the dance the rest of the sisters, the brother, the\\npoet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family\\nscene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind\\nwas roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the Stanzas were left in the\\nroom where he slept. G. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0136.jp2"}, "137": {"fulltext": "THE FIRST PSALM. 105\\nWhen soon or late they reach that coast,\\nO er life s rough ocean driven,\\nMay they rejoice, no wand rer lost,\\nA family in Heav n\\nTHE FIRST PSALM.\\nThe man, in life wherever plac d,\\nHath happiness in store,\\nWho walks not in the wicked s way,\\nNor learns their guilty lore\\nNor from the seat of scornful pride\\nCasts forth his eyes abroad,\\nBut with humility and awe\\nStill walks before his God.\\nThat man shall flourish like the trees\\nWhich by the streamlets grow\\nThe fruitful top is spread on high,\\nAnd firm the root below.\\nBut he, whose blossom buds in guilt,\\nShall to the ground be cast.\\nAnd like the rootless stubble tost,\\nBefore the sweeping blast.\\nFor why? that God the good adore\\nHath giv n them peace and rest.\\nBut hath decreed that wicked men\\nShall ne er be truly blest.\\nA PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIO-\\nLENT ANGUISH.^\\nO Thou Great Being what Thou art\\nSurpasses me to know\\nYet sure I am, that known to Thee\\nAre all Thy works below.\\nMarch, 1784.\\nThere was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke\\nby repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed\\neffected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body too was attacked\\nby that most dreadful disorder, a hypochondria, or confii-med mel\\nancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes\\nme yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in\\nsome lucid intervals, in on 3 of which I composed the following.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nR. B.\\nE*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0137.jp2"}, "138": {"fulltext": "1.06 BURNS.\\nThy creature here before Thee stands,\\nAH wretched and distrest;\\nYet sure those ills that wring my soul\\nObey Thy high behest.\\nSure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act\\nFrom cruelty or wrath\\nO, free my weary eyes from tears,\\nOr close them fast in death\\nBut if I must afflicted be,\\nTo suit some wise design;\\nThen man my soul with firm resolves\\nTo bear and not repine I\\nTHE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH\\nPSALM.\\nO Thou, the first, the greatest friend\\nOf all the human race\\nWhose strong right hand has ever been\\nTheir stay and dwelling place\\nBefore the mountains heav d their heads\\nBeneath Thy forming hand,\\nBefore this pond rou: globe itself.\\nArose at Thy command\\nThat pow r, which rais d and still upholdt\\nThis universal frame,\\nFrom countless, unbeginning time\\nWas ever still the same.\\nThose mighty periods of years,\\nWhich seem to us so vast,\\nAppear no more before Thy sight\\nThan yesterday that s past.\\nThou giv st the word Thy creature, man^\\nIs to existence brought\\nAgain Thou say st, Ye sons of men,\\nReturn ye into nought\\nThou layest them, with all their cares,\\nIn everlasting sleep\\nAs with a flood thou tak st them off\\nWith overwhelming sweep.\\nThey flourish like the morning flow r,\\nIn beauty s pride array d\\nBut long ere night cut down, it lies\\nAll withered and decay d.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0138.jp2"}, "139": {"fulltext": "TO A MOUXTAIN DAISY, 107\\nTO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,\\nON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786,1\\nWee, modest, crimson-tipped flow r,\\nThou s met me in an evil hour\\nFor I maun crush amang the stoure\\nThy slender stem:\\nTo spare thee now is past my pow r,\\nThou bonnie gem,\\nAlas it s no thy neebor sweet,\\nThe bonnie Lark, companion meet\\nBending thee mang the dewy weet\\nWi speckl d breast,\\nWhen upward-springing, blythe, to greet\\nThe purpling east.\\nCauld blew the bitter-biting north\\nUpon thy early, humble birth\\nYet cheerfully thou glinted forth\\nAmid the storm,\\nScarce rear d above the parent-earth\\nThy tender form.\\nThe flaunting flow rs our gardens yield,\\nHigh shelt ring woods and wa s maun shield,\\nBut thou, beneath the random bield^\\nO clod, or stane,\\nAdorns the histie* stibble-field,\\nUnseen, alane.\\nThere, in thy scanty mantle clad,\\nThy snawy bosom sunward spread,\\nThou lifts thy unassuming head\\nIn humble guise\\nBut now the share uptears thy bed,\\nAnd low thou lies I\\nSuch is the fate of artless Maid,\\nSweet flow ret of the rural shade\\nBy love s simplicity betray d.\\nAnd guileless trust,\\nTill she, like thee, all soil d, is laid\\nLow i the dust.\\nThe Daisy grew in the field next to that in which the plough had\\nturned up the mouse s nest.\\n2 I have seldom met with an image more truly pastoral than that\\nof the lark in the second stanza. Such strokes as these mark the\\npencil of the poet, which delineates Nature ^vith the precision of\\nandtaste.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 H,\\nmtimacy. j^et with the delicate colouring of beauty\\nMackenzie, in *The Lounger, No. 97. 3 shelter.\\nDry.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0139.jp2"}, "140": {"fulltext": "108 BURNS.\\nSuch is the fate of simple Bard,\\nOn hfe s rough ocean luckless starr d!\\nUnskilful he to note the card\\nOf prudent lore,\\nTill billows rage, and gales blow hard,\\nAnd whelm him o er I\\nSuch fate to suffering worth is giv n,\\nWho long with wants and woes has striv n,\\nBy human pride or cunning driv n\\nTo misery s brink,\\nTill, wrench d of ev ry stay but Heav n,\\nHe, ruin d, sink!\\nEv n thou who mourn st the Daisy s fate,\\nThat fat J is thine no distant late\\nStern Ruin s ploughshare drives, elate,\\nFull on thy bloom.\\nTill crush d beneath the furrow s weight.\\nShall be thy doom I\\nTO RUIN/\\nAll hail I inexorable lord\\nAt whose destruction-breathing word,\\nThe mightiest empires fall\\nThy cruel, woe-delighted train,\\nThe ministers of grief and pain,\\nA sullen welcome, all\\nWith stern-resolv d, despairing eye,\\nI see each aimed dart\\nFor one has cut my dearest tie,\\nAnd quivers in my heart.\\nThen low ring, and pouring,\\nThe storm no more I dread\\nTho thick ning and black ning\\nRound my devoted head.\\nAnd thou grim pow r, by life abhorred.\\nWhile life a pleasure can afford,\\nOh! hear a wretch s pray r!\\nNo more I shrink appall d, afraid;\\nI court, I beg thy friendly aid,\\nTo close this scene of care\\n1 1 have here enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my pro-\\nductions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself,\\nasthey are just the native quei-ulous feehngs of a heart which. a\u00c2\u00bb\\nthe elegantly melting Gray says, Melancholy has marked lor nep\\nown. \u00e2\u0080\u0094To Mr. Kennedy, April 20, 1786.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0140.jp2"}, "141": {"fulltext": "TO MISS LOGAN. JOJ\\nWhen shall my soul, in silent peace,\\nResign life s joyless day\\nMy weary heart its throbbing cease,\\nCold mouldering in the clay?\\nNo fear more, no tear more.\\nTo stain my lifeless face,\\nEnclasped, and grasped\\nWithin thy cold embrace I\\nTO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE^S POEMS,\\nAS A NEW year s GIFT, JANUARY 1, ?.787,\\nAgain the silent wheels of time\\nTheir annual round have driven,\\nAnd you, tho scarce in maiden prima\\nAre so much nearer Heav n.\\nNo gifts have I from Indian coasts\\nThe infant year to hail\\nI send you more than India boasts,\\nIn Edwin s simple tale.\\nOur sex with guile and faithless love\\nIs charg d, perhaps, too true\\nBut may, dear Maid, each lover prove\\nAn Edwin still to you\\nEPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.\\nMAT, 1786.\\nLANG hae thought, my youthfu friend\\nA something to have sent you,\\nTho it should serve nae ither end\\nThan just a kind memento\\nBut how the subject- theme may gang,\\nLet time and chance determine\\nPerhaps, it may turn out a sang,\\nPerhaps turn out a sermon.\\nYe ll try the world soon, my lad,\\nAnd Andrew dear, believe me,\\nYe ll find mankind an unco squad,\\nAnd muckle they may grieve ye\\nAndrew Aiken, of Ayr, son of the friend to whom Bums inscribed\\nThe Cotter s Saturday Night.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0141.jp2"}, "142": {"fulltext": "110 BURNS.\\nFor care or trouble set your thought,\\nEv n when your end s attained\\nAnd a your views nlay come to nought^\\nWhere ev ry nerve is strained.\\nI ll no say, men are villains a\\nThe real, hardened wicked,\\nWha hae nae check but human law,\\nAre to a few reetricked:\\nBut, Och mankind are unco weak,\\nAn little to be trusted\\nIf self the wavering balance shake,\\nIt s rarely right adjusted\\nYet they wha^ fa in fortune s strife^\\nTheir fate we should na censure,\\nFor still th important end of life\\nThey equally may answer\\nA man may hae an honest heart,\\nTho poortith^ hovuly stare him;\\nA man may tak a neebor s part,\\nYet hae nae cash to spare him.\\nAye free, aff-han your story tell.\\nWhen wi a bosom crony;\\nBut still keep something to yoursel\\nYe scarcely tell to ony.\\nConceal yoursel as weel s ye can\\nFrae critical dissection;\\nBut keek^ thro ev ry other man,\\nWi sharpen d, sly inspection.\\nThe sacred lowe^ o weel-plac d lore,\\nLuxuriantly indulge it;\\nBut never tempt th illicit rove,\\nTho naething should divulge it;\\nI wave the quantum o the sin.\\nThe hazard o concealing;\\nBut, Och it hardens a within.\\nAnd petrifies the feeling\\nTo catch dame Fortune s golden smil%\\nAssiduous wait upon her;\\nAnd gather gear by ev ry wile\\nThat s justify d Ijy honour;\\nNot for to hide it in a hedge,\\nNor for a train attendant;\\nBut for the glorious privilege\\nOf being independent.\\niWho \u00c2\u00abFaU. 8 Poverty. off -hand. ^Peep. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Warn\u00c2\u00a9,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0142.jp2"}, "143": {"fulltext": "ON A SCOTCH BARD. HI\\nThe fear o hell s a hangman s whip,\\nTo baud the wretch in order;\\nBut where ye feel your honour grip,\\nLet that aye be your border\\nIts slightest touches, instant paus\u00c2\u00ab\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nDebar a side pretences\\nAnd resolutely keep its laws,\\nUncaring consequences.\\nThe great Creator to revere,\\nMust sure become the creature\\nBut still the preaching cant forbear,\\nAnd ev n the rigid feature\\nYet ne er with wits profane to range,\\nBe complaisance extended\\nAn Atheist-laugh s a poor exchange\\nFor Deity offended 1\\nWhen ranting round in pleasure s ling,\\nReligion may be blinded\\nOr, if she gie a random sting,\\nIt may be little minded\\nBut when on life we re tempest-driv n,\\nA conscience but a canker\\nA correspondence fix d wi Heav n\\nIs sure a noble anchor I\\nAdieu, dear, amiable Youth!\\nYour heart can ne er be wanting I\\nMay prudence, fortitude, and truth.\\nErect your brow undaunting\\nIn ploughman phrase, God send you speed,**\\nStill daily to grow wiser;\\nAnd may you better reck the rede,*\\nThan ever did th Adviser I\\nON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES\\nA YE wha live by sowps^ o drink,\\nA ye wha live by crambo-clink,*\\nA ye wha live an never think,\\nCome mourn wi* met\\nOur billieV gien us a a jink,*\\nAn owre the sea.\\nHeed the counsel Spoonsful. Rhymea \u00c2\u00abOurbrolheft\\nDodge.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0143.jp2"}, "144": {"fulltext": "113 BURNS.\\nLament him a ye rantin core,*\\nWha dearly like a random-splore,*\\nNae mair he ll join the merry roar,\\nIn social key;\\nFor now he s taen anither shore,\\nAn owre the seal\\nThe bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,\\nAnd in their dear petitions place him\\nThe widows, wives, an a may bless him\\nWi tearf u e e\\nFor weel I wat they ll sairly miss him\\nThat s owre the seal\\nO Fortune, they hae room to grumble\\nHadst thou ta en aff some drowsy bummle,*\\nWha can do nought but fyke* an fumble,\\nTwad been nae plea\\nBut he was gleg* as ony wumble,\\nThat s owre the sea!\\nAuld, cantie Kyle^ may weepers wear,\\nAn stain them wi the saut, saut tear;\\nTwill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,\\nIn flinders\u00c2\u00ae flee\\nHe was her Laureat monie a year,\\nThat s owre the seal\\nHe saw misfortune s cauld Nor- west\\nLang mustering up a bitter blast;\\nA jillet* brak his heart at last,\\n111 may she be\\nSo, took a berth afore the mast,\\nAn owre the sea.\\nTo tremble under Fortune s cummock,**\\nOn scarce a belly fu o drummock,\\nWi his proud, independent stomach,\\nCould ill agree\\nSo, row t his hurdles in a hammock.\\nAn owre the sea.\\nHe ne er was gi en to great misguiding.\\nYet coin his pouches wad na bide in\\nWi him it ne er was under hiding,\\nHe dealt it free:\\nThe Muse was a that he took pride in,\\nThat s owie the sea.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Corps. \u00c2\u00abRiot. Blunderer. Fuss. Sharp. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2AwimWik\\nKilmarnock. Shi eds.\\nJUt. J\u00c2\u00ab Staft. i i Meal and water. la Wrapped.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0144.jp2"}, "145": {"fulltext": "7X} A HAGGIS. 113\\nJamaica bodies, use him weel,\\nAn hap^ him in a cozie biel\\nYe U find him ay a dainty chiel,\\nAnd fu o glee\\nHe wad na wrang d the vera deil,\\nThat s owre the sea,\\nFareweel, my rhyme-composing billie I\\nYour native soil was right ill-willie\\nBut may ye flourish like a lily,\\nNow bonnilie I\\nm toast ye in my hindmost gillie,\\nTho ower the seal\\nTO A HAGGIS.*\\nFair fa your honest sonsie face.\\nGreat chieftain o the pudding-race 1\\nAboon them a ye tak your place,\\nPainch, tripe, or thalrm;\\nWeel are ye wordy o a grace\\nAs lang s my arm.\\nThe groaning trencher there ye fill,\\nYour hurdles like a distant hill,\\nYour pin wad help to mend a mill\\nIn time o need,\\nWhile thro your pores the devrs distil\\nLike amber bead.\\nHis knife see rustic Labour dight,\\nAn cut you up wi ready slight,\\nTrenching your gushing entrails bright\\nLike onie ditch;\\nAnd then, what a glorious sight,\\nWarm-reekin, rich!\\nThen, horn for horn they stretch an strive,\\nDeil tak the hindmost, on they drive,\\nTill a their weel-swalPd kytes belyve\\nAre bent like drums\\nThen auld guidman, maist like to rive,^\\nBethankit hums.\\nCover. Shelter. Diminutive of gill\\nA dish which is only known or relished in Scotland. It is said to\\nbe composed of minced mutton, oatmeal, and suet; but a South-\\nron re\u00e2\u0082\u00ackacr will not desire a particular receipt.\\nSmall entrails. Wipe. Swelled. Stomachs. Burst.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0145.jp2"}, "146": {"fulltext": "114 BURXS-.\\nIs there that o er Ms French ragout,\\nOr olio that wad staw^ a sow,\\nOr fricassee wad mak her spew\\nWi perfect sconner,*\\nLooks down wi sneering, scomfu view\\nOn sic^ a dinner\\nPoor devil I see him owre his trashy\\nAs feckless^ as a wither d rash.\\nHis spindle shank a guid whip-lash.\\nHis nieve* a nit\\nThro bloody flood or field to dash,\\nO how unfit I\\nBut mark the rustic, haggis-fed.\\nThe trembling earth resounds his tread,\\nClap in his walie^ nieve a blade.\\nHe ll mak it whissle;\\nAn legs, an arms, an heads will sued,\\nLike taps o thrissle.\\nYe pow rs wha mak mankind your care,\\nAnd dish them out their bill o fare,\\nAuld Scotland wants nae skinking ware\\nThat jaups in luggiesf\\nBut, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,\\nGie her a Haggis.\\nA DEDICATION TO GAVrS HA^HLTOX, ESQ.\\nExpect na. Sir. in this narration\\nA fieechin, fleth rin Dedication,\\nTo roose you up. an ca you guid.\\nAn sprung o great an noble bluid,\\nBecause ye re sumam d like His Grace,\\nPerhaps related to the race\\nThen when I m tir d and sae are ye,\\nWi mony a fulsome, sinfu lie.\\nSet up a face, how I stop short\\nFor fear your modesty be hurt.\\nThis may do maun do. Sir, wi them whft\\nMaun please the great folk for a wamefou\\nFor me I sae laigh I needna bow,\\nFor, Lord be thankit, I can plough;\\nSurfeit. 2 Loathing. Weak. Fist. Nol\\nLarge. Lop. Splashes in -wooden dishes.\\nSupphcatlng. 1\u00c2\u00ae Flattenng. ^i BellTful.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0146.jp2"}, "147": {"fulltext": "A DEDICATIOy. 115\\nAjid ^hen I downa yoke a naig/\\nThen, Lord be thankit, I can beg;\\nSae I shall say, an that s nae flatt rin,\\nIt s just sic Poet, an sic Patron.\\nThe Poet, some guid angel help him,\\nOr else, I fear some ill ane skelp^ him!\\nHe may do weel for a he s done yet,\\nBut only he s no just begun yet.\\nThe Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,\\nI winna lie, come what will o me),\\nI On ev ry hand it will allow d be,\\nHe s just nae better than he should be.\\nI readily and freely grant,\\nHe downa see a poor man want\\nWhat s no his ain he winna tak it,\\nWhat ance he says he winna break it-,\\nAught he can lend he ll no refus t.\\nTill aft his guidness is abus d;\\nAnd rascals whyles that do him wrang,\\nEv n that, he does na mind it lang:\\nAs master, landlord, husband, father,\\nHe does na fail his part in either.\\nBut then, nae thanks to him for a that;\\nKae godly symptom ye can ca that\\nIts naething but a milder feature\\nOf our poor, sinfu corrupt nature\\nYe ll get the best o moral works,\\nMang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks,\\nOr hunters wild on Ponotaxi,\\nWha never heard of orthodoxy.\\nThat s he s the poor man s friend in ne^d,\\nThe gentleman in word and deed,\\nIt s no thro terror of damnation;\\nIts just a carnal inclination.\\nMorality, thou deadly bane.\\nThy tens o thousands thou hast slain!\\nVain is his hope, whose stay and trust ii\\nIn moral mercy, truth, and justice\\nNo stretch a point to catch a plack,*\\nAbuse a brother to his back;\\nSteal thro a winnock* frae a\\nBut point the rake that taks the door\\nHone Strike. An old Scotch coin. Window", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0147.jp2"}, "148": {"fulltext": "116 BURNS,\\nBe to the poor like onie whunstane,\\nAnd baud their noses to the grunstane,\\nPly ev ry art of legal thieving;\\nNae matter, stick to sound believing.\\nLearn three-mile pray rs, and half-mile graces,\\nWi Tveel-spread looves,^ an lang, wry faces;\\nGrunt up a solemn, lengthen d groan,\\nAnd damn a parties but your own;\\nI ll warrant then, ye re nae deceiver,\\nA steady, sturdy, staunch believer.\\nO ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,\\nFor gumlie^ dubs^ of your ain delvin!\\nYe sons of heresy and en or,\\nYe ll some day squeel in quaking terror!\\nWhen Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,\\nAnd in the lire throws the sheath;\\nWhen Ruin, with his sweeping besom,\\nJust frets till Heav n commission gies him:\\nWhile o er the harp pale Mis ry moans.\\nAnd strikes the ever-deep ning tones.\\nStill louder shrieks, and heavier groans!\\nYour pardon, Sir, for this digression,\\nI maist forgat my Dedication\\nBut when divinity comes cross me.\\nMy readers still are sure to lose me.\\nSo, Sir, ye see twas nae daft vapour,\\nBut I maturely thought it proper^\\nWhen a my works I did review,\\nTo dedicate them, Sir, to you\\nBecause (you need na tak it ill)\\nI thought them something like yoursal.\\nThen patronize them wi your favour,\\nAnd your petitioner shall ever\\nI had amaist said, ever pray\\nBut that s a word I need na say:\\nFor prayin I hae little skill o t;\\nI m baith dead-sweer, an wretched ill o t;*\\nBut I se repeat each poor man s pray r.\\nThat kens or hears about you. Sir,\\nMay ne er misfortune s gowling bark\\nHowl thro the dwelling o the Clerk I\\nWliinstone. 2 Hands. Muddy. Ponds. Extremely arena\\nOf it.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0148.jp2"}, "149": {"fulltext": "A DEDICATION Hr\\nMay ne er his gen rous, honest heart,\\nFor that same gen rous spirit smart\\nMay Kennedy s far honoured name\\nLang beet^ his hymeneal flame\\nTill Hamiltons, at least a dizen,\\nAre frae their nuptial labours risen\\nFive bonnie lasses round their table,\\nAjid seven braw fellows, stout and able,\\nTo serve their King and Country weel.\\nBy word, or pen, or pointed steel\\nMay health and peace, with mutual rayg,\\nShine on the evening o his days\\nTill his wee, curiie John s ier-oe,\\nWhen ebbing life nae mair shall flow,\\nThe last sad mournful rites bestow\\nI will not wind a lang conclusion,\\nWr complimentary effusion\\nBut whilst your wishes and endeavours,\\nAre blest with Fortune s smiles and favours,\\nI am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,\\nYour much indebted, humble servant.\\nBut if (which Pow rs above prevent)\\nThat iron-hearted carl, Want,\\nAttended in his grim advances,\\nBy sad mistakes, and black mischances,\\nWhile hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,\\nMake you as poor a dog as I am,\\nYour humble servant then no more\\nFor who would humbly serve the poor?\\nBut, by a poor man s hopes in Heav nt\\nWhile recollection s pow r is given.\\nIf, in the vale of humble life.\\nThe victim sad of fortune s strife,\\nI, thro the tender gushing tear,\\nShould recognise my Master dear,\\nIf friendless, low, we meet together,\\nThen, Sir, your hand my Friend and Brother!\\nAdd fuel to. Crreat grandchild.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0149.jp2"}, "150": {"fulltext": "118 BURNS.\\nTO A OX SEEING OXE ON A LADY S BON-\\nNET AT CHURCH.\\nHa whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie I*\\nYour impudence protects you sairly\\nI canna say but ye strunt^ rarely,\\nOwre gauze and lace;\\nThe faith, I fear ye dine but sparely\\nOn sic a place.\\nYe ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,\\nDetested, shunn d by saunt an sinner,\\nHow dare ye set your fit^ upon her,\\nSae fine a lady\\nGae somewhere else, and seek your dinner\\nOn some poor body.\\nSwith,^ in some beggar s haffet* squattle;\\nThere ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle*\\nWi ither kindred, jumping cattle,\\nIn shoals and nations\\nWhare horn nor bane ne er dare unsettle\\nYour thick plantationfi.\\nNow hand ye there, ye re out o sight,\\nBelow the fatt rils, snug an tight;\\nNa, faith ye yet ye ll no be right\\nTill ye ve got on it,\\nThe vera tapmost, tow ring height\\nO Miss s bonnet.\\nMy sooth right bauld ye set your nos^ x^ut,\\nAs plump and gray as onie grozet\\nfor some rank, mercurial rozet,\\nOr fell, red smeddum,*\\nI d gie you sic a hearty doze o t,\\nWad dress your drodi^um\\n1 wad na been surpris d to spy\\nYou on an auld wife s flainen toy;\\nOr aiblins some bit duddie boy,\\nOn s wyliecoat\\nBut Miss s fine Lunardi!^^ fie,\\nHow daur ye do t?\\n^V onder. 2 stmt. Foot. (xet \u00c2\u00bbva7.\\nTemple. Scramble. Ribbon-ends. Grooseberry. Powder.\\n^0 Breech. An old-fashioned head-dress. 12 riann\u00c2\u00abi Ycr^t.\\nA bonnet, named aftt^r Lunardi, whose balloon made him 00^\\nrious in Scotland abu^.r i785.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0150.jp2"}, "151": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. llD\\nO Jenny, dinna toss your head,\\nAn set your beauties a abread\\nYe little ken what cursed speed\\nThe blastie s^ makini\\nThae winks and finger-ends, I dread,\\n-^\u00e2\u0080\u00a2e notice takin\\nO wad some Pow r the giftie gie us\\nTo see oursels as others see us\\nIt wad frae monie a blunder free us\\nAnd foolish notion\\nWhat airs in dress an gait wad lea e ua,\\nAnd ev n Devotion 1\\nADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.\\nEdina Scotia s darling seat I\\nAll hail thy palaces and tow rs.\\nWhere once beneath a monarch s feet\\nSat Legislation s sov reign pow rs\\nFrom marking wildly-scatter d flow rs,\\nAs on the banks of Ayr I stray d,\\nAnd singing, lone, the ling ring hours,\\nI shelter in thy honour d shade.\\nHere wealth still swells the golden tidt,\\nAs busy Trade his labours plies\\nThere Architecture s noble pride\\nBids elegance and splendour rise\\nHere Justice, from her native skies,\\nHigh wields her balance and her rod;\\nThere learning, with his eagle eyes,\\nSeeks Science in her coy abode.\\nThy sons, Edina, social, kind.\\nWith open arms the stranger hail\\nTheir views enlarg d, their lib ral mind^\\nAbove the narrow, rural vale\\nAttentive still to sorrow s wail.\\nOr modest merit s silent claim\\nAnd never may their sources fail\\nAnd never envy blot their name 1\\nThy daughters bright thy walks adorn,\\nGay as the gilded summer sky.\\nSweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,\\nDear as the raptur d thrill of joy I\\nThe shrivelled dwarf.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0151.jp2"}, "152": {"fulltext": "120 BURNS.\\nFair Burnet^ strikes th adoring eye,\\nHeav n s beauties on my fancy shine,\\nI see the Sire of Love on high,\\nAnd own his work indeed divine\\nThere watching high the least alarms,\\nThy rough rude fortress gleams afar:\\nLike some bold vet ran, gray in arms,\\nAnd mark d with many a seamy scar:\\nThe pond rous wall and massy bar,\\nGrim-rising o er the rugged rock,\\nHave oft withstood assailing war,\\nAnd oft repell d th invader s shock.\\nWith awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,\\nI view that noble, stately dome.\\nWhere Scotia s kings of other years,\\nFam d heroes, had their royal home\\nAlas, how chang d the times to come 1\\nTheir royal name low in the dust!\\nTheir hapless race wild-wand ring roam I\\nTho rigid law cries out, twas justl\\nWild beats my heart, to trace your steps.\\nWhose ancestors, in days of yore,\\nThro hostile ranks and ruiu d gaps\\nOld Scotia s bloody lion bore\\nEv n I who sing in rustic lore,\\nHaply my sires have left their shed,\\nAnd fac d grim danger s loudest roar,\\nBold-following where your fathers led!\\nEdina Scotia s darling seat\\nAll hail thy palaces and tow rs,\\nWhere once beneath a monarch s feet\\nSat Legislation s sov reign pow rs\\nFrom marking wildly-scatter d flowr s,\\nAs on the banks of Ayr I stray d,\\nAnd singing, lone, the ling ring nours,\\nI shelter in thy honour d shade.\\nDaughter of Lord Monboddo. Burns said there had not b^en\\nanything like her, in beauty, grace, and goodness, since \u00c2\u00a3?\u00c2\u00aboi: tL\u00c2\u00ab\\nfirst day of her existence.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0152.jp2"}, "153": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, 121\\nEPISTLE TO JOHX LAPRAIK, AN OLD\\nSCOTTISH BARD.^\\nApril 1st. 1786.\\nWhile briers an woodbines budding green,\\nAn paitricks^ scraichin loud at e en,\\nAn morning poussie^ whiddin* seen,\\nInspire my Muse,\\nThis freedom in an unknown frien\\nI pray excuse.\\nOn Fasten-een we had a rockin,\\nTo ca the crack and weave our stockinj\\nAnd there was muckle fim and jokin,\\nYe need na doubt;\\nAt length we had a hearty yokin^\\nAt sang about.\\nThere was ae sang, amang the rest,\\nAboon them a it pleased me best,\\nThat some kind husband had addrest\\nTo some sweet wife\\nIt thirrd* the heart-strings thro the breast,\\nA to the life.\\nI ve scarce heard aught describes sa weel,\\nWhat gen rous, manly bosoms feel\\nThought I, Can this be Pope, or Steele,\\nOr Beattie s wark?\\nThey tauld me twas an odd kind chiel\\nAbout Muh kirk,\\nIt pat me fidgin-fain^ to hear t,\\nAnd sae about him there I spier t,\\n1 The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced exactly on the\\noccasion devSciibed by the author. Re says in that poem, On\\nfasten-e en we had a rockin. I beUeve he has omitted the word\\nrocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive\\ntimes, when the country-women employed their spare hours in\\nspinning on the rock, or distaff. This simple implement is a very\\nportable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in\\na neighbour s house; hence tht^ phrase of going a-rocking or ^vith the\\nrock. As the connexion the phrase had Mith the implement was\\nforgotten when the rock gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase\\ncame to be used by both sexes on social occasions, and men talked^\\nof going with their rocks as well as v^omen. It was it one of these\\nrockings at our house, when v\\\\-e had twelve or fifteen young peonle\\nwith their rocks, that Lapraik s song, beginning. ^Vhen I upon thy\\nbosom lean. was sung, and we v\\\\ ere informed who was the author.\\nUpon this Robert wrote his first Epistle to Lapraik; and his second\\nin reply to his ans^ver.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B.\\n2 Patridges. 3 Hare. Running. a bout.\\nThriUed. Very anxious,\\nF", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0153.jp2"}, "154": {"fulltext": "122 BURNS.\\nThen a that ken d him round declar d\\nHe had ingine,\\nThat nane excelPd it, few cam near^t,\\nIt was sae fine;\\nThat, set him to a pint of ale,\\nAn either douce or merry tale.\\nOr rhymes an sangs he d made himsel,\\nOr witty catches,\\nTween Inverness and Tiviotdale,\\nHe had few matches.\\nThen up I gat, and swoor an aith,\\nTho I should pawn my pleugh and graith,\\nOr die a cadger pownie s^ death,\\nAt some dyke-back,\\nA pint an gill I d gie them baith\\nTo hear your crack.\\nBut, first an foremost, I should tell,\\nAmaist as soon as I could spell,\\nI to the crambo- jingle fell,\\nTho rude an rough.\\nYet crooning* to a body s sel,\\nDoes weel eneucrh.\\nO\\nI am nae Poet, in a sense.\\nBut just a Rhymer like, by chance,\\nAn hae to learning nae pretence,\\nYet, what the matter?\\nWhene er my Muse does on me glance,\\nI jingle at her.\\nYour critic-folk may cock their nose,\\nAnd say, How can you e er propose,\\nYou wha ken hardly verse frae prose,\\nTo mak a sang?\\nBut, by your leaves, my learned foes,\\nYe re maybe wrang.\\nWhat s a your jargon o your schools,\\nYour Latin names for horns an stools\\nIf honest nature made you fools,\\nWhat sairs^ your grammar^**?\\nYe d better taen up spades and shools,\\nOr knappin^-hammers.\\nGenius. And gear. Carrier pony. Humming.\\nServes. Stone-breaking.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0154.jp2"}, "155": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 123\\nA set o dull, conceited hashes,^\\nConfuse their brains in college classes I\\nThey gang in stirks, and come out asses,\\nPlain truth to speak\\nAn syne they think to climb Parnassus\\nBy dint o Greek!\\nGie me ae spark o Nature s fire,\\nThat s a the learning I desire\\nThen tho I drudge thro dub* an mire\\nAt pleugh or cart,\\nMy Muse, though hamely in attire,\\nMay touch the heart,\\nfor a spunk^ o Allan s glee,\\nOr Fergusson s, the bauld and slee,\\nOr bright Lapraik s, my friend to be,\\nK I can hit it I\\nThat would be lear\u00c2\u00ae eneugh for me,\\nK I could get it.\\nNow, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,\\nTho real friends, I blieve, are few,\\nYet, if your catalogue be fou,^\\nFse no insist,\\nBut gif ye want ae friend that s true,\\nI m on your list.\\n1 winna blaw about mysel\\nAs ill I like my fauts to tell\\nBut friends and folk that wish me well,\\nThey sometimes roose* me,\\nTho I maun own, as monie still\\nAs far abuse me.\\nThere s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,\\nI like the lasses Gude forgie me\\nFor monie a plack they wheedle frae me,\\nAt dance or fair\\nMaybe some ither thing they gie me\\nThey weel can spare.\\nBut Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,\\nI should be proud to meet you there\\nWe se gie ae night s discharge to care,\\nIf we forgather,\u00c2\u00ae\\nAn hae a swap^\u00c2\u00b0 o rhymin-ware\\nWi ane anither.\\nLonts. 3 Cows. Then. Pond. A spark.\\nLearning. Full, s Praise. Meet. Exchange.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0155.jp2"}, "156": {"fulltext": "124 BURNS.\\nThe four-gill chap, we se gar him clatter,\\nAn kirsen^ him wi reekin water\\nSyne we ll sit down an tak our whitter,\\nTo cheer our heart\\nAn faith, we se be acquainted better\\nBefore we part.\\nAwa ye selfish warly^ race,\\nWha think that havins,* sense, an grace,\\nEv n love an friendship, should give place\\nTo catch-the-plack 1\\nI dinna like to see your face,\\nNor hear your crack.\\nBut ye whom social pleasure charms,\\nWhose hearts the tide of kindness warms,\\nWho hold your being on the terms,\\n^Each aid the others,\\nCome to my bowl, come to my arms.\\nMy friends, my brothers I\\nBut to conclude my lang epistle,\\nAs my auld pen s worn to the grissle\\nTwa lines frae you wad gar me fissle.\\nWho am, most fervent.\\nWhile I can either sing or whissle.\\nYour friend and servant.\\nTO THE SAME.*\\nApril 2lBt, 1786.\\nWhile new-ca d kye\u00c2\u00ae rout at the stake,\\nAn pownies reek in pleugh or braik,*\\nThis hour on e enin s* edge I take,\\nTo own I m debtor.\\nTo honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,\\nFor his kind letter.\\nForjesket^\u00c2\u00ae sair, with weary legs,\\nRattlin the corn out-owre the rigs.\\nOr dealing thro amang the naigs\\nTheir ten-hours bite,\\nMy awkwart Muse sair pleads and begs,\\nI would na write.\\nChristen. 2 Hearty draught. Worldly. Good mi\\nIn answer to verses which Lapraik had sent.\\nCows. Low. 3 Harrow. Evening s. 1\u00c2\u00ae", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0156.jp2"}, "157": {"fulltext": "TO THE SAME. 125\\nThe tapetless,^ ramfeezl d hizzie,\\nShe s saft at best, and something lazy,\\nQuo she, Ye ken, we ve been sae busy,\\nThis month an mair,\\nThat trouth my head is grown right dizzie,\\nAn something sair.\\nHer dowff excuses pat me mad\\nConscience, says I, ye thowless* jad!\\nI ll write, an that a hearty blaud,\\nThis vera night\\nSo dinna ye affront your trade.\\nBut rhyme it right,\\nShall bauld Lapraik, the king o hearts,\\nTho mankind were a pack o cartes,^\\nRoose you sae weel for your deserts,\\nIn terms sae friendly,\\nYet, ye ll neglect to shaw your parts.\\nAn thank him kindly 1\\nSee I gat paper in a blink,\\nAn down gaed stumpie in the ink\\nQuoth I, Before I sleep a wink,\\nI vow I ll close it\\nAn if ye winna mak it clink,\\nBy Jove, I ll prose it I\\nSae I ve begun to scrawl, but whether\\nIn rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,\\nOr some hotch-potch that s rightly neither,\\nLet time mak proof\\nBut I shall scribble down some blether\u00c2\u00ae\\nJust clean aff-loof/\\nMy worthy friend, ne er grudge an carp,\\nTho fortune use you hard an sharp\\nCome, kittle\u00c2\u00ae up your moorland harp\\nWi gleesome touch!\\nNe er mind how fortune waft an warp\\nShe s but a b h.\\nShe s gien me monie a jirt an fleg,\u00c2\u00ae\\nSin I could striddle owre a rig\\nBut, by the Lord, tho I should beg\\nWi lyart pow,\\nI ll laugh, an sing, an shake my leg,\\nAs lang s I dow P\\nI Foolish. Tired. giny. Lazy. Cards. Nonsenses\\nT Unpremeditated. Tickle. Kick. lo ca^.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0157.jp2"}, "158": {"fulltext": "126 BURNS.\\nNow comes the sax an twentieth simmer,\\nIVe seen the bud upo the timmer,\\nStill persecuted by the limmer\\nFrae year to year\\nBut yet, despite the kittle kimmer,*\\nI, Rob, am here.\\nDo ye envy the city Gent,\\nBehind a kist^ to lie and sklent,\\nOr purse-proud, big wi cent per cent,\\nAn muckle wame,*\\nIn some bit Brugh to represent\\nA Bailie s name?\\nOr is t the paughty, feudal Thane,\\nWi ruffl d sark an glancing cane,\\nWha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,\\nBut lordly stalks,\\nWhile caps and bonnets aff are ta en,\\nAs by he walks?\\nO Thou wha gies us each guid gift I\\nGie me o wit an sense a lift,\\nThen turn me, if Thou please, adrift,\\nThro Scotland wide;\\nWi cits nor lairds I wadna shift,\\nIn a their pride\\nWere this the charter of our state,\\nOn pain o hell be rich an great,\\nDamnation then would be om* fate,\\nBeyond remead\\nBut, thanks to Heav n that s no the gate\\nWe learn our creed.\\nFor thus the royal mandate ran.\\nWhen first the human race began,\\nITie social, friendly, honest man,\\nWhate er he be,\\nTis he fulfils great Nature s plan,\\nAnd none but he 1\\nO mandate glorious and divine\\nThe ragged followers of the Nine,\\nPoor, thoughtless devils yet may shine,\\nIn glorious light.\\nWhile sordid sons of Mammon s line\\nAre dark as night.\\n1 Skittish girl. 2 Counter. s Deceive. Bellj.\\nHaughty.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0158.jp2"}, "159": {"fulltext": "TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, VZt\\nTho here they scrape^ an squeeze, an growl.\\nTheir worthless nievefu of a soul\\nMay in some future carcase howl,\\nThe forest s fright;\\nOr in some day-detesting owl\\nMay shun the light.\\nThen may Lapraik and Burns arise,\\nTo reach their native, kindred skies,\\nAnd sing their pleasures, hopes, an joys\\nIn some mild sphere,\\nStill closer knit in friendship s ties\\nEach passing year I\\nTO WILLIMI SBIPSON,\\nOCHILTREE.\\nMay, 1T9^\\nI GAT your letter, winsome Willie\\nWi gratefu heart I thank you brawlie;\\nTho I maun say t, I wad b. silly,\\nAn uncc vaiHj\\nShould I believe, my coaxin billie,\\nYour flatterin strain.\\nBut I se believe ye kindly meant it,\\nI sud be laith to think ye hinted\\nIronic satire, sidelins sklented*\\nOn my poor Musie\\nTho in sic phraisin terms ye ve penn d it|\\nI scarce excuse ye.\\nMy senses wad be in a creel,*\\nShould I but dare a hope to speel,*\\nWi Allan, or wi Gilbertfiel\\nThe braes o fame\\nOr Fergusson, the writer-chiel,\\nA deathless name.\\n(O Fergusson thy glorious parts\\n111 suited law s dry, musty arts\\nMy curse upon your whunstane hearts,\\nYe Enbrugh Gentry\\nThe tythe o what ye waste at cai-tes\\nWad stow d his pantry I)\\nHandful. 2 Schoolmaster of Ochiltree. Brother\\nSidelons: flung, Be crazed. Climb.\\nAllan Ramsay and Hamilton of Gilbertfield.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0159.jp2"}, "160": {"fulltext": "128 BURNS.\\nYet when a tale comes i my head\\nOr lasses gie my heait a screed,\\nAs whiles they re like to be my deed,\\n(O sad disease 1)\\nI kittle up my rustic reed\\nIt gies me ease.\\nAuld Coila, now, may fidge* fu fain^\\nShe s gotten Poets o her ain,\\nChiels wha their chanters winna hain,*\\nBut tune their lays,\\nTill echoes a resound again\\nHer weel-sung praise,\\nNae Poet thought her worth his while,\\nTo set her name in measur d stile\\nShe lay like some unkend-of isle,\\nBeside New Holland,\\nOr whare wild-meeting oceans boil\\nBesouth Magellan.\\nBamsay an famous Fergusson\\nGied Forth an Tay a lift aboon\\nYarrow an Tweed, to monie a tune,\\nOwer Scotland rings.\\nWhile Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an Doon,\\nNae body sings.\\nTh missus, Tiber, Thames, an Seine,\\nGlide sweet in monie a tunef u line 1\\nBut, Willie, set your fit to mine,\\nAn cock your crest,\\nWe ll gar our streams an burnies shine\\nUp wi the best.\\nWe ll sing auld Coila s plains an fells,\\nHer moors red-brown wi heather bells,\\nHer banks an braes, her dens an dells,\\nWhare Glorious Wallacf\\nAft bure* the gree, as story tells,\\nFrae southron billies.\\nAt Wallace name, what Scottish blood\\nBut boils up in a spring-tide flood\\nOft have our fearless father s strode\\nBy Wallace side,\\nStill pressing onward, red-wat-shod,*\\nOr glorious dy d.\\nlatent. 2 Bg right glad. vvill not spare the bagpipe*\\npid bear. Walking in blood over tne shoe-tops.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0160.jp2"}, "161": {"fulltext": "TO WILLIAM SIMjf SOM 129\\n0, sweet are Coila s haughs an woods,\\nWhen lintwhites chant amang the buds,\\nAnd jinkin^ hares, in amorous whids,\\nTheir loves enjoy,\\nWhile the the braes the cushat croods*\\nWi wailfu cryl\\nEv n winter bleak has charms to me,\\nWhen winds rave thro the naked fcree;\\nOr frosts on hills of Ochiltree\\nAre hoary gray;\\nOr blinding drifts wild-furious flee,\\nDark ning the day I\\nO Nature a thy shews an forms\\nTo feeling, pensive hearts hae charms 1\\nWhether the summer kindly warms,\\nWi life an light,\\nOr winter howls, in gusty storms,\\nThe lang, dark night 1\\nThe Muse, nae Poet ever fand^ her,\\nTill by hirasel he learn d to wander,\\nAdown some trotting burn s meander,\\nAn no think lang;\\nO sweet, to stray an pensive ponder\\nA heart-felt sang I\\nThe war ly race may drudge an drive,\\nHog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an strive,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nLet me fair Nature s face descrive.\\nAnd I, wi pleasure,\\nShall let the busy, grumbling hive\\nBum\u00c2\u00ae owre their treasure.\\nFarewell, **my rhyme-composing britherl\\nWe ve been owre lang unkenn d to ither;\\nNow let us lay our heads thegither,\\nIn love fraternal:\\nMay Envy wallop in a tether.\\nBlack fiend, infernal I\\nWhile highlandmen hate tolls an taxes\\nWhile moorlan herds^ like guid, fat braxies;**\\nWhile terra firma, on her axis,\\nDiurnal turns,\\nCount on a friend, in faith an practice,\\nIn Robert Burns.\\nValleys. Linnets. Dodging. Coos. Found. \u00c2\u00abPushwitl\\nthe shoulder. Justle. Hum. Shepherds. Diseased sheep.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0161.jp2"}, "162": {"fulltext": "130 BURNS.\\nPOSTSCRIPT.\\nMy memory s no worth a preen;*\\nI had amaist forgotten clean,\\nYe bade me write you what they mean\\nBy this New-Light,\\nBout which our herds sae aft hae been\\nMaist like to fight.\\nIn days when mankind were but callans*\\nAt grammar, logic, an sic talents,\\nThey took nae pains their speech to balance,\\nOr rules to gie,\\nBut spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallani,*\\nLike you or me.\\nIn thae auld times, they thought the moon,\\nJust like a sark, or pair o shoon,\\nWore by degrees, till her last roon,*\\nGaed past their viewing,\\nAn shortly after she was done,\\nThey gat a new one.\\nThis past for certain, undisputed;\\nIt ne er cam i their heads to doubt it,\\nTill chiels gat up an wad confute it,\\nAn ca d it wrang;\\nAn muckle din there was about it,\\nBaith loud an lang.\\nSome herds, weel learn d upo the beuk,*\\nWad threap\u00c2\u00ae auld folk the thing misteuk\\nFor twas the auld moon turn d a neuk,\\nAn out o sight,\\nAn backlins -comin, to the leuk\\nShe grew mair bright.\\nThis was deny d, it was affirmed\\nThe herds an hirsels\u00c2\u00ae were alarm d;\\nThe rev rend gray-beards rav d an storm d\\nThat beardless laddies\\nShould think they better were inform d\\nThan their auld daddies,\\nFrae less to mair it gaed to sticks\\nFrae words an aiths to clours^ an nicks;\\n|*in. Boys. Lowland speech. Shred. Book. Maintaia.\\nRetiMTiing. Flocks. Bumps.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0162.jp2"}, "163": {"fulltext": "POSTSCRIPT. 131\\nAn^ monie a fallo^v gat his licks,\\nWi hearty crunt;\\nAn some, to learn them for their tricks,\\nWere hang d an brunt,\\nThis game was play d in monie lands,\\nAn Auld-light caddies bure sic hands.\\nThat, faith, the youngsters took the sands\\nWi nimble shanks,\\nThe lairds farbade, by strict commands,\\nSic bluidy pranks.\\nBut !N ew-light herds gat sic a cowe,\\nFolk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe,\\nTill now amaist on ev ry knowe*\\nYe 11 find ane plac d\\nAn some their Xew-light fair avow.\\nJust quite barefac d.\\nNae doubt the Auld-light flocks are bleatin;\\nTheir zealous herds are vex d an sweatin\\nMysel, I ve even seen them greetin\\nWi girnin^ spite.\\nTo hear the moon sae sadly lied on\\nBy word an write.\\nBut shortly they will cowe the louns!\\nSome Auld-light herds in neebor towns\\nAre mind t, in things thev ca balloons,\\nTo tak a flight,\\nAn stay ae month amang the moons,\\nAn see them right.\\nGuid observation they will gie them\\nAn when the auld moon s gaun to lea e them,\\nThe hindmost shaird, they ll fetch it wi them-,\\nJust i their pouch.\\nAn when the New-light billies see them,\\nI think they ll crouch I\\nSae, ye observe that a this clatter\\nIs naething but a moonshine matter;\\nBut tho dull-prose folk Latin splatter\\nIn logic tulzie,*\\nI hope we Bardies ken some better\\nThan mind sic brulzie.*\\n5 Blow. Burnt. s Totally. Hillock. Grinning\\nFellows. T Shred. Quarrel A broil", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0163.jp2"}, "164": {"fulltext": "m BURNS.\\nEPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,^ ENCLOSING SOME\\nPOEMS.\\nO ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Raukine,\\nThe wale^ o cocks for fun an drinkin\\nThere s monie godly folks are thinkin,\\nYour dreams an tricka\\nWill send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin,\\nStraught to auld Nick s.\\nYe hae sae monie cracks an cants,\\nAnd in your wicked, drucken rants,\\nYe mak a devil o the saunts,\\nAn fill them fou:\\nAnd then their failings, flaws, an wants,\\nAre a seen thro\\nHypocrisy, in mercy spare it\\nThat holy robe, O dinna tear it!\\nSpare t for their sakes wha aft en wear it\\nThe lads in black\\nBut your curst wit, when it comes near ic,\\nRives t aff their back.\\nThink, wicked sinner, wha ye re skaithin^,\\nIt s just the blue-gown badge an claithing\\nO saunts; tak that, ye lea e them naithing\\nTo ken them by,\\nFrau ony unregenerate heathen\\nLike you or I.\\nI ve sent you here some rhj^ming ware,\\nA that I bargained for an mair 1\\nSae, when ye hae an hour to spare,\\nI will expect,\\nYon sang,* ye ll sen t^ wi cannie care,\\nAnd no neglect.\\nTho faith, sma heart hae I to sing!\\nMy Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!\\nI ve play d mysel a bonnle spring.\\nAn danc d my fill!\\nI d better gaen an sair t^ the king\\nAt Bunker s Hill.\\nAccording to Allan Cunningham, an out-spoken, ready-witted\\nma^. Aiid a little of a scoffer. choice. 3 Damaging.\\n4 A song he had promised the author.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Send it. SerTed,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0164.jp2"}, "165": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 133\\nTwas ae night lately, iu my fun,\\nI gaed a roving wi the gun,\\nAn brought a paitrick to the grun,*\\nA bonnie hen\\nAnd, as the twilight was begun,\\nThought nana wad ken.\\nThe poor wee thing was little hurt\\nI straikit^ it a wee for sport,\\nNe er thinkin they wad fash me for t\\nBut, Deil-ma-care I\\nSomebody tells the poacher-court\\nThe hale affair.\\nSome auld us d hands had ta en a note,\\nThat sic a hen had got a shot\\nI was suspected for the plot\\nI scorn d to lee\\nSo gat the whissle o my groat.\\nAn pay t the fee.\\nBut, by my gun, o guns the wale,\\nAn by my pouther an my hail.\\nAn by my hen, an by her tail,\\nI vow an swear!\\nThe game shall pay, o er moor an dale,\\nFor this, niest year.\\nAs soon s the clockin-time* is by,\\nAn the wee pouts^ begun to cry,\\nL d, I se hae sportin by an by.\\nFor my gowd guinea;\\nTho I should herd the Buckskin^ kye\\nFor t, in Virginia.\\nTrowth, they had muckle for to blame I\\nTwas neither broken wing nor limb,\\nBut twa-three draps about the wame,^\\nScarce thro the feathers\\nAn baith a yellow George to claim.\\nAn thole their blethers 1*\\nIt pits\u00c2\u00ae me aye as mad s a hare\\nSo I can rhyme nor write nae mair\\nPartridge to the ground. stroked. 3 Whole. Hatching tain\u00c2\u00ab.\\nChicks. Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia.\\nBelly. 8 And endure their foohsh talk. Puts.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0165.jp2"}, "166": {"fulltext": "134 BURA S.\\nBut pennyworths again is fair,\\nWhen time s expedient\\nMeanwhile I am, respected Sir,\\nYour most obedient.\\nWRITTEN m FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON\\nNITH-SIDE.^\\nTiiou whom chance may hither lead,\\nBe thou clad in russet weed,\\nBe thou deck d in sillvcu stole,\\nGrave these counsels on thy soul.\\nLife is but a day at most.\\nSprung from night, in darkness lost;\\nHope not sunshine ev ry liour.\\nFear not clouds will always lour.\\nAs Youth and Love, with sprightly danc\u00c2\u00ab,\\nBeneath thy morning star advance,\\nPleasure with her syren air\\nMay delude the thoughtless pair;\\nLet Prudence bless Enjoyment s cup,\\nThen raptiu- d sip, and sip it up.\\nAs thy day grows warm and high.\\nLife s meridian flaming nigh,\\nDost thou spurn the humble vale?\\nLife s proud sumn:iits wouldst thou scale\\\\\\nCheck thy climbing step, elate,\\nEvils lurk in felon wait:\\nDangers, eagle-pinioned, bold.\\nSoar around each cliffy hold.\\nWhile cheerful Peace, with linnet song,\\nChants the lowly dells among.\\nAs the shades of ev ning close,\\nBeck ning thee to long repose;\\nAs life itself becomes disease,\\nSeek the chimney-nook of ease.\\nThere ruminate with sober thought.\\nOn all thou st seen, and heard, and wrought;\\nAnd teach the sportive younkers round.\\nSaws of experience, sage and sound.\\nSay, Man s true, genuine estimate,\\nThe grand criterion of his fa^o,\\n1 Bums has recorded his composition of these verses:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 One day,\\nin a hermitage, on the Banks of the Nith, belonging to a gentlenaan\\nin !ny neighbourhood, who is so good as to give me a key at pleasure,\\nI wrote the above, supposing myself the sequestered venerable in-\\nhabitant of the lopeiy mansion. The gentleman was Captaio\\nRiddel.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0166.jp2"}, "167": {"fulltext": "ODE. 135\\nIs not Art thou high, or low?\\nDid thy fortune ebb, or flow?\\nDid many talents gild thy sj)an?\\nOr frugal Nature grudge thee one?\\nTell them, and press it on their mind,\\nAs thou thyself mu t shortly find,\\nThe smile or frown of awful Heav n\\nTo Virtue, or to Vice, is giv n.\\nSay, To be just, and kind, and wise,\\nTheir solid self -enjoyment lies\\nThat foolish, selfish, faithless ways.\\nLead to the wretched, vile, and base.\\nThus resign d and quiet, creep\\nTo the bed of lasting sleep\\nSleep, whence thou shalt ne er awake,\\nNight, where dawn shall never break.\\nTill future life, future no more.\\nTo light and joy the good restore,\\nTo light and joy unknown before.\\nStranger, go Heav n be thy guide\\nQuoth the Beadsman of Nith-side.\\nODE, SACKED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.\\nDweller in yon dungeon dark.\\nHangman of creation mark\\nWho in widow-weeds appears,\\nLaden with unhonoured years,\\n1 Ellisland, March 23, 1788.\\nThe enclosed Ode is a compliment to tlie memory of the late Mrs.\\nOswald of Auchencniive. Yoii probably knew her personally, r.n\\nhonour which 1 cannot boast; but I spent my early years in her\\nneighbourhood, and ^.rnong her servants and tenants. I know that\\nshe was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in\\nthe particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath,\\nshe was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to\\nAyrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham s, in Sanquhar, the only\\ntolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim eveii-\\ning and howling wind were usherinar in a ni^ht of snow p.nd drift.\\nMy horse and 1 were both much fatigued with the labours of the\\nday, and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to\\nthe storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral afreartrj^of\\nthe late great Mrs and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors\\nof the tempestuous night, and jade my liorpe. my young favourite\\nhorse, whom 1 had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on,\\nthrough the wildest muii*s and hills of Ayi-shire, to New Cumnock,\\nthe next inn. The powers of poesy and frose sink imder me, when\\nI would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say. that when a good\\nfire, at New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat\\ndown and wrote the enclosed Ode,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Burns to Ih\\\\ Moore, March\\n1T89.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0167.jp2"}, "168": {"fulltext": "136 BURNS,\\nNoosing with care a bursting purse,\\nBaited with many a deadly curse I\\nSTROPHE.\\nView the withered beldam s face\\nCan thy keen inspection trace\\nAught of humanity s sweet melting grace?\\nNote that eye, tis rheum o erflows,\\nPity s flood there never rose.\\nSee those hands, ne er stretch d to save,\\nHands that took but never gave.\\nKeeper of Mammon s iron chest,\\nLo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest\\nShe goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!\\nANTISTROPHE.\\nPlunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,\\n(A while forbear, ye tort ring fiends),\\nSeest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends\\nNo fallen angel, hurl d from upper skies;\\nTis thy trusty quondam mate,\\nDoom d to share thy fiery fate,\\nShe, tardy, hell-ward plies.\\nEPODE.\\nAnd are they of no more avail,\\nTen thousand glitt ring pounds a year?\\nIn other worlds can Mammon faH,\\nOmnipotent as he is here?\\nOh, bitter mock ry of the pompous bier.\\nWhile down the wretched vital part is driv n\\nThe cave-lodg d beggar, with a conscience clear,\\nExpires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav n.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0168.jp2"}, "169": {"fulltext": "CAPTAIN MA TTHE I V HENDERSON, 137\\nELEGY OX CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,^\\nA GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR EIS HONOURS IMMEDLA.TELY\\nFROM ALMIGHTY GOD.\\nBut now his radiant course is run,\\nFor Matthew s course was bright;\\nHis soul was Uke the glorious sun,\\nA matchless, Heav nly Light.\\nO Death thou tyrant fell and bloody\\nThe meikle devil wi a woodie,\\nHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie,^\\nO er hurcheon* hides,\\nAnd like stock-fish come o er his studdie*\\nWi thy aula sides\\nHe s gane, he s gane he s frae us torn,\\nThe ae best fellow e er was born\\nThee, Matthew, Nature s seP shall mourn\\nBy wood and wild,\\nWhere, haply, Pity strays forlorn,\\nFrae man exil d.\\nYe hills, near neebors o the starns,\\nThat proudly cock your cresting cairns V\\nYe cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,^\\nWhere echo slumbers!\\nCome join, ye Nature s sturdiest bairns.\\nMy wailing numbers\\nMourn, ilka grove the cushat^ kens I\\nYe haz lly shaws and briery dens\\nYe burnies, wimplin^ down your glens,\\nWi toddlin din,\\nOr foaming Strang, wi hasty stens,\\nFrae lin to lin.\\nMourn, little harebells o er the lea;\\nYe stately foxgloves fair to see\\nThe Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of\\n#man I loved much. Poets hav*^ in this the same advantage as\\nRoman CathoHcs they can be of service to their friends after they\\nhave parsed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of\\nany avail.- To I i\\\\ Moore. (Feb. 28. 1791.) who remarked, in reply,\\nthat the chief merit of tlie Elegy Hes in its lively ]iictures of country\\nscenes and things, wliich none but a Scottish poet, and a close ob-\\nsei-ver of Nature, could have so described.\\n2 Rope. 3 Smithy. Hedgehog. Anvil.\\nSelf. 7 Heaps of Stones. Eagles.\\nWood-pigeon, lo Meandering, ^i Plunges. pool to pool", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0169.jp2"}, "170": {"fulltext": "138 BUR. VS.\\nYe woodbines hanging bonnilie,\\nIn scented bow rs\\nYe roses on your thorny tree,\\nThe first o flow rs.\\nAt dawn, when ev ry grassy blade\\nDroops with a diamond at his head,\\nAt ev n, when beans their fragrance shed,\\nI th rustling gale,\\nYe maukins^ whiddin^ thro the glade,\\nCome join my wail.\\nMourn, ye wee songsters o the wood\\nYe grouse that crap the heather bud\\nYe curlews calling thro a clud f\\nYe whistling plover;\\nAnd mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood\\nHe s gane for ever\\nMourn, sooty coots, and specklea teals,\\nYe fisher herons, watching eels,\\nYe duck and drake, wi airy wheels\\nCircling the lake\\nYe bitterns, till the quagmire reels,\\nRair* for his sake.\\nMourn, clam ring craiks at close o day,\\nMang fields o flow Ting claver gay;\\nAnd when ye wing your annual way\\nFrae our cauld shore,\\nTell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,\\nWham we deplore.\\nYe houlets, frae your ivy bow r,\\nIn some auld tree, or eldritch^ tow r,\\nWhat time the moon, wi silent glow r,\\nSets up her horn,\\nWail thro the dreary midnight hour\\nTill waukrife^ morn I\\nO rivers, forests, hills, and plains!\\nOft have ye heard my canty\u00c2\u00ae strains\\nBut now, what else for me remains\\nBut tales of w^oe\\nAnd frae my een the drapping rains\\nMaun ever flow.\\nHares. 2 RunniDg. Cloud. Boom. Owls\\nDismal. Wakeful. Meny,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0170.jp2"}, "171": {"fulltext": "THE EPITAPH. 189\\nMourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!\\nIlk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:\\nThou, Simmer, while each corny spear\\nShoots up its head,\\nThy gay, green, flow ry tresses shear\\nFor him that s dead\\nThou, Autumn, wi thy yellow hair,\\nIn grief thy sallow mantle tear\\nThou, Winter, hurling thro the air\\nThe roaring blast,\\nWide o er the naked world declare\\nThe worth we ve lost I\\nMourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!\\nMourn, Empress of the silent night\\nAnd you, ye twinkling starnies bright,\\nMy Matthew mourn!\\nFor through your orbs he s ta en his flight,\\nNe er to return.\\nHenderson the man the brother\\nAnd art thou gone, and gone for ever\\nAnd hast thou crost that unknown river,\\nLife s dreary bound!\\nLike thee, where shall I find another.\\nThe world around.\\nGo to your sculptur d tombs, ye Great,\\nIn a the tinsel trash o state\\nBut by thy honest turf I ll wait.\\nThou man of worth!\\nAnd weep the ae^ best fellow s fate\\nE er lay in earth.\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nStop, passenger my story s brief,\\nAnd truth I shall relate, man\\nI tell nae common tale o grief,\\nFor Matthew was a great man.\\nIf thou uncommon merit hast.\\nYet spurn d at fortune s door, man;\\nA look of pity hither cast,\\nFor Matthew was a poor man.\\nOne.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0171.jp2"}, "172": {"fulltext": "140 BURNS.\\nIf thou a noble sodger art,\\nThat passest by this grave, man,\\nThere moulders here a gallant heart,\\nFor Matthew was a brave man.\\nIf thou on men, their works and ways.\\nCanst throw uncommon light, man\\nHere lies wha weel had won thy praise,-\\nFor Matthew was a bright man.\\nIf thou at friendship s sacred ca\\nWad life itself resign, man\\nThy sympathetic tear maun fa\\nFor Matthew was a kind man.\\nIf thou art staunch without a stain.\\nLike the unchanging blue, man\\nThis was a kinsman o thy ain,\\nFor Matthew was a true man.\\nIf thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,\\nAnd ne er gude wine did fear, man;\\nThis was thy billie, dam, and sire,\\nFor Matthew was a queer man.\\nIf ony whiggish whingin^ sot,\\nTo blame poor Matthew dare, man\\nMay dooP and sorrow be his lot,\\nFor Matthew was a rare man.\\nLAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON TEDS\\nAPPEOACH OF SPRING.\\nNow Nature hangs her mantle green\\nOn every blooming tree.\\nAnd spreads her sheets o daisies white\\nOut owre the grassy lea\\nNow Phcebus cheers the crystal streams,\\nAnd glads the azure skies;\\nBut nought can glad the weary wight\\nThat fast in durance lies.\\n1 Complaining. 2 Mourning.\\n3 VThether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scota, has a\\npeculiar effect on the f eeUngs of a poet, or whether I have, in the\\nenclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know\\nnot; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good\\nwhile past.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0172.jp2"}, "173": {"fulltext": "LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 141\\nNow lav rocks^ wake the merry morn,\\nAloft on dewy wing\\nThe merle, in liis noontide bow r,\\nMakes woodland echoes ring;\\nThe mavis mild, wi many a note,\\nSings drowsy day to rest\\nIn love and freedom they rejoice,\\nWi care nor thrall opprest.\\nNow blooms the lily by the bank, i\\nThe primrose down the brae\\nThe hawthorn s budding in the glen,\\nAnd milk-white is the slae\\nThe meanest hind in fair Scotland\\nMay rove their sweets amang\\nBut I the Queen of a Scotland,\\nMaun lie in prison Strang.\\nI w\u00c2\u00a3is the Queen o bonnie France,\\nWhere happy I hae been,\\nFu lightly rase I in the morn,\\nAs blythe lay down at e en\\nAnd I m the sov reign of Scotland,\\nAnd mony a traitor there\\nYet here I lie in foreign bands.\\nAnd never-ending care.\\nBut as for thee, thou false woman.\\nMy sister and my fae.\\nGrim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword\\nThat thro thy soul shall gae\\nThe weeping blood in woman s breast\\nWas never known to thee\\nNor th balm that draps on wounds of woe\\nFrae woman s pitying e e.\\nMy son my son may kinder stars\\nUpon thy fortune shine\\nAnd may those pleasures gild thy reign,\\nThat ne er wad blink on mine\\nGod keep thee frae thy mother s faes,\\nOr turn their hearts to thee\\nAnd where thou meet st thy mother s friend,-\\nRemember him for me\\nLarks. Thrush.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0173.jp2"}, "174": {"fulltext": "142 BURNS.\\nOh soon, to me, may summer-suns\\nKae mail* light up the morn!\\nNae mair, to me, the autumn winds\\nWave o er the yellov^ corn\\nAnd in the narrow house o death\\nLet winter round me rave\\nAnd the next flow rs, that deck the spring,\\nBloom on my peaceful grave\\nEPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ.*\\nWhen Nature her great master-piece designed,\\nAnd framed her last, best work, the human mind,\\nHer eye intent on all the mazy plan,\\nShe forni d of various parts the various man.\\nThen first she calls the useful many forth\\nPlain {)lodding industry, and sober worth:\\nThence peasiints, farmers, native sons of earth,\\nAnd merchandise whole genus take their birth:\\nEach [\u00c2\u00bbrudent cit a warm existence finds,\\nAnd all m.eciianics man^ -apron d kinds.\\nSome other rarer sorts are wanted yet,\\nThe lead and buoy are needful to the net;\\nThe caijut mortuum of gross desires\\nMakes a material for mere knights and squires;\\nThe njartial [)hosp!ioru3 is taught to flow,\\nShe kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,\\nThen marks th unyielding mass with grave designs,\\nLaw, physic, politics, and deep divines\\nLast, she sublim.es th Aurora of the poles,\\nThe flashing elements of female souls.\\nTlie order d system fair before her stood,\\nNature, weil-pleas d, pronounc d it very good;\\nBut e er she gave creating labour o er,\\nHalf -jest, she try d one curious labour more.\\nSome spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter;\\nSuch as the slightest breath of air might scatter;\\nWith arch alacrity and conscious glee\\n(Nature may have her whim as well as we,\\nHer Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it),\\nShe forms the thing, and christens it a Poet,\\nCreatm-e, tho oft the prey of care and sorrow,\\nWhen blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow.\\n1 Robert Graham, of Fictry, Esq., one of the Commissioners of\\nExcise.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0174.jp2"}, "175": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO A\\\\ GRAHAM, ESQ. W^\\nA being form d t anuisc his graver friends,\\nAdmir d and prais d and there the homaige ends;\\nA mortal quite unfit for Fortune s strife,\\nYet oft the sport of all tlie ills of life;\\nProne to enjoy each pleasure riches give,\\nYet haply wanting wherewithal to live;\\nLonging to wdpe each tear, to heal each groan,\\nYet frequent all unheeded in his ow^n.\\nBut honest Xature is not quite a Turk,\\nShe laugh d at first, then felt for her poor work,\\nPitying the propless climber of mankind,\\nBhe cast about a standard tree to find\\nAnd, to support his helpless woodbine state,\\nAttach d him to the generous truly great,\\nA title, and the only one I claim,\\nTo lay strong hold for help on bount ous Graham.\\nPity the tuneful muses hapless train,\\nVYeak, timid landsmen on life s stormy main\\nTheir hearts no selfish stern absorbent stufit,\\nThat never gives tho humbly takes enough\\nThe little fate allow^s, they share as soon.\\nUnlike sage, proverb d, wisdom s hard-w^rung boon.\\nThe world were blest did bliss on them depend.\\nAh, that the friendly e er should want a friend!\\nLet prudence number o er each sturdy sou,\\nWho life and wisdom at one race begun,\\nWho feel by reason, and who give by rule,\\n(Instinct s a brute, and sentiment a fool\\nWho make poor wdll do wait upon I should\\nWe own they re prudent, but vv^ho feels they re good!\\nYe wise ones, hence ye hurt the social eye\\nGod s image rudely etch d on base alloy\\nBut come ye, who the godlike pleasure know,\\nHeaven s attribute distinguished to bestow\\nWhose arms of love would grasp the human race\\nCome thou who giv st with all a courtier s grace\\nFriend of my life, true patron of my rhymes\\nProp of my dearest hopes for future times,\\nWhy shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,\\nBackw^ard, abash d to ask thy friendly aid?\\nI know my need, I know thy giving hand,\\nI crave thy friendship at thy kind command\\nBut there are such who court the tuneful Nine\\nHeavens should the branded character be mine\\nWhose verse in manhood s pride sublimely flows.\\nYet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0175.jp2"}, "176": {"fulltext": "1^ BURN3,\\nMark, how their lofty, independent spirit\\nSoars on the spurning wing of injur d merit\\nSeek not the proofs in private life to find\\nPity the best of words should be but wind\\nSo, to heaven s gates the lark s shrill song ascendf,\\nBut grovelling on the earth the carol ends.\\nIn all tlie clam rous cry of starving want.\\nThey dun benevolence with shameless front;\\nOblige them, patronise their tinsel lays,\\nThey persecute you all your future days\\nEre my poor soul such deep damnation stain,\\nMy horny fist assume the plough again\\nThe piebald jacket let me patch once more;\\nOn eighteen -pence a week I ve liv d before.\\nTho thanks to Heaven, I dare e en that last shift!\\nI trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift\\nThat, plac d by thee upon the wish d-for height,\\nWhere, man and nature fairer in her sight,\\nMy muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.\\nTO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, ESQ.\\nLate crippl d of an arm, and now a leg.\\nAbout to beg a pass for leave to beg;\\nDull, listless, teas d, dejected, and deprest,\\n(Nature is adverse to a cripple s rest).\\nWill generous Graham list to his Poet s wail?\\n(It soothes poor Misery, heark ning to her tale),\\nAnd hear liim curse the light he first surveyed,\\nAnd doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?\\nThou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign\\nOf thy caprice maternal I complain.\\nThe lion and the bull thy care have found.\\nOne sliakes the forests, and one spurns the ground\\nThou giv st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,\\nTh envenom d wasp, victorious, guards his cell.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThy minions, kings defend, controul, devour,\\nIn all th omnipotence of rule and power.\\nFoxes and statesmen, subtle wiles ensure\\nThe cit and polecat stink, and are secure.\\nToads with their poison, doctors with their drug,\\nThe priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug.\\nEv n silly woman has her warlike arts.\\nHer tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.\\nBut oh! thou bitter step -mother and hard^\\nTo thy poor, fenceless, naked child ^the Bard", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0176.jp2"}, "177": {"fulltext": "TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 14S\\nA thing unteachable in world s skill,\\nAnd half an idiot, too, more helpless still.\\nNo heels to bear him from the opening dun\\nNo claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;\\nNo horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,\\nAnd those, alas not Amalthea s horn\\nNo nerves olfact ry. Mammon s trusty cur,\\nClad in rich Dulness comfortable fur\\nIn naked feeling, and in aching pride,\\nHe bears th unbroken blast from ev ry side r\\nVampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,\\nAnd scorpion critics cureless venom dart.\\nCritics appall d I venture on the name,\\nThose cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame\\nBloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes\\nHe hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.\\nHis heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung,\\nBy blockheads daring into madness stung\\nHis well-won bays, than life itself more dear,\\nBy miscreants torn, who ne er one sprig must wear;\\nFoil d, bleeding, tortur d in th unequal strife,\\nThe hapless Poet flounders on thro life.\\nTill fled each hope that once his bosom fir d,\\nAnd fled each Muse that glorious once inspired.\\nLow sunk in squalid, unprotected age,\\nDead, even resentment for his injur d page.\\nHe heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic s rag\u00c2\u00ab?\\nSo, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,\\nFor half-starv d snarling curs a dainty feast\\nBy toil and famine wore to skin and bone,\\nLies, senseless of each tugging bitch s son.\\nO Dulness portion of the truly blest\\nCalm shelter d haven of eternal rest\\nThy sons ne er madden in the fierce extremes\\nOf Fortune s polar frost, or torrid beams.\\nIf mantling high she fills the golden cup,\\nWith sober selfish ease they spit it up\\nConscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,\\nThey only wonder some folks do not starve.\\nThe grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,\\nAnd thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.\\nWhen disappointment snaps the clue of hope,\\nAnd thro disastrous night they darkling grope,\\nWith deaf endurance sluggishly they bear.\\nAnd just conclude that fools are Fortune s care.\\nSo, heavy, passive to the tempest s shocks.\\nStrong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0177.jp2"}, "178": {"fulltext": "146 BURNS,\\nNot so the idle Muses mad-cap train,\\nNot such the workings of then- moon-struck btaim;\\nIn equanimity they never dwell,\\nBy turns in soaring heav n, or vaulted hell.\\nI dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,\\nWith all a poet s, husband s, father s fear 1\\nAlready one stronghold of hope is lost,\\nGlencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;\\n(Fled, like the sun eclips d as noon appears,\\nAnd left us darkling in a world of tears\\nOh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray r!\\nFintry, my other stay, long bless and spare\\nThro a long life his hopes and wishes crown,\\nAnd bright in cloudless skies his sun go down\\nMay bliss domestic smooth his private path\\nGive energy to life and soothe his latest breath,\\nWith many a filial tear circling the bed of death\\nLAMENT FOR JA3IES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.\\nThe wind blew hollow frae the hills.\\nBy tits the sun s departing beam\\nLook d on the fading yellow woods\\nThat wav d o er Lugar s winding stream\\nBeneath a craigy steep, a Bard,\\nLaden with years and meikle pain.\\nIn loud lament bewail d his lord,\\nWhom death had all untimely ta en.\\nHe lean d him to an ancient aik,\\nWhose tnmk was mould ring down with years\\nHis locks were bleached white with time,\\nHis hoary cheek was wet wi tears\\nHad the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my\\nheart, the enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal: ai\\nit is, I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship s feet. As all the world\\nknows my obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to\\nshow as openly that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with th\u00c2\u00ab\\nmost grateful sense and remembrance of his lordship s goodnesa\\nThe sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship s\\nmemory were not the mockery of woe. Nor shall my gratitude\\nperish with me: -If, among my children, I shall have a son that has\\na heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a family honour and a\\nfamily debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of\\nGlencairn I v/as about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem\\nmay venture to see the light, I would, in some way or other ^ve it\\nto the world. Lord Glencairn died January 30. 1791, and Buma\\nsent the Lament to the Earle s sister, Lady Elizabeth Cuimiiig-\\nyiam, with a letter, of which the above passage is an extract.\\n2 Oak.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0178.jp2"}, "179": {"fulltext": "LAMENT, ETC, 1^^\\nAnd as he touclVd his trembling harp,\\nxind as he tun d his doleful sang,\\nThe winds, lamenting thro their caves,\\nTo echo bore the notes alang.\\nYe scatter d birds that faintly sing,\\nThe reliques of the vernal quire\\nYe woods that shed on a^ the winds\\nThe honours of the aged year!\\nA few^ short months, and glad and gay.\\nAgain ve U charm the ear and e e;\\nBut^ noclit in all revolving time\\nCan gladness bring again to me.\\n*a am a bending aged tree,\\nThat long has stood tlie wind and rain;\\nBut now has come a cruel blast,\\nAnd mv last hold of earth is gane:\\nNae leaf o mine shall greet the spring,\\nNae simmer sun exalt my bloom;\\nBut I maun lie before the storm,\\nAnd ithers plant them in my room.\\nI ve seen sae mony changefu years.\\nOn earth I am a stranger grown;\\nI wander in the ways of men,\\nAlike unknow^ing and unknown;\\nUnheard, unpitied, unreliev d,\\nI bear alane my lade o care,\\nFor silent, low, on beds of dust,\\nLie a that would my sorrows share.\\nAnd last (the sum of a my giiefsl)\\nMv noble master lies in clay;\\nThe flowT amani]: our barons bold,\\nHis country s pride, his country s stay;\\nIn wearv being now^ I pme.\\nFor a the life of life is dead,\\nAnd hope has left my aged ken.\\nOn forward wing for ever lied.\\nAwake thv last sad voice, my harp!\\nThe voice*^of woe and wild despair!\\nAwake, resound thy latest lay,^\\nThen sleep in silence evermair!\\n1 Nought. ^Others.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0179.jp2"}, "180": {"fulltext": "18 BURNS.\\nAnd thou, my last, best, only friend,\\nThat fillest an untimely tomb,\\nAccept this tribute from the Bard\\nThou brought from fortune s mirkest^ gloom.\\nIn Poverty s low barren vale\\nThick mists, obscure, involv d me round;\\nThough oft I turn d the wistful eye,\\nNo ray of fame was to be found\\nThou found st me, like the morning sua\\nThat melts the fogs in limpid air,\\nThe friendless Bard, and rustic song,\\nBecame alike thy fostering care.\\nOh! why has worth so short a date?\\nWhile villains ripen grey with time\\nMust thou, the noble, gen rous, great,\\nFall in bold manhood s hardy prime?\\nWhy did I live to see that day\\nA day to me so full of woe?\\nO I had I met the mortal shaft\\nWhich laid my benefactor low\\nThe bridegroom may forget the bride,\\nWas made his wedded wife yestreen;\\nThe monarch may forget the crown\\nThat on his head an hour has been;\\nThe mother may forget the child\\nThat smiles sae sweetly on her knee;\\nBut I ll remember thee, Glencairn,\\nAnd a that thou hast done for me l\\nLINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOED, Of\\nWHITEFORD, BART.,^ WITH THE FOREGOING\\nPOEM.\\nThou, who thy honour as thy God rever st.\\nWho, save thy mind s reproach, nought earthly fear st,\\nTo thee this votive off ring I impart,\\nThe tearful tribute of a broken heart.\\n1 Darkest.\\nAn early friend of Burns who gratefully acknowledged his in-\\nterest in his fate as a man, and his fame as a poet.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0180.jp2"}, "181": {"fulltext": "TAMaSHANTER. 149\\nThe Friend thou valued st, I the Patron lov d;\\nHis worth, his honour, all the world approved.\\nWe ll mourn till we too go as he has gone.\\nAnd tr\u00c2\u00ab\u00c2\u00bbad the dreary path to that dark world unknown\\nTAM 0 SHANTER.^\\nA TALE.\\nBrownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.\u00e2\u0080\u0094G atm n Dou^jai^\\nWhen chapman billies leave the street,\\nAnd drouthy neebors, neebors meet,\\nAs market-days are wearing late,\\nAn folk begin to tak the gate\\nWhile we sit bousing at the nappy,*\\nAn getting fou and unco happy.\\nWe thinkna on the lang Scots miles,\\nThe mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles.\\nThat lie between us and our hame,\\nWhare sits our sulky sullen dame,\\nGath ring her brows like gath ring storm^\\nNursing her wrath to keep it warm.\\nThis truth fand honest Tam o Shanter,\\nAs he frae Ayr ae night did canter,\\n(Auld Ayr, wham ne er a town surpasses.\\nFor honest men and bonny lasses).\\nO Tam hadst thou but been sae wise,\\nAs ta en thy ain wife Kate s advice\\nShe tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,\\nA blethering, blustering, dnmken blellum\\nThat frae November till October,\\nAe market-day thou was nae sober\\nThat ilka melder,^ wi the miller.\\nThou sat as lang as thou had siller\\nThat ev ry naig was ca d a shoe on.\\nThe smith and thee gat roaring fou on;\\nThat at the Lord s house, ev n on Simday,\\nThou drank wi Kirkton^ Jean till Monday.\\nThis ijoem was written to illustrate a drawing of Alloway Kirk,\\nby Captain Grose, in whose Antiquities of Scotland it was pub-\\nlished. The poet versified the chief circumstances of the historical\\nstory. Gilbert Burns specifies those of a man riding: home very\\nlate from Ayr in a stormy night, his seeing a light in Alloway Kirk,\\nhis having the curiosity to look in, his seeing a dance of witches\\nwith the Devil playing on the bagpipe to them, the scanty covering\\nof one of the witches, which made him so far forget himself as to\\ncry\u00e2\u0080\u0094* Weel loupen, short sarkl with the melancholy catastrophe\\nof the piece. The poet has given a fuller and racier description\\nof the original scene in a letter to Grose.\\nAle. 3 Worthless fellow Idle talker.\\nEvery time that corn was sent to be ground,\\nKirkton is the distinctive name of a village in which the parish\\nkirk stands. _", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0181.jp2"}, "182": {"fulltext": "150 BU-RNS.\\nShe prOphesy d that, late or soon,\\nThou would be found deep drown d in Dooa;\\nOr catch d wi warlocks^ i the mirk,^\\nBy Alloway s auld haunted kirk.\\nAh, gentle dames! it gars me greet,*\\nTo think how many counsels sweet,\\nHow mony lengthen d, sage advices,\\nThe husband f rae the wife despises\\nBut to our tale Ae market night,\\nTam had got planted unco right\\nFast by an ingle, bleezing finely,\\nWi reaming swats,* that drank divinely;\\nAnd at his elbow, Souter Johnny,\\nHis ancient, trusty, drouthy crony\\nTam lo ed him like a vera brither\\nThey had been fou for weeks thegither.\\nThe night drave on wi sangs and clatter;\\nAnd ay the ale was growing better\\nThe landlady and Tam grew gracious,\\nWi favours, secret, sweet, and precious:\\nThe souter^ tould his queerest stories\\nThe landlord s laugh was ready chorus\\nThe storm without might rair and rustle,\\nTam did na mind the storm a whistle.\\nCare, mad to see a man sae happy,\\nE en drowned liimself amang the nappy 1\\nAs bees flee hame wi lades o treasure,\\nThe minutes wing d their way wi pleasure;\\nKings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,\\nO er a the ills o life victorious I\\nBut pleasures are like poppies spread,\\nYou seize the flow r, its bloom is shed;\\nOr like the snow falls in the river,\\nA moment white then melts for ever;\\nOr like the borealis race,\\nThat flit ere you can point their place;\\nOr like the rainbow s lovely form\\nEvanishing amid the storm.\\nNae man can tether time or tide\\nThe hour approaches Tam maun ride\\nThat hour, o night s black arch the key-stan\u00c2\u00ab|\\nThat dreary hour he mounts his beast in\\nAnd sic a night he taks the road in,\\nAs ne er poor sinner was abroad in.\\nWizards. Dark. Makes me weeiK\\nFrothing ale. Shoemaker.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0182.jp2"}, "183": {"fulltext": "TAM O SHANTER, 151\\nThe wind blew as twad blawn its last\\nThe rattling show^ rs rose on the blast\\nThe sj^eedy gleams the darkness swallowed\\nLoud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow d\\nThat night, a child might understand,\\nThe Deil had business on his hand.\\nWeel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,\\nA better never lifted leg,\\nTam skelpit^ on thro dub and mire.\\nDespising wind, and rain and fire\\nWhiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet\\nWhiles crooning o er some auld Scots sonnet;\\nWhiles glow ring round wi prudent cares,\\nLest bogles catch him unawares\\nKirk Alio way vfas drav/ing nigh,\\nWhare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.\\nBy this time he was cross the ford,\\nWhare in the snaw^ the chapman smoor d\\nAnd past the birks and rneikle^ stane,\\nWhare drunken Charlie brak s neck-bane\\nAnd thro the Y\\\\^hins, and by the cairn,\\nWhare hunters fand the murder d bairn;\\nAnd near the thorn aboon the well,\\nWhare Mungo s mither hang d hersel.\\nBefore him Doon pours all his floods\\nThe doubling storm roars thro the woods\\\\\\nThe lightnings flash from pole to pole\\nNear and more near the thunders roll\\nWhen, glimmering thro the groaning trees.\\nKirk Alloway seem d in a bleeze\\nThro ilka bore^ the beams were glancing\\nAnd loud resounded mirth and dancing.\\nInspiring bold John Barleycorn\\nWhat dangers thou canst make us scorn\\nWi tippenny, we fear nae evil\\nWi usquebae, we ll face the Devil\\nThe swats sae ream d in Tammie s noddle,\\nFair play, he car d na deils a boddle.\\nBut Maggie stood right sair astonish d,\\nTill, by the heel and hand admonish d,\\nShe ventur d forward on the light\\nAnd wow Tam saw an unco sight\\nWarlocks and witches in a dance\\nNae cotillion brent new frae France,\\nWent at a smart pace. Smothered. Birches. Big.\\n5 Hole in the wall.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0183.jp2"}, "184": {"fulltext": "152 BURNS,\\nBut hornpiDes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels^\\nPut liie and mettle in their heeis.\\nAt winnock-bunker in the east,\\nThere sat auld Nick, in shape o beast\\nA towzie^ tyke, black, grim, and large,\\nTo gie them music was his charge\\nHe screw d the pipes and gart^ them skirl,*\\nTill roof and rafters a did dirl.\\nCoffins stood round, like open presses,\\n*rhat shaw d the dead in their last dresses;\\nAnd by some devilish cantrip^ slight\\nEach in its cauld hand held a light,\\nBy which heroic Tarn was able\\nTo note upon the haly table,\\nA murderer s banes in gibbet aims;\u00c2\u00ae\\nTwa span-lang, wee, unchristen d bairns;\\nA thief, new-cutted frae a rape,\\nWi his last gasp his gab did gape\\nFive tomahawks, wi blude red rusted;\\nFive scymitars, wi murder crusted\\nA garter, which a babe had strangled\\nA knife, a father s throat had mangled,\\nWhom his ain son o life bereft,\\nThe grey hairs yet stack to the heft\\nWi mair o horrible and awfu\\nWhich ev n to name v/ad be unlawfu\\nAs Tammie glowr d, amaz d, and curious,\\nThe mirth and fun grew fast and furious\\nThe piper loud and louder blew\\nThe dancers quick and quicker flew\\nThey reel d, they set, they crossed, they eleekit\u00e2\u0080\u009e\\nTill ilka carlin swat and reekit,\\nAnd coost her duddies to the wark.\\nAnd linket\u00c2\u00ae at it in her sark\\nNow Tam, O Tam had thae been queans\\nA plump and strapping in their teens\\nTheir sarks, instead o creeshie^ flannen,\\nBeen snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen\\nThir^^ breeks o mine, my only pair,\\nThat ance were plush, o gude blue hair,\\nI wad hae gi en them off my hurdies,^^\\nFor ae blink o the bonnie burdies 1\\n1 Window-seat. shaggy. Forced. Scream. Ma^c.\\nIrons. Clothes. Tripped a,long. Greasy.\\nThe manufacturing term for a fine linen, woven in a reed ol\\n3700 divisions. Cromek.\\nThese. 12 Loins.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0184.jp2"}, "185": {"fulltext": "TAM a SHANTER. I5d\\nBut wither d beldams, auld and droll,\\nRigwoodie hags, \\\\vad spean a foal,\\nLowping and flinging on a crummock,*\\nI wonder didna turn thy stomach.\\nBut Tarn kend what was what fu brawlie,\\nThere was ae v insome wench and walie,\\nThat night enlisted in the core,\\n(Lang after kend on Cavrick shore;\\nFor mony a beast to dead she shot,\\nAnd perished mony a bonnie boat,\\nAnd shook baith meikle corn and bear,*\\nAnd kept the country-side in fear)\\nHer cutty sark, o Paisley harn,*\\nThat, while a lassie, she had worn,\\nIn longitude tho sorely scanty,\\nIt was her best, and she was vauntie.\\nAh little kend thy reverend grannie,\\nThat sark she coft^ for her wee Xannie,\\nWi twa pund Scots, twas a her riches,)\\nWad ever grac d a dance of witches\\nBut here my muse her wing maun cour;\\nSic flights are far beyond her pow r;\\nTo sing how Nannie lap and flang,\\n(A souple jade she was, and Strang),\\nAnd how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,\\nAnd thought his very e en enrich d;\\nEven Satan gloT\\\\T d, and fidg d fu fain,\\nAnd hotch d and blew wi might and main:\\nTill fii-st ae caper, syne^ anither,\\nTam tint his reason a thegither.\\nAnd roars out, Weel done, Cutty-sark\\nAnd in an instant all was dark\\nAnd scarcely had he Maggie rallied,\\nWhen out the hellish legion sallied.\\nAs bees bizz out wi angry fyke,\u00c2\u00ae\\nWhen plundering herds assail their byke;*\\nAs open pussie s mortal foes,\\nWhen, pop she starts before their nose\\nAs eager runs the market-crowd,\\nWhen, Catch the thief I resounds aloud;\\nSo Maggie runs, the witches follow,\\nWi monie an eldritch skreech and hollow.\\nAh, Tam I ah, Tam! thou ll get thy fairinl\\nIn hell they ll roast thee like a herrin\\n1 Short staff. Barley. Short.\\nTery coarse linen. Bought. Then. Loal,\\nBustle. Hive.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0185.jp2"}, "186": {"fulltext": "154 BURNS.\\nIn vain thy Kate awaits thy comin\\nKate soon will be a woef u woman\\nNow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,\\nAnd win the key-stane^ of the brig;\\nThere at tliem thou tliy tail may toss,\\nA running stream they dare na cross.\\nBut ere the key-stane she could make,\\nThe iient a tail she had to shake 1\\nFor Nannie, far before the rest,\\nHard upon noble Maggie prest,\\nAnd flew at Tam wi furious ettle\\nBut little wist slie Maggie s mettle\\nAe spring brought off her master hale,\\nBut left behind her ain gray tail\\nThe carlin claiight her by the rump.\\nAnd left poor Ma ^gie scarce a stump.\\nNow, wha this tale o truth shall read.\\nIlk man and mother s son, tak heed;\\nWhene er to drink you are inclin d,\\nOr cutty-sarks run in your mind,\\nThink, ye may buy the joys o er dear.\\nRemember Tam o Shanter s mare.\\nON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE S PEREGRINA-\\nTIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING\\nTHE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.\\nHear, Land o Cakes, and brither Scots,\\nFrae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat s;\\nIf there s a hole in a your coats,\\nI rede you tent it\\nA chield s amang you, taking notes,\\nAnd, faith, he ll prent it.\\nIf in your bounds ye chance to light\\nUpon a fine, fat, fodgel* wight,\\nO stature short, but genius bright.\\nThat s he, mark weel\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nAnd wow he has an unco slight\\nO cauk and keel.*\\n1 It is a well-knov. n fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have nO\\npower to foiiow a poor wight an} farther than the middle of the\\nnext running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the\\nbenighted traveller, that wht-n he falls in with bogles, whatever\\ndanger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in\\nturning back. K. B.\\n2 Effort.\\n3 1 advise ycu to look to it. Plump. Chalk and red clay.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0186.jp2"}, "187": {"fulltext": "CAPTAIN GROSE S PEREGRINA TIONS. 155\\nBy some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,*\\nOr kirk deserted by its liggin,\\nIt s ten to ane yell find him snug in\\nSome eldritch part,\\nWi deils, they say, Lord safe s I colleagnin\\nAt some black art.\\nHk ghaist that hamits auld ha or chamer,\\nYe gipsy-gang that deal in glamor,\\nAnd you deep read in hells black grammar,\\nWarlocks and witches;\\nYe U quake at his conjuring hammer.\\nYe midnight bitches.\\nIt s tauld he was a sodger bred,\\nAnd ane wad rather fa n than fled\\nBut now he s quaf^ the spurtle-blade,\\nAnd dog-skin wallet,\\nAnd ta en the Antiquarian trade,\\nI think they call it.\\nHe has a fouth^ o auld nick-nackets;\\nRusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,*\\nWad hand the Lothians three in tackets,\\nA towmont^ gude,\\nAnd parritch-pats, and auld saut -backets,\\nBefore the Flood.\\nOf Eve s first fire he has a cinder\\nAuld Tubalcain s fire-shool and fender;\\nThat which distinguished the gender\\n0 Balaam s ass;\\nA broom-stick o the witch of Endor,\\nWeel shod wi brass,\\nForbye, he ll shape you aff, fu gleg,\\nThe cut of Adam s philibeg\\nThe knife that nicket Abel s craig\\nHe ll prove you fully,\\nIt was a faulding jocteleg,\\nOr lang-kail gullie.^\\nBuilding.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. R. B.\\n2 Has quitted. Plenty.\\nTide bis Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons. R. B.\\nNails. A twelvemonth, Clasp knife. L^ix^Ki knif*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0187.jp2"}, "188": {"fulltext": "156 BURNS.\\nBut y% ad ye see him in his glee\\nFor meikle glee and fun has he,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThen set him down, and twa or three\\nGude fellows him;\\nAnd |3ort, O port shine thou a wee,\\nAnd then ye U see him\\nNow, by the Pow rs o verse and prose I\\nThou art a dainty chiel, O Grose\\nWhae er o thee shall ill suppose.\\nThey sair misca thee\\nI d take the rascal by the nose.\\nWad say, Shame fa thee I\\nON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,\\nWHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.^\\nApril, irsft.\\nInhoian man curse on thy barbarous art,\\nAnd blasted be thy murder-aiming eye\\nMay never pity soothe thee with a sigh,\\nNor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!\\nGo, live, poor w^anderer of the wood and field,\\nThe bitter little that of life remains;\\nNo more the thickening brakes and verdant plains\\nTo tliee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.\\nSeek, mangled wn-etch, some place of wonted rest,\\nNo more of rest, but now thy dying bed\\nThe sheltering rushes whistling o er thy head,\\nThe cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.\\nOft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait\\nThe sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,\\nni miss thee sporting o er the dewy law^n.\\nAnd curse the ruflian s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate\\n1 have Just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will\\n1 e something to your taste. One morning lately as I was out pretty\\nearly in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a\\nbiiot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little\\nwounded hare came crippling by me.\u00e2\u0080\u0094R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0188.jp2"}, "189": {"fulltext": "TO MISS CRUIKSIIAXK, i5t\\nADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON\\nCROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNA3I, ROXBURGH-\\nSHIRE, WITH BAYS.\\nWhile virgin Spring, by Eden s flood,\\nUnfolds her tender mantle green,\\nOr pranks the sod in frolic mood.\\nOr times -^olian strains between\\nWhile Summer, with a matron grace,\\nRetreats to Dryburgh s cooling shade,\\nYet oft, delighted, stops to trace\\nThe progress of the spiky blade\\nWhile Autumn, benefactor kind,\\nBy Tweed erects his aged head.\\nAnd sees, with self-approving mind,\\nEach creature on his bounty fed\\nWhile maniac Winter rages o er\\nThe liills whence classic Yarrow flows,\\nRousing the turbid torrent s roar.\\nOr sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:\\nSo long, sweet poet of the year.\\nShall bloom that wreath thou well hast won\\nWhile Scotia, with exxilting tear,\\nProclaims that Thomson was her son.\\nTO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY;\\nWRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK\\nPRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.\\nBeauteous rose-bud, young and gay,\\nBlooming in thy early May,\\nNever may st thou, lovely Flow r,\\nNever Boreas hoary path,\\nNever Eurus pois nous breath.\\nNever baleful stellar lights,\\nTaint thee with untimely blights!\\nNever, never reptile thief\\nRiot on thy virgin leaf\\n1 The dear little Jeanie of one of his letters; her father was a\\nMaster in the High School at Edinburgh.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0189.jp2"}, "190": {"fulltext": "\u00c2\u00a3URNS.\\nNor even Sol too fiercely view\\nThy bosom blushing still with dew\\nMay st thou long, sweet crimson gem,\\nRichly deck thy native stem\\nTill some ev ning, sober, calm,\\nDropping dews, and breathing balm,\\nWhile all around the woodland rings^\\nAnd ev ry bird thy requiem sings.\\nThou, amid the dirgeful sound.\\nShed thy dying honours round,\\nAnd resign to parent earth\\nThe loveliest form she e er gave birth.\\nON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH\\nOF JOHN M LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A\\nYOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OP\\nTHE AUTHOR.\\nSad thy tale, thou idle page.\\nAnd rueful thy alarms\\nDeath tears the brother of her lov6\\nFrom Isabella s arms.\\nSweetly deckt with pearly dew\\nThe morning rose may blow\\nBut cold successive noontide blasts\\nMay lay its beauties low.\\nFair on Isabella s morn\\nThe sun propitious smil d\\nBut, long ere noon, succeeding clouds\\nSucceeding hopes beguil d.\\nFate oft tears the bosom chords,\\nThat Nature finest strung\\nSo Isabella s heart was form d.\\nAnd so that heart was wrung.\\nDread Omnipotence, alone,\\nCan heal the wound He gave\\nCan point the brimful grief- worn eyea\\nTo scenes beyond the grave.\\nVirtue s blossoms there shall blow,\\nAnd fear no withering blast;\\nThere Isabella s spotless worth\\nShall happy be at last.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0190.jp2"}, "191": {"fulltext": "THE HUMBLE PETITION, 159\\nTHE HOIBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATERS TO\\nTHE XOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.\\nMy Lord, I know your noble ear\\nWoe ne er assails in vain\\nEmboldened thus, I beg you ll hear\\nYour humble Slave complain,\\nHow saucy Phoebus scorching beams,\\nIn flaming summer-pride.\\nDry-withering, waste my foamy streams,\\nAnd drink my crystal tide.\\nThe lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,\\nThat thro my waters play,\\nIf, in their random, wanton spouts,\\nThey near the margin stray\\nIf, hapless chance they linger lang,\\nI m scorching up so shallow,\\nThey re left the whitening stanes amang,\\nIn gasping death to wallow.\\nLast day I grat^ wi spite and teen,\\nAs Poet Bums came by,\\nThat to a Bard I should be seen\\nWi half my channel dry\\nA panegyric rliyme, I ween,\\nEven as I was he shor d^ me\\nBut had I in my glory been.\\nHe, kneeling, wad ador d me.\\nHere, foaming down the shelvy rocks,\\nIn twisting strength I rin\\nThere, high my boiling torrent smokes,\\nWild-roarin o er a linn\\nEnjoying large each spring and well\\nAs Nature gave them me,\\nI am, altho I say t mysel.\\nWorth gaun* a mile to see.\\nWould then my noble master please\\nTo grant my highest wishes.\\nHe ll shade my banks wi tow ring trees,\\nAnd bonnie spreading bushes.\\n1 Bniar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beauti-\\nful; but their eflfect Is much impaired by the want of treefi and\\nthrubs.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nWept. 5 Offered. Going.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0191.jp2"}, "192": {"fulltext": "IGO BURNS.\\nDelighted doubly then, my Lord,\\nYou ll wander on my banks,\\nAnd listen mony a grateful bird\\nReturn you tuneful thanks.\\nThe sober laverock, warbling wild,\\nShall to the skies aspire\\nThe gowdspink. Music s gayest child,\\nShall sweetly join the choir:\\nThe blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,\\nThe mavis mild and mellow\\nThe robin pensive Autumn cheer,\\nIn all her locks of yellow;\\nThis, too, a covert shall ensure,\\nTo shild them from the storm\\nAnd coward maukin* sleep secure,\\nLow in her grassy form\\nHere shall the shepherd make his sea\\nTo weave his crown of flow rs\\nOr find a sheltering safe retreat.\\nFrom prone-descending show rs.\\nAnd here, by sweet endearing stealth,\\nShall meet the loving pair,\\nDespising worlds with all their wealth\\nAs empty, idle care\\nThe flow rs shall vie in all their charms\\nThe hour of heav n to grace.\\nAnd birks extend their fragrant arms,\\nTo screen the dear embrace.\\nHere haply too, at vernal dawn,\\nSome musing bard may stray.\\nAnd eye the smoking, dewy lawn.\\nAnd misty mountain, grey;\\nOr, by the reaper s nightly beam,\\nMild-chequering thro the trees.\\nRave to my darkly dashing stream\\nHoarse-swelling on the breeze.\\nLet lofty firs, and ashes cool,\\nMy lowly banks o erspread.\\nAnd view, deep-bending in the pool.\\nTheir shadows wat ry bed I\\n1 Hare.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0192.jp2"}, "193": {"fulltext": "WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 161\\nLet fragrant birks in woodbines drest\\nMy craggy cliffs adorn\\nAnd, for the little songster s nest,\\nThe close embow ring thorn.\\nSo may Old Scotia s darling hope,\\nYour little angel band,\\nSpring, like their fathers, up to prop\\nTheir honour d native land\\nSo may thro Albion s farthest ken,\\nTo social-flowing glasses.\\nThe grace be Athole s honest men,\\nAnd Athole e bonnie lasses\\nWHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PHiOT STOOD.\\nA FRAGMENT.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GILLICRANKIB.\\nWhen Guilford good our Pilot stood,\\nAn did our hellim thraw, man,\\nAe night, at tea, began a plea,\\nWithin America, man\\nThen up they gat the maskin-pat,*\\nAnd in the sea did jaw,^ man;\\nAn did nae less, in full Congress,\\nThan quite refuse our law, man.\\nThen thro the lakes Montgomery takea^\\nI wat he was na slaw, man\\nDown Lowrie s bum he took a turn,\\nAnd Carleton did ca man\\nBut yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,\\nMontgomery like did fa man,\\nWi sword in hand, before his band,\\nAmang his en mies a\\\\ man.\\nPoor Tammy Gage, within a cage\\nWas kept at Boston ha man\\nTill Willie Howe took o er the knowe\\nFor Philadelphia, man\\nJ Tea-pot.\\nJerk. The English Parliament having imposed an excise duty\\nupon tea imported into North America, the East India Company\\nsent several ships laden with that article to Boston, and the natives\\nwent on board by force of arms, and emptied the cargo into the sea.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0193.jp2"}, "194": {"fulltext": "162 BURNS.\\nWi sword an gun he thought a sin\\nGuid Christian bluid to draw, man;\\nBut at l^ew York, wi knife and fork,\\nSir-loin he hack d sma\\\\ man.\\nBurgoyne gaed up, like spur an whip,\\nTill Fraser brave did fa man\\nThen lost his way, ae misty day,\\nIn Saratoga shaw, man.\\nCornwallis fought as lang s he dought,\\nAn did the buckskins claw, man;\\nBut Clinton s glaive frae rust to save,\\nHe hung it to the wa man.\\nThen Montague, an Guilford too,\\nBegan to fear a fa man\\nAnd Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure,\\nThe German Chief to thraw, man\\nFor Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,\\nNae mercy had at a man\\nAn Charlie Fox threw by the box,\\nAn lows d his tinkler^ jaw, man.\\nThen Rockingham took up the game\\nTill death did on him ca man\\nWhen Shelburne meek held up his cheek,\\nConform to Gospel law, man\\nSaint Stephen s boys, wi jarring noise,\\nThey did his measures thraw, man\\nFor North an Fox united stocks,\\nAn bore him to the wa man.\\nThen Clubs an Hearts were Charlie s cartes,\\nHe swept the stakes awa man,\\nTill the Diamond s Ace, of Indian race,\\nLed him a sair faux pas, man\\nThe Saxon lads, wi loud placads,\\nOn Chatham s boy did ca man;\\nAn Scotland drew her pipe, an blew,\\nUp, Willie, waur them a man\\nBehind the throne then Grenville s gone,\\nA secret word or twa, man;\\nWhile slee Dundas arous d the class\\nBe north the Roman wa man\\nHe was able. Tinl^er.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0194.jp2"}, "195": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 163\\nAn Chatham s wraith, in heavenly graith,\\n(Inspired Bardies saw, man),\\nWi kindling eyes cry d, Willie, rise!\\nWould I had fear d them a man?\\nBut, word an blow, North, Fox, and Co.,\\nGowff d Willie like a ba man.\\nTill Suthrons raise, an coost their claise\\nBehind him in a raw, man\\nAn Caledon threw by the drone,\\nAn did her whittle draw, man\\nAn swoor fu rude, thro dirt an bluid,\\nTo make it guid in law, man\\nMY TOCHER S THE JEWEL.\\nO MEiKLE thinks my luve o my beauty,\\nAnd meikle thinks my luve o my kin\\nBut little thinks my luve I ken brawlie\\nMy Tocher s the jewel has charms for him.\\nIt s a for the apple he ll nourish the tree\\nIt s a for the hiney he ll cherish the bee\\nMy laddie s sae meikle in luve wi the siller,\\nHe canna hae luve to spare for me.\\nYour proffer o luve s an airl-penny,\\nMy Tocher s the bargain you wad buy;\\nBut an ye be crafty, I m cunnin\\nSae ye wi anither your fortune maun try.\\nYe re like to the timmer o yon rotten wood,\\nYe re like to the bark o yon rotten tree,\\nYe ll slip frae me like a knotless thread.\\nAnd ye ll crack your credit wi mae nor me.\\nADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE; WRITTEN\\nWHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TOR-\\nMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.\\nMy curse upon thy venom d stang.\\nThat shoots my feortur d gums alang\\nAnd thro my lugs^ gies monie a twang,\\nWi gnawing vengeance;\\nTearing my nerves wi bitter pang,\\nLike racking engines I\\n1 Struck. a Ears.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0195.jp2"}, "196": {"fulltext": "1(J4 BURNS.\\nWhen fevers burn, or ague freezes,\\nRheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes\\nOur neighbour s sympathy may ease us,\\nWi pitying moan\\nBut thee ^thou hell o a diseases,\\nAye mocks our groan\\nAdown my beard the slavers trickle I\\nI kick the wee stools o er the mickle,\\nAs round the fire the giglets^ keckle\\nTo see me loup\\nWhile, raving mad, I wish a heckle\\nWere in their doup.\\nO a the numerous human dools,^\\n111 har sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,\\nOr worthy friends rak d i the mools,\\nSad sight to see\\nThe tricks o knaves, or fash^ o fools,\\nThou bear st the gree.*\\nWhere er that place be priests ca hell,\\nWhence a the tones o mis ry yell,\\nAnd ranked plagues their numbers tell,\\nIn dreadfu raw,\u00c2\u00ae\\nThou, Tooth-ache, surely bear st the bell\\nAmang them a\\nO thou grim mischief -making chiel.\\nThat gars the notes of discord squeel,\\nTill daft mankind aft dance a reel\\nIn gore a shoe-thick;\\nGie a the faes o Scotland s weal\\nA towmond s Tooth-ache 1\\nW^RITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIM,\\nKEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INI4\\nAT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.\\nAdmiring Nature in her wildest grace,\\nThese northern scenes with weary feet I trace\\nO er many a winding dale and painful steep,\\nTh abodes of covey d grouse and timid sheep,\\nYoung girls. Griefs. Clods. Car\u00c2\u00a9,\\nThe palm. Row.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0196.jp2"}, "197": {"fulltext": "ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 16o\\nMy savage journey, curious, I pursue,\\nTill fam d Breadalbane opens on my view.\\nThe meeting cliffs each dee.j-sunk glen divides,\\nThe woods, wild-scattered, clothe their ample sides\\nTh outstretching lake, imbosom d mong the hills,\\nThe eye with wonder and amazement fills\\nThe Tay meand ring sweet in infant pride.\\nThe palace rising on his verdant side\\nThe lawns wood-fringed in Nature s native taste;\\nThe hillock s dropt in Nature s careless haste;\\nThe arches striding o er the new-born stream;\\nThe village glittering in the noontide beam.\\n9{C 9|C 9|C\\nPoetic ardours in my bosom swell,\\nLone wand ring by the hermit s mossy cell\\nThe sweeping theatre of hanging woods\\nTh incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nH\u00c2\u00ab\\nHere Poesy might wake her heav n-taught Ijrre,\\nAnd look through Nature with creative fire\\nHere, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil d,\\nMisfortune s lighten d steps might wander wild;\\nAnd disappointment, in these lonely bounds,\\nFind balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds\\nHere heart-struck Grief might heav nward stretch\\nher scan,\\nAnd injur d Worth forget and pardon man.\\nON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN\\nIN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAmLY\\nDISTRESS.^\\nSweet flow ret, pledge o meikle love,\\nAnd ward o mony a prayer,\\nWhat heart o stane wad thou na move,\\nSae helpless, sweet, and fair.\\nAs cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far\\ncountry. Fate has lon^ owed me a letter of good news from you,\\nin return for the many tidings of sorroAv which I have received. In\\nthis instance I most cordially obey the Apostle\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Rejoice with them\\nthat do reioice for me to sing for joy is no new thing; but to\\ng reach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle,\\na pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before, t\\nreaa your letter-I literally jumped for joy\u00e2\u0080\u0094 how could such a mer-\\ncurial creature as a poet lunipishly keep his seal on the receipt of\\nthe beat news from his best friend I seized my gilt-headed v/ange\u00c2\u00a9\\nrod, an initrument indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in th\u00c2\u00a9", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0197.jp2"}, "198": {"fulltext": "166 BURNS.\\nNovember hirples^ o er the lea,\\nChill on thy lovely form\\nAnd gane, alas! the sheltering tree\\nShould shield thee frae the storm.\\nMay He, who gives the rain to pour,\\nAnd wings the blast to blaw,\\nProtect thee frae the driving show r,\\nThe bitter frost and snaw.\\nMay He, the friend of woe and want,\\nWho heals life s various stounds,\\nProtect and guard the mother plant,\\nAnd heal her cruel wounds.\\nBut late she flourished, rooted fast,\\nFair on the summer morn\\nNow, feebly bends she in the blast,\\nUnshelter d and forlorn.\\nBlest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,\\nUnscath d by ruffian hand\\nAnd from thee many a parent stem\\nArise to deck our land.\\nWHITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE\\nFALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.\\nAmong the heathy hills and ragged woods\\nThe roaring F^^ers pours his mossy floods,\\nTill full he dashes on the rocky mounds,\\nWhere, thro a shapeless breach, his stream resoundsL\\nAs high in air the bursting torrents flow,\\nAs deep recoiling surges foam below.\\nProne down the rock the whitening sheet descends.\\nAnd viewless Echo s ear, astonished, rends.\\nDim-seen, thro rising mists, and ceaseless show ri,\\nThe hoary, cavern, wide-surrounding low rs.\\nStill, thro the gap the struggling river toils,\\nAnd still, below, the horrid cauldron boils\\nmoment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride\u00e2\u0080\u0094 quick and\\nquicker\u00e2\u0080\u0094 out skipped I among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse\\nover my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was im-\\npossible. Mrs. Little s is a more elegant, but not a more sincere\\ncompliment to the s .veet little fellow than I, extempore almost,\\npoured out to him, in the following verses. BiriiNs/d Mrs. Dunlop,\\nKov, 1790. i Creeps. Heart pangs.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0198.jp2"}, "199": {"fulltext": "SECOND EPISTLE TO DA VIE, 167\\nSECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.\\nAuLD Neebor,\\nI m three times, doubly, o er your debtor,\\nFor your auld-f arrant, friendly letter\\nTho I maun say t, I doubt ye flatter.\\nYe speak sae fair,\\nFor my puir, silly, rhymin clatter\\nSome less maun sair.\\nHale be your heart, hale be your fiddle\\nLang may your elbuck^ jink and diddle,\\nTae cheer you thro the weary widdle\\nO war ly cares,\\nTill bairns^ bairns kindly cuddle\\nYour auld, gray hairs.\\nBut Davie, lad, I m red ye re glaikit\\nI m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;\\nAn gif it s sae, ye sud be lickit\\nUntil ye fyke\\nSic hauns as you sud ne er be faiket,*\\nBe hain t* wha like.\\nFor me, I m on Parnassus brink,\\nRivin the words tae gar them clink\\nWhyles daez t wi love, whyles daez t wi drink,\\nWi jads or masons\\nAn whyles, but aye owre late, I think,\\nBraw sober lessons.\\nOf a the thoughtless sons o man,\\nCommen me to the Bardie clan;\\nExcept it be some idle plan\\nO rhymin clink,\\nThe devil-haet, that I sud ban,^\\nThey ever think.\\nNae thought, nae view, nae scheme o livin\\nNae cares tae gie us joy or grievin\\nBut just the pouchie put the nieve in,\\nAn while ought s there.\\nThen hiltie, skiltie, we ga\u00c2\u00ab scrievin\\nAn fash nae mair.\\n8Agacious. Serve. Elbow. Inattentirc.\\nUnknown. Spared. Swear.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0199.jp2"}, "200": {"fulltext": "168 BURNS.\\nLeeze me on rhyme it s aye a treasure,\\nMy chief, amaist my only pleasure,\\nAt hame, a-fiel at wark, or leisure.\\nThe Muse, poor hizziel\\nTho rough an raploch^ be her measure,\\nShe s seldom lazy.\\nHaud to the Muse, my dainty Davie\\nThe warP may play you monie a shavie;\\nBut for the Muse, she ll never leave ye,\\nTho e er sae puir,\\nNa, even tho limpin wi the spavie\\nFrae door ta door.\\nTHE INVENTORY; IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL\\nMANDATE SENT BY A SURVEYOR OF THE\\nTAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN OF THE NUM-\\nBER OF HORSES, SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, ETC.,\\nKEPT.\\nSir, as your mandate did request,\\nI send you here a faithfu list,\\nMy horses, servants, carts, and graith.\\nTo which I m free to tak my aith.\\nImprimis, then, for carriage cattle,\\nI ha e four l3rutes o gallant mettle,\\nAs ever drew afore a pettle\\nMy hand-afore,^ a gude auld has- been,\\nAn wight an wilfu a his days been;\\nMy hand-ahin,* a weel gaun fillie.\\nThat aft has borne me hame frae Killic,*\\nAn your auld borough mony a time,\\nIn days when riding was nae crime\\nBut ance, whan in my wooing pride,\\nI, like a blockhead, boost to ride,\\nThe wilfu creature sae I pat to,\\n(Lord, pardon a my sins, an that too I)\\nI played my fillie sic a shavie.\\nShe s a bedevil d wi the spa^ ie.\\nMy fur-ahin s a gude, grey beast.\\nAs e er in tug or tow was trac d,\\nA phrase of endearment. Coarse.\\nPlough-staff. 4 The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. R\\nThe hindmost on the left hand in the plough.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nKilmarnock. R. B.\\nThe hindmost horse on the right hand in the plough.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0200.jp2"}, "201": {"fulltext": "THE INVENTORY, 169\\nThe fourth, a Highland Donald hastie,\\nA d d red-wud, Kilburnie blastie\\nForeby a Cowte, o Cowtes the wale,\\nAs ever ran afore a tail\\nIf he be spar d to be a beast,\\nHe ll draw me fifteen pund at least.\\nWheel carriages I ha e but few,\\nThree carts, an twa are feckly new\\nAe auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,\\nAe leg an baith the trams are broken\\nI made a poker o the spindle,\\nAn my auld mither brunt the trindle.\\nFor men, I ve three mischievous boys,\\nRun-de ils for rantin an for noise\\nA gaudsman^ ane, a thrasher t other,\\nWee Davoc hands the nowte in f other.\\nI rule them, as I ought, discreetly,\\nAn aften labour them completely.\\nAn ay on Sundays duly, nightly,\\nI on the questions targe them tightly\\nTill faith, wee Davoc s turn d sae gleg,\\nTho scarcely langer than your leg,\\nHe ll screed you aff Effectual Calling,\\nAs fast as ony in the d walling.\\nI ve nane in female servan station,\\n(Lord keep me aye f rae a temptation\\nI ha e nae wife and that my bliss is.\\nAn ye ha e laid nae tax on misses\\nAn then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,\\nI ken the devils darena touch me.\\nWi weans I m mair than weel contented,\\nHeav n sent me ane mae than I wanted.\\nMy sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,\\nShe stares the daddy in her face.\\nEnough of ought ye like but grace.\\nBut her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,\\nI ve paid enough for her already.\\nAn gin ye tax her on her mither,\\nB the L d ye se get them a thegither.\\nAnd now, remember, Mr. Aiken,\\nNae kind of license out I m takin\\nFrae this time forth, I do declare,\\nI se ne er ride horse nor hizzie mair\\nThro dirt and dub for life I ll paidle,\\nEre I sae dear pay for a saddle\\nPlough-driver Black cattle in fodd^.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0201.jp2"}, "202": {"fulltext": "170 BURNS.\\nMy travel a on foot I ll shank it,\\nIVe sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe Kirk an you may tak you that.\\nIt puts but little in your pat;^\\nSae dinna put me in your buke,\\nNor for my ten white shillings luke.\\nThis list wi my ain han I wrote it,\\nDay an date as under notit\\nThen know all ye whom it concerns,\\nSubscripsi huic, Robert Burns.\\nJfoisgiel, Febrica/ry 22ndy 1786.\\nTHE WHISTLE.\\nA BALLAD.\\nI SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,\\nI sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,\\n1 Pot.\\nThe highest gentry of the county, writes Mr. J. G. Locklmrt,\\nwhenever they had especial merriment in view, called in the wit\\nand eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals. The famous\\nsong of The Whistle of Worth commemorates a scene of this kind,\\nmore picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc-\\ncurrea, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of hfe amonff\\nthis jovial squirearchy. These gentlemen, of ancient descent, had\\nmet to determine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess\\nthe Whiatie, which a common ancestor of them all had earned ages\\nbefore in a Bacchanalian contest of the same sort with a noble\\ntoper from Denmark; and the poet was summoned to watch over\\nand celebrate the issue of the debate. The following is Burns de-\\nscription of the piize and the stn^ggle. He seems, however, to have\\nfallen into some error as to the date: As the autiienlic prose his-\\ntory of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it.- In the train of\\nAnne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the\\nSixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature\\nand great prowess, and a matcliless champion of Biicchus. He had\\na little ebony Whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies he\\nlaid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, everybody\\nelse being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to cany off the\\nWhistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of\\nhis victories, witliout a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen,\\nStockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in\\nGermany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alterna-\\ntive of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferior-\\nity. ^After many overthows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was\\nencoimtered by Sir Robert Lowrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the\\npresent worthy Baronet of that name, who, after three days and\\nthree nights hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,\\nAnd blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.\\nSir Walter, son to Sir Robert, before mentioned, afterwards lost\\nthe Whistle to Walter Riddle, of Gleuriddle, who lipd married a\\nsister of Sir Walter. On Friday, the IGth October, 1790, at Friars-\\nCarse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the\\nballad, by the present Sir Robert Lowrie, of Maxwelton^ Robert\\nRiddle, Esq., of Glenriddle, lineal descendant and representative of\\nWalter Riddle, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had\\ncontinued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, like-\\nwise descended of the great Sir Robert, which last gentleman car-\\nried off the hard-won honours of the field,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0202.jp2"}, "203": {"fulltext": "THE WHISTLE, 171\\nWas bmught to the court of our good Scottish king,\\nAnd long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.\\nOld Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,\\nThe god of the bottle sends down from his hall\\nThis whistle s your challenge, in Scotland get o er.\\nAnd drink them to hell, Sir, or ne er see me more 1\\nOld poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,\\nWhat champions ventur d, w^hat champions fell;\\nThe son of great Loda was conqueror still.\\nAnd blew^ on the Whistle his requiem shrill.\\nTill Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,\\nUnmatch d at the bottle, unconquer d in war.\\nHe drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,\\nNo tide of the Baltic e er drunker than he.\\nThus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain d,\\nWhich now in his house has for ages remain d\\nTill three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,\\nThe jovial contest again -have renew d.\\nThree joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw\\nCraigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law\\nAnd trusty Glenriddel, so skill d in old coins\\nAnd gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.\\nCraigdarroch began with a tongue smooth as oil,\\nDesiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil\\nOr else he would muster the heads of the clan,\\nAnd once more, in claret, try which was the man.\\n**By the gods of the ancients! Glenriddel replies,\\nBefore I surrender so glorious a prize,\\nI ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,^\\nAnd bumper his horn with him twenty times o er.\\nSir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,\\nBut he ne er tum d his back on his foe or his friend.\\nSaid, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,\\nAnd, knee-deep in claret, he d die ere he d yield.\\nTo the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair.\\nSo noted for drowning of sorrow and care\\nBut for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,\\nThan the sense, wit, and taste of a sw^eet lovely dame.\\nJ See Ossian s Caric-thura. R. B.\\nSee Johnson s Tour to the Hebrides. ~R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0203.jp2"}, "204": {"fulltext": "m BURN3.\\nA bard was selected to witness the fray,\\nAnd tell future ages the feats of the day\\nA bard who detested all sadness and spleen,\\nAnd wish d that Parnassus a vmeyard had been.\\nThe dinner being over, the claret they ply,\\nAnd ev ry new cork is a new spring of joy,\\nIn the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,\\nAnd the bands grew the tighter the more they wej|f\\nwet.\\nGay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o er\\nBright Phoibus ne er witnessed so joyous a core,\\nAnd vow d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,\\nTill Cynthia liinted he d see them next morn.\\nSix bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,\\nWhen gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,\\nTurn d o er in one bumper a bottle of red,\\nAnd swore twas the v/av that their ancestors did.\\nThen worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,\\nNo longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;\\nA high-ruling elder to wallow in wine\\nHe left the foul business to folks less divine.\\nThe gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end\\nBut v7ho can with Fate and quaii; bumpers contend?\\nThough Fate said, a hero should peiish in light\\nSo uprose bright Phcebas and down fell the knight.\\nNext uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink\\n*^Craigdarroch, thou lt soar when creation shall sink!\\nBut if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,\\nCome one bottle more and have at the sublime I\\nThy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce,\\nShall heroes and patriots ever produce\\nSo thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay\\nThe field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day l\\nSKETCH.\\nINSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX,\\nHow Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite\\nHow Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white;\\nHow Genius, th illustrous father of fiction.\\nConfounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0204.jp2"}, "205": {"fulltext": "SKETCH. 173\\nI sing,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle,\\n1 care not, not I, let the Critics go whistle 1\\nBut now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory\\nAt once may illustrate and honour my story.\\nThou, first of our orators, first of our wits,\\nYet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;\\nWith knowledge so vast and with judgment so strong,\\nNo man, with the half of em e er went far wrong;\\nWith passions so potent, and fancies so bright.\\nNo man with the half of em e er went quite right\\nA sorry, poor, misbegot ?on of the Muses,\\nFor using thy name offei? fifty excuses.\\nGood Lord, what is man for as simple he looks,\\nDo but try to develope hi 3 hooks and his crooks,\\nWith his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,\\nAll in all, he s a problem must puzzle the Devil.\\nOn his o!.\u00e2\u0082\u00ac ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labours,\\nThat, lik th old Hebrew walking switch, eats up its\\nneighbours\\nMankind are his show-box a friend, would you know\\nhim?\\nPull the string. Ruling Passion the picture will show\\nhim.\\nWhat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system.\\nOne trifling particular, Truth, should have miss d bi*n I\\nFor, spite of his fine theoretic positions.\\nMankind is a science defies definitions.\\nSome sort all our qualities each to its tribe,\\nAnd think Human-nature they truly describe;\\nHave you found this, or t other? there s more the\\nwind.\\nAs by one drunken fellow his comrades you ll find.\\nBut such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,\\nIn the make of the wonderful creature called Man,\\nNo two virtues, whatever rehition they claim.\\nNor even two different shades of the same.\\nThough like as was ever twin brother to brother,\\nPossessing the one shall imply you ve the other.\\nBut truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse\\nWhose rhymes you ll perhaps. Sir. ne er deign to pt^ruse;\\nWill you leave your justings, yoi r jars, and your quar-\\nrels,\\nContending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels?", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0205.jp2"}, "206": {"fulltext": "174 BURNS.\\nMy much-honour d Patron, believe your poor Poet,\\nTour courage much more than vour prudence you sho^\\nIn vain with Squire Billy for laure-s you struggle.\\nHe ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle\\nNot cabinets even of kings would conceal em,\\nHe d up the back-stairs, and, by G he would steal em;\\nThen feats like Squire Billy s you ne er can achieve em,\\nIt is not, outdo him the task is, out-thieve him.\\nTO DR. BLACKLOCK.\\nEUisland, 21st Oct., 1780.\\nWow, but your letter made me vauntiel\\nAnd are ye hale, and weel, and can tie?\\nI kenn d it still your wee bit j auntie\\nWad bring ye to\\nLord send you aye as weel s I want ye,\\nAnd then ye il do.\\nThe ill-thief blaw the Heron^ south 1\\nAnd never drink be near his drouth\\nHe tald mysel by word o mouth.\\nHe d tak my letter;\\nI lippen d to the chiel in trouth.\\nAnd bade nae better.\\nBut aiblins honest Master Heron\\nHad at the time some dainty fair one,\\nTo ware his theologic care on.\\nAnd holy study\\nAnd tir d o sauls to waste his lear^ on,\\nE en tried the body.\\nBut what d ye think, my trusty fier,*\\nI m turn d a ganger Peace be here\\nParnassian queans, I fear, I fear\\nYe ll now disdain mel\\nAnd then my fifty pounds a year\\nWill little gain me.\\nYe glaikit, gleesome, dainty d amies,\\nWha, by Castalia s wimplin streamies,\\nAn exclamation of pleasure.\\nRobert Heron, who wrote a History of f^cotland, ai^d a Life of Bumik\\nLearning. Brother.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0206.jp2"}, "207": {"fulltext": "TO DR. BLACKLOCK. l7i\\nLowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,\\nYe ken, ye ken,\\nThat Strang necessity supreme is\\nMang sons o men.\\nI hae a wife and twa wee laddies,\\nThey maun hae brose and brats^ o duddies;\\nYe ken yoursels my heart right proud is\\nI need na vaunt\\nBut I ll sued* besoms thraw saugh woodies,*\\nBefore they want.\\nLord help me thro this warld o care!\\nI m weary sick o t late and air I\\nNot but I hae a richer share\\nThan monie ithers;\\nBut why should ae man better fare,\\nAnd a men brithers?\\nCome, firm Resolve, take thou the van\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThou stalk o carl-hemp* in man 1\\nAnd let us mind, faint heart ne er wan\\nA lady fair;\\nWha does the utmost that he can,\\nWill whyles do mair.\\nBut to conclu^de my silly rhyme,\\n(I m scant o verse, and scant o time),\\nTo make a happy fire-side clime\\nTo weans and wife.\\nThat s the true pathos and sublime\\nOf human life.\\nMy compliments to sister Beckie;\\nAnd eke the same to honest Lucky,\\nI wat she is a daintie chuckle.\\nAs e er tread clay\\nAnd gratefully, my guid auld cockie,\\nI m yours for ay,\\nEgbert Burnau\\nlU^s of clothes. Lop. Twist willow ropei.\\nThe male, or stronger stalk of hemp.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0207.jp2"}, "208": {"fulltext": "176 BURNS.\\nPROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE,\\nELLISLAND.*\\nNo song nor dance I bring from yon great city\\nThat queens it o er our taste the more s the pity;\\nTho by-the-by, abroad why will you roam?\\nGood sense and taste are natives here at home\\nBut not for panegyric I appear,\\nI come to wish you all a good new-year 1\\nOld Father Time deputes me here before ye,\\nNot for to preach, but tell his simple story\\nThe sage grave ancient cough d, and bade me say,\\nYou re one year older this important day.\\nIf wiser too he hinted some suggestion,\\nBut twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;\\nAnd with a would-be roguish leer and wink,\\nHe bade me on you press this one word think I\\nYe sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope* and\\nspirit,\\nWho think to storm the world by dint of merit.\\nTo you the dotard has a deal to say\\nIn his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way\\nHe bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,\\nThat the first blow is ever half the battle\\nThat tho some by the skirt may try to snatch hioi*\\nYet by the forelock is the hold to catch him,\\nThat whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,\\nYou may do miracles by persevering.\\nLast, tho not least in love, ye youthful fair,\\nAngelic forms, high Heaven s peculiar care\\nTo you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow.\\nAnd humbly begs you ll mind the important n(y\\\\Jo t\\nTo crown your happiness he asks your leave,\\nAnd offers bliss to give and to receive.\\nFor our sincere, tho haply weak, endeavours,\\nWith grateful pride we own your many favours;\\nAnd howsoe er our tongues may ill reveal it,\\nBelieve our glowing bosoms truly feel it.\\nWe have gotten a set of very decent players here just now.\\nkave seen them an evening: or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrot\u00c2\u00a9\\nto me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Southerland. who is a\\nman of apparent worth. On New-year day evening J gave hiui tii\u00c2\u00abj\\nfollowing Prologue, which he spouted to his audiewce with ap*\\nplause.~R. B,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0208.jp2"}, "209": {"fulltext": "WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN. 177\\nELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OP\\nMONBODDO.\\nLife ne er exulted in so rich a prize\\nAs Burnet, lovely from her native skies;\\nNor envious death so triumphed in a blow,\\nAs that which laid th accomplished Bui-net low.\\nThy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?\\nIn richest ore the brightest jewel set\\nIn thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,\\nAs by his noblest work the Godhead best is known*\\nIn vain, ye flaunt in summer s pride, ye groves\\nThou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,\\nYe woodland choir that cliant yom- idle love3,\\nYe cease to charm Eliza is no more\\nYe heathy wastes, immix d with reedy fens:\\nYe mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor d;\\nYe rugged cliffs o erhanging dreary glens,\\nTo you I fly, ye with my soul accord.\\nPrinces, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,\\nShall venal lays their pompous exit hail?\\nAnd thou, sweet excellence forsake our earth,\\nAnd not a Muse in honest grief bewail?\\nWe saw thee shine in youth and beauty s pride,\\nAnd virtue s light, that beams beyond the spheres,\\nBut, like the sun eclips d at morning tide,\\nThou left st us darkling in a world of tears.\\nThe parent s heart that nestled fond in thee,\\nThat heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;\\nSo deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree\\nSo, from it ravish d, leaves it bleak and bare.\\nWRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT\\nHBI A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CON-\\nTI^TUE IT, FREE OF EXPENSE.\\nKind Sir, I ve read your paper through.\\nAnd, faith, to me twas really new\\nHow guess d ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?\\nThis mony a day I ve grain d and gaunted\\nB*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0209.jp2"}, "210": {"fulltext": "J78 BCTKNS.\\nTo ken what French mischief was brewin^\\nOr what the drumlie^ Dutch were doiu\\nThat vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,\\nIf Venus yet had got his nose off\\nOr how the collieshangie^ works\\nAtween tlie Russians and the Turks;\\nOr if the Swede, before he halt,\\nWould play anither Charles the Twalt;\\nIf Denmark, any body spak o t\\nOr Poland, wha had now the tak^ o t;\\nHow cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin*;\\nHow libbet* Italy was singin\\nIf Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,\\nWere sayin or takin aught amiss\\nOr how our merry lads at hame,\\nIn Britain s court, kept up the game:\\nHow royal George, the Lord leuk o er him I\\nWas managing St. Stephen s quorum;\\nIf sleekit^ Chatham Will was livin\\nOr glaikit Charlie got his nieve in\\nHow daddie Burke the plea was cookin\\nIf Warren Hastings neck was yeukin\\nHow cesses, stents, and fees were rax d,\\nOr if bare a s yet were tax d\\nThe news o princes, dukes, and earls,\\nPimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;\\nIf that daft buckie, Geordie W s,\\nWas threshin still at hizzies tails\\nOr if he was grown oughtlins douser,\\nAnd no a perfect kintra cooser.\\nA this and mair I never heard of;\\nAnd but for you I might despair d of.\\nSo, gratefu back your news I send you,\\nAnd pray a guid things may attend you I\\nEUidandy Monday Morning^ 1790.\\nIJNES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAEK/\\nThis wot ye all whom it concerns,\\nI, Rhymer Robin, alias Bums,\\nOctober twenty-third^\\nA ne er to be forgotten day\\nSae far I sprackled\u00c2\u00ae up the brae,\\nI dinner d wi a Lord.\\n\u00c2\u00bbMtlddy. Quarrel. Taking. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Gelded. Sly. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Wiser.\\nSon of the Earl of Selkirk, Burns was introduced to him b/\\nDugald Stewart. CJambered.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0210.jp2"}, "211": {"fulltext": "INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 179\\nFve been at drucken writers feasts,\\nNay, been bitch-fou mang godly priests,\\n(Wi reverence be it spoken;)\\nI ve even join d the honoured jorum,\\nWhen mighty Squireships of the quorum,\\nTheir hydra drouth did sloken.\\nBut wi a Lord stand out my shin,\\nA Lord a Peer an Earl s son,\\nUp higher yet, my bonnet!\\nAnd sic a Lord lang Scotch ells twa,\\nOur Peerage he o erlooks them a\\nAs I look o er my sonnet.\\nBut, oh I for Hogarth s magic pow r I\\nTo show Sir Bardie s willyart glow r,*\\nAnd how he star d and stammered,\\nWhen goavan,^ as if led wi branks,^\\nAn stumpan on his ploughman shanks,\\nHe in the parlour hammer d.\\nI sidling shelter d in a nook,\\nAn at his Lordship steal t a look,\\nLike some portentous omen;\\nExcept good sense and social glee,\\nAn (what surprised me) modesty,\\nI marked nought uncommon,\\nI watch d the symptoms o the great,\\nThe gentle pride, the lordly state.\\nThe arrogant assuming;\\nThe fient a pride, nae pride had he,\\nKor sauce, nor state that I could see,\\nMair than an honest ploughman.\\nTh\u00c2\u00abn from his lordship I shall learn,\\nHenceforth to meet with unconcern\\nOne rank as weel s another;\\nNae honest worthy man need care\\nTo meet with noble, youthful Daer,\\nFor he but meets a brother.\\nTrightened stare. Walking with stupid wondM*.\\nA curb bridle.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0211.jp2"}, "212": {"fulltext": "UO BURNS.\\nTHE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.\\nPROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLB ON HE*\\nBENEFIT NIGHT.\\nWhile Europe s eye is fix d on mighty things,\\nThe fate of Empires and the fall of Kings\\nWhile quacks of State must each produce his plan, j\\nAnd even children lisp The Rights of Man\\nAmid the mighty fuss, just let me mention,\\nThe Riglits of Woman merit some attention.\\nFirst, in the Sexes intermixed connexion,\\nOne sacred Right of Woman is. Protection.\\nThe tender flower that lifts its head, elate,\\nHelpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate,\\nSunk on the earth, defac d its lovely form,\\nUnless your shelter ward th impending storm.\\nOur second Right but needless here is caution.\\nTo keep that Right inviolate s the fashion,\\nEach man of sense has it so full before him,\\nHe d die before he d wTong it tis Decorum.\\nThere was, indeed, in far less polish d days,\\nA time, when rough rude man had naughty ways;\\nWould swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,\\nNay, even thus invade a Lady s quiet I\\nNow, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled;\\nNow, well-bred men and you are all well-bred\\nMost justly think (and we are much the gainers)\\nSuch conduct, neither spirit, wit, nor manners.\\nFor Right the tliird, our last, our best, our dearest,\\nThat Right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,\\nWhich even the Rights of Kings in low prostration\\nMo-t humbly own tis dear, dear Admiration\\nIn that blest sphere alone we live and move;\\nThere taste that life of life immortal Love.\\nSighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs,\\nGainst such an host what flinty savage dares\\nWhen awful Beauty joins with all her charms,\\nWho is so rash as rise in rebel arms?\\nThen truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,\\nWith bloody armaments and revolutions\\nLet Majesty your first attention summon,\\nAh! ga ira! The Majesty of Woman I", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0212.jp2"}, "213": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS, 181\\nADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON\\nHER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT\\nTHE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.\\nStill anxious to secure your partial favoiL,\\nAnd not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,\\nA Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,\\n^would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better\\nSo sought a poet, roosted near the skies.\\nTold him I came to feast my curious eyes\\nSaid, nothing like his works was ever printed\\nAnd last, my Prologue -business slily hinted.\\nMa am, let me tell you, quoth my man of rhymes^\\n**I know your bent these are no laughing times;\\nCan you but. Miss, I own I have my fears,\\nDissolve in pause, and sentimental tears,\\nWith laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,\\nRouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentancet^\\nPaint Vengeance, as he takes his horrid stand,\\nWaving on high the desolating brand,\\nCalling the storms to bear him o er a guilty land?\\nI could no more askance the creature eyeing.\\nD ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?\\nI ll laugh, that s poz nay, more, the world shall know it;\\nAnd so, your servant I gloomy Master Poet I\\nFirm as my creed. Sirs, tis my fixed belief,\\nThat Misery s another word for grief;\\nI also think so may I be a bride\\nThat so much laughter, so much life enjoy d.\\nThou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,\\nStill under bleak misfortune s blasting eye\\nDoom d to that sorest task of man alive\\nTo make three guineas do tlie work of five\\nLaugh in misfortune s face the beldam witch\\nSay, you ll be merry, tho you can t be rich.\\nThou other man of care, the wretch in love,\\nWho long with jiltish hearts and airs hast strove\\nWho, as the boughs all temptingly project,\\nMeasur st in desperate thought a rope thy neck\\nOr, where the beetling cliff o erhangs the deep,\\nPeerest to meditate the healing leap\\nWould st thou be cur d, thou silly, moping elf?\\nLaugh at her follies laugh e en at thyself\\nLearn to despise those frowns now so terrific,\\nAnd love a kinder that s your grand specific.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0213.jp2"}, "214": {"fulltext": "183 BURNS.\\nTo sum up all, be merry, I advise\\nAnd as we re merry, may we still be wise.\\nVERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT\\nOF SONGS.\\nHere, where the Scotish Muse immortal lives.\\nIn sacred strains and tuneful numbers join d,\\nAccept the gift tho humble lie who gives,\\nRich is the tribute of the grateful mind.\\nSo may no ruffian feeling in thy breast\\nDiscordant jar thy boso n-chords among I\\nBut peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,\\nOr Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song\\nOr Pity s notes, in luxury of tears.\\nAs modest Want the tale of woe reveals\\nWhile conscious Virtue all the strain endears,\\nAnd heaven-born Piety her sanction seals\\nPOEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.\\nHail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserved I^\\nIn chase o tliee, what crowds hae swerv d\\nFrae common sense, or sunk enerv d\\nMang heaps o clavers;\\nAnd och owtc aft thy joes hae starv d,\\nMid a thy favours.^\\nSay, Lassie, why thy train amang,\\nwhile loud, the trumj) s heroic clang.\\nAnd sock or buskin skelp alang\\nTo death or marriage*,\\nScarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang\\nBut wi miscarriage?\\nIn Homer s craft Jock Milton thrives\\nEschylus pen Will Shakespeare drives\\nWee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives\\nHoratian fame;\\nIn thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives\\nEven Sappho s flame.\\nDaughter of Mr. Graham, of Fintrv.\\nGilbert Burns doubted the authenticity of these verses, but\\nsurelj without reason.\\n3 Collins. Dwarf.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0214.jp2"}, "215": {"fulltext": "ON PASTORAL POETRY. 183\\nBut thee, Theocritus, wha matches?\\nThey re no herd s ballats, Maro s catches;\\nSquire Pope but busks his skinklin^ patches\\nO heathen tatters\\nI pass by hunders, nameless wretches,\\nThat ape their betters.\\nIn this braw age o wit and lear,\\nWill nane the Shepherd s whistle mair\\nBlaw sweetly in its native air\\nAnd rural grace\\nAnd \\\\s i the far-fam d Grecian share\\nA rival place?\\nYes there is ane, a Scottish callan\\nThere s ane come f orrit, honest Allan\\nThou need na jouk^ beliint the hallan,\\nA chiel sae clever\\nThe teeth o Time may gnaw Tantallan,*\\nBut thou s for ever:\\nThou paints auld Nature to the nines,\\nIn thy sweet Caledonian lines\\nNae gowden stream thro myrtles twines,\\nWhere Philomel,\\nWhile nightly breezes sweep the vines,\\nHer griefs will tell\\nIn gowany glens^ thy bumie strays.\\nWhere bonnie lasses bleach their claes\\nOr trots by hazelly shaws and braes,\\nWi hawthorns grey\\nWhere blackbirds join the shepherd s lays\\nAt close o day.\\nThy rural loves are nature s sel\\nNae bombast spates\u00c2\u00ae o nonsense swell;\\nNae snap conceits, but that sweet spell\\n0 wit chin love,\\nThat charm that can the strongest quell\\nThe sternest move.\\nDrMMs. 3 Small. Stoop. The name of a OMtiA\\nDaisied dales. Torrents.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0215.jp2"}, "216": {"fulltext": "184 BURNS.\\nWRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE LAST\\nEDITION OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED TO TRE\\nLADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED\\nUNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS.^\\nTis Friendship s pledge, my young, fair friend,\\nNor thou the gift refuse.\\nNor with unwilling ear attend\\nThe moralizing muse.\\nSince thou, in all thy youth and charms,\\nMust bid the world adieu,\\n(A world gainst peace in constant arms)\\nTo join the friendly few.\\nSince, thy gay morn of life o ercast,\\nChill came the tempest s lower,\\n(And ne er misfortune s eastern blast\\nDid nip a fairer Hower.)\\nSince life s gay scenes must charm no more,\\nStill much is left behind\\nStill nobler wealth hast thou in store\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThe comforts of the mind\\nThine is the self-approving glow,\\nOn conscious honour s part\\nAnd, dearest gift of Heaven below,\\nThine friendship s truest heart.\\nThe joys refin d of sense and taste.\\nWith ev ry muse to rove\\nAnd doubly were the poet blest,\\nThese joys could he improve.\\nPOETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER.\\nWITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD S PICTURE.\\nRevered cl ef ender of beauteous Stuart,\\nOf Stuart, a name once respected,\\nA name, w^hich to love, was the mark of a true heart,\\nBut now tis despis d and neglected 1\\nJean Lorimer*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0216.jp2"}, "217": {"fulltext": "NE IV- YEAR DA Y. 185\\nTho something like moisture conglobes in my eye,\\nLet no one misdeem me disloyal\\nA poor friendless wand rer may well claim a sigh,\\nStill more, if that wanderer were royal.\\nMy fathers that name have rever d on a throne\\nMy fathers have fallen to right it\\nThose fathers would spurn their degenerate son,\\nThat name should he scofiingly slight it.\\nStill in prayers for King George I most heartily join,\\nThe Queen, and the rest of the gentry\\nBe they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine\\nTheir title s avow d by my country.\\nBut why of this epocha make such a fuss,\\nThat gave us the Hanover stem?\\nIf bringing them over was lucky for us,\\nI m sure twas as lucky for them.\\nBut, loyalty, truce we re on dangerous ground,\\nWho knows how the fashions may alter?\\nThe doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,\\nTo-morrow may bring us a halter.\\nI send you a tiifle, a head of a bard,\\nA trifle scarce worthy your care\\nBut accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard.\\nSincere as a saint s dying prayer.\\nNow life s chilly evening dim shades in your eye,\\nAnd ushers the long dreary night\\nBut you like the star that athwart gilds the sky,\\nYour course to the latest is bright.\\nSKETCH.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 NEW- YEAR DAY.\\nTO MRS. DUKLOP.\\nThis day Time winds th exhausted chain,\\nTo run the twelvemonth s length again,\\nI see the old, bald-pated fellow.\\nWith ardent eyes, complexion sallow,\\nAdjust the unimpair d machine\\nTo wheel the equal, dull routine.\\nThe absent lover, minor heir,\\nIn vain assail him with their prayer.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0217.jp2"}, "218": {"fulltext": "186 ^URNS.\\nDeaf, as my friend, he sees them presd,\\nNor makes the hour one moment less.\\nWill you (the Major s with the hounds;\\nThe happy tenants share his rounds\\nCoila s fair Rachel s^ care to-day,\\nAnd blooming Keith s^ engaged with Gray)\\nFrom housewife cares a minute borrow\\nThat grandchild s cap will make to-morrow-\u00c2\u00bb\\nAnd join with me a-moralizing;\\nThis day s propitious to be wise in.\\nFirst, what did yesternight deliver?\\nAnother year is gone for ever.\\nAnd what is this day s strong suggestion?\\nThe passing moment s all we rest on.\\nRest on for what? what do we here?\\nOr why regard the passing year?\\nWill Time, amus d with proverb d lore,\\nAdd to our date one minute more?\\nA few days may, a few years must,\\nRepose us in the silent dust\\nThen is it wise to damp our bliss?\\nYes all such reasonings are amiss!\\nThe voice of Nature loudly cries.\\nAnd many a message from the skies,\\nThat something in us never dies;\\nThat on this frail, uncertain state\\nHang matters of eternal weight\\nThat future life in worlds unknown\\nMust take its hue from this alone;\\nWhether as Heavenly glory bright,\\nOr dark as Misery s woful night.\\nSince then, my honor d, first of friends^\\nOn this poor being all depends\\nLet us th important Now^ employ.\\nAnd live as those that never die.\\nTho you, with days and honors crown d,\\nWitness tluit filial circle round,\\n(A sight life s sorrows to repulse;\\nA sight pale Envy to convulse\\nOthers now claim your chief regard;\\nYourself, you wait your bright reward.\\nMajor, afterwards General Andrew Dunlop, second sou oC Mift\\nDuulop. Miss Rachel Dunlop.\\nMiss Keith Dun\\\\op, the youngest daughter.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0218.jp2"}, "219": {"fulltext": "MONODY ON A LADY. 187\\nEXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, AU-\\nTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS-\\nTORY, AND I^IEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARUN\\nAND ROYAL SOdETEES OF EDINBURGH.\\nShrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan^ came,\\nThe old cock d hat, the grey surtout the same\\nE^s bristling beard just rising in its might\\nTwas four long nights and days to shaving night\\nHis uncomb d grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch d\\nA head, for thought profound and clear, unmatched;\\nYet tho his caustic wit was biting, rude,\\nHis heart was warm, benevolent, and good.\\nINSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPEND-\\nENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR.\\nHERON; WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795.\\nThou of an independent mind,\\nWith soul resolv d, with soul resigned;\\nPrepared Power s proudest frown to brave,\\nWho wilt not be nor have a slave\\nVirtue alone who dost revere.\\nThy own reproach alone dost fear.\\nApproach this shrine, and worship here.\\nMONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.\\nHow cold is that bosom which folly once fir d\\nHow pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten d!\\nHow silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir d\\nHow dull is that ear which to flattery so listened I\\nIf sorrow and anguish their exit await,\\nFrom friendship and dearest affection remov d\\nHow doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate\\nThou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov d.\\nThere was a club in Edinburgh\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the CrochaUan Fenclble\u00c2\u00bb\u00e2\u0080\u0094 of\\nwhich Bums and Smellie were members.\\nThe lady was the Mrs. Riddel, whos\u00c2\u00ab name so often occurs In th#\\nPoet s history.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0219.jp2"}, "220": {"fulltext": "188 BURNS.\\nLoves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you\\nSo shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:\\nBut come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,\\nAnd flowers let us cull for Eliza s cold bier.\\nWe^U search thro the garden for each silly flower,\\nWe ll roam thro the forest for each idle weed\\n^But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,\\nI For none e er approach d her but rued the rash deed.\\nWe ll sculpture the marble, we ll measure the lay;\\nHere Vanity strums on her idiot lyre\\nThere keen Indignation shall dart on her prey.\\nWhich spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.\\nTHE EPITAPH.\\nHeke lies, now a prey to insulting neglect.\\nWhat once was a butterfly, gay in life s beam:\\nWant only of wisdom denied her respect\\nWant only of goodness denied her esteem.\\nBONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEi;\\nESQ., OF GLENRIDDEL; APRIL, 1794.\\nNo more, ye warblers of the wood no more\\nNor pour your descant, grating, on my soul\\nThoii young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,\\nMore welcome were to me gnm Winter s wildest roar.\\nHow can ye charm, ye flow rs, with all your dyes?\\nYe blow upon the sod that wraps my friend\\nHow can I to the tuneful strain attend\\nThe strain flows round th untimely tomb where Ridde?\\nlies.\\nTes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe I\\nAnd soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier:\\nThe Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,\\nIs in his narrow house for ever darkly low.\\nThee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;\\nMe, mem ry of my loss will only meet.\\n;-^?x^^", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0220.jp2"}, "221": {"fulltext": "EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME. 189\\nIMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL S BIRTH-DAY,\\nNO^^]^IBER 4, 1793.\\nOld Winter, with his frosty beard,\\nThus once to Jove his prayer preferred,\\n^hat have I done, of all the year,\\nTo bear this hated doom severe?\\nMy cheerless suns no pleasure know\\nNight s horrid car drags, dreary, slow\\nMy dismal months no joys are crowning,\\nBut spleeny English, hanging, drowning.\\nNow, Jove, for once be mighty civil,\\nTo counterbalance all this evil\\nGive me, and I ve no more to say,\\nGive me Maria s natal day\\nThat brilliant gift will so enrich me,\\nSpring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.\\nTis done I says Jove so ends my story,\\nAnd Winter once rejoic d in glor}\\nTO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH\\nBOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.\\nThine be the volumes. Jessy fair,\\nAnd with them take the Poet s prayer\\nThat Fate may in her fairest page.\\nWith every kindliest, best presage\\nOf future bliss, enrol thy name\\nWith native worth, and spotless fame,\\nAnd wakeful caution still aware\\nOf ill but chief man s felon snare\\nAll blameless joys on earth we find,\\nAnd all the treasures of the mind\\nThese be thy guardian and reward\\nSo prays thy faithful friend, the Bard,\\n;exte:mpore to mr. syme, on refusing TO\\nDINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PRO-\\nMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY ANT) THE\\nFIRST OF COOKERY, DECEMBER 17th, 1795.\\nNo more of your guests, be they titled or not,\\nAnd cook ry the first in the nation\\nWho is proof to thy personal converse and wit,\\nIs proof to all other temptation.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0221.jp2"}, "222": {"fulltext": "190 BURN S.\\nTO MR. SYME, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF\\nPORTER.\\nO, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,\\nOr hops the flavour of thy wit,\\nTwere drink for first of human kind,\\nA gift that e en for Syme were fit.\\nJeruBalem Tavern^ Dumfries,\\nSONNET, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A\\nMORNING WALK; WRITTEN JANUARY 25th,\\n1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R. B.,\\nAGED 34.\\nSing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;\\nSing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:\\nSee aged Winter, mid his surly reign,\\nAt thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.\\nSo in lone Poverty s dominion drear\\nSits meek Content with light unanxious heart,\\nWelcomes the rapid moments, bids them part^\\nNor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear,\\nI thank thee, Author of this opening day\\nThou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skiesl\\nRiches denied, thy boon was purer joys,\\nWhat wealth could never give, nor take away!\\nYet come, thou child of poverty and care\\nThe mite high Heav n bestow d, that mite with thet\\nI ll share.\\nPOEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLEC-\\nTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.\\nFriend of the Poet, tried and leal,\\nWha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;\\nAlake, alake, the meikle Deil\\nWi a his witchei\\nAre at it, skelpin jig and reel,\\nIn my poor pouchef.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0222.jp2"}, "223": {"fulltext": "APOLOGY TO AN OFFENDED FRIEND. 191\\nI modestly fu fain wad hint it,\\nThat one pound one, I sairly want it\\nIf wi the hizzie down ye sent it,\\nIt would be kind\\nAnd while my heart wi life-blood dunted,*\\nI d bear t in mind.\\nSo may the auld year gang out moaning\\nTo see the new come laden, groaning,\\nWi double plenty o er the loanin\\nTo thee and thine\\nDomestic peace and comforts crowning\\nThe hale design.\\nP08TSCKIPT.\\nYeVe heard this while how I ve been licket,\\nAnd by fell Death was nearly nicket\\nGrim loun I he gat me by the fecket,\\nAnd sair me sheuk;\\nBut by guid luck I lap a wicket,\\nAjid turn d a neuk.\\nBut by that health, I ve got a share o t,\\nAnd by that life, I m promis d mair o t,\\nMy heal and weal I ll take a care o t\\nA tcntier^ way\\nThen farewell folly, hide and hair o t.\\nFor ance and aye.\\nSENT TO A GENTLE]yiAN WHOM HE HAD\\nOFFENDED.\\nThe friend whom wild from wisdom s way\\nThe fumes of wine infuriate send\\n(Not moony madness more astray\\nWho but deplores that hapless friend?\\nMine was th insensate frenzied part.\\nAh, why should I such scenes outlive?\\nScenes so abhorrent to my heart\\nTis thine to pity and forgive.\\nWaistcoat. Wis\u00c2\u00abr.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0223.jp2"}, "224": {"fulltext": "192 BURN S.\\nPOEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DK\\nPEYSTER;^ DUIVIFRIES, 1796.\\nMy honoured Colonel, deep I feel\\nYour interest in the Poet s weal\\nAh how sma heart hae I to speeP\\nThe steep Parnassus,\\nSurrounded thus by bolus pill.\\nAnd potion glasses.\\nO what a canty warld were it,\\nWould pain, and care, and sickness spare it\\nAnd fortune favour worth and merit,\\nAs they deserve\\n(And aye a rowth,\u00c2\u00ae roast beef and claret;\\nSyne, wha wad starve?)\\nDame Life, tho fiction out may trick her.\\nAnd in paste gems and frippery deck her;\\nOh flickering, feeble, and unsicker*\\nI ve found her still,\\nAye wav ring like the willow wicker,\\nTween good and ill.\\nThen that crust carmagnole, auld Satan,\\nWatches, like baudrons^ by a rattan,*\\nOur sinful saul to get a claut on\\nWi felon ire\\nSyne, whip his tail ye ll ne er cast saut on,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHe s aff like fire.\\nAh Nick ah Nick it is na fair.\\nFirst shewing us the tempting ware,\\nBright wines and bonnie lasses rare,\\nTo put us daft\\nSyne\u00c2\u00ae weave, unseen, thy spider snare\\nO hell s d\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d waft.*\\nPool man, the flie, aft bizzes by.\\nAnd aft, as chance he comes thee nigh.\\nThy auld d d elbow yeuks with joy.\\nAnd hellish pleasure;\\nAlready, in thy fancy s eye.\\nThy sicker^^ treasure.\\nColonel of the Dumfries volunteers. Climb. Plenty.\\nUnsteady. Cat.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Bat. A scrape. \u00e2\u0080\u00a2Then. Woof ^^Sur*.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0224.jp2"}, "225": {"fulltext": "EPITAPH, ETC. 193\\nSoou, heels-o er-gowdy! in he gangs,\\nAnd like a sheep-head on a tnngs,\\nTiiy girning^ laugh enjoys his pangs\\nAnd murdering wrestle,\\nAs, dangling in the wind, he hangs\\nA gibbet s tassel.\\nBut lest you think I am uncivil,\\nTo plague you with this draunting drivel.\\nAbjuring a intentions evil,\\nI quat my pen\\nThe Lord preserve us f rae the Devil\\nAmen! amen!\\nTO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, ON RE-\\nCEIVING A FAVOUR.\\nI CALL no Goddess to inspire ray strains,\\nA fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns\\nFriend of my life my ardent spirit burns,\\nAnd all the tribute of my heart returns,\\nFor boons recorded, goodness ever new,\\nThe gift still dearer, as the giver you.\\nThou orb of day thou other paler light\\nAnd all ye many sparkling stars of night;\\nIf aught that giver from my mind efface\\nIf I that giver s bounty e er disgrace\\nThen roll to me, along your wand ring spherci.\\nOnly to number out a villain s years\\nEPITAPH ON A FRIEND.\\nAn honest man here lies at rest,\\nAs e er God with his image blest;\\nThe friend of man, the friend of truth;\\nThe friend of age, and guide of youth:\\nFew hearts like his, with virtue warm d,\\nFew heads with knowledge so inform d:\\nIf there s another world, he lives in bliss;\\nIf there is none, he made the best of this.\\nTopsy turvy. Gxinnlng.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0225.jp2"}, "226": {"fulltext": "194 BURXS.\\nEPISTLE TO WILLLOI CREECH.\\nAxjLD chuckle Reekie s^ sair distrest;\\nDown drops her ance weel burnisht cre(it|\\nNae joy her bonnie buskit^ oest\\nCan yield ava.\\nHer darling bird that she lo es best,\\nWillie s awa 1\\nWillie was a witty wight,\\nAnd had o* things an unco slight;\\nAuld Reekie ay he keepit tight,\\nAn trig* an braw.\\nBut now they ll busk her like a fright,\\nWillie s awa\\nThe stiffest o them a he bow d\\nThe bauldest o them a he cow d\\nThey durst nae mair than he allow d,\\nThat was a law\\nWe ve lost a birkie^ weel worth gowd,\\nWillie s awa!\\nNow gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,\\nFrae colleges and boarding-schools,\\nMay sprout like simmer puddock-stools\\nIn glen or shaw\\nHe wha could brush them down to moola,\\nWillie s awal\\nThe brethren o the Commerce- Chaumer*\\nMay mourn their loss wi doolfu clamour;\\nHe was a dictionar and grammar\\nAmang them a\\n1 fear they ll now mak mony a stammer,\\nWillie s awa\\nNae mair we see his levee door\\nPhilosophers and Poets pour,\\nAnd toothy critics by the score,\\nIn bloody raw 1\\nThe adjutant o a the core,\\nWillie s awa!\\nThe Inclosed I have Just wrote, nearly exteraporejln a 8olltar|\\nInn at Selkirk, after a miserable wet day s riding.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nEdinburgh. Ornamented. Neat. Clever feUow.\\nSilly girls. Wood in a hollow.\\nThe Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0226.jp2"}, "227": {"fulltext": "VERSES WRITTEN A T SELKIRK, ifll\\nNow worthy Gregory s Latin face,\\nTytler s and Greenfield s modest grace;\\nM^Kenzie, Stewart such a brace\\nAs Rome ne er saw\\nThey a maun meet some ither place,\\nWillie s awa\\nPoor Burns e en Scotch drink canna quicken,\\nHe cheeps^ like some bewildered chicken\\nScar d frae its minnie and the cleckin\\nBy hoodie-craw\\nGriefs gien his heart an unco kickin\\nWillie s aw a I\\nNow ev ry sour-mou d girnin blelliun,*\\nA.nd Calvin s fock, are fit to fell him\\nAnd self-conceited critic skellum*\\nHis quill may draw,\\nHe wha could brawlie ward their bellunij\\nWillie s awa\\nUp wimpling stately Tweed I ve sped,\\nAnd Eden scenes on crystal Jed,\\nAnd Et trick banks now roaring red,\\nWhile tempests blaw*\\nBut every joy and pleasure s fled,\\nWillie s awa\\nMay I be slander s common speech\\nA text for infamy to preach\\nAnd lastlv, streekit out to bleach\\nIn winter snaw\\nWhen I forget thee, Willie Creech,*\\nTho far awa\\nMay never wicked fortune touzle him\\nMay never wicked men bamboozle him I\\nUntil a pow\u00c2\u00ae as auld s Methusalem\\nHe canty claw\\nThen to the blessed New Jerusalem,\\nFleet wing awa\\n^hirps. Blooi-crow. Talking-fellow. ScazD|;\\nCreech was the chief publisher in Edinburgh.\\nH^ad. Cheerful scratch.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0227.jp2"}, "228": {"fulltext": "196 BURNS.\\nINSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED Bt\\nBURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.*\\nHere lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, born September 5th, 1751\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nDied, 16th October, 1774.\\nNo sculptur d marble here, nor pompous lay,\\nNo storied urn, nor animated bust;\\nThis simple stone directs pale Scotia s way\\nTo pour her sorrows o er her Poet s dust.\\nA GRACE BEFORE DINNER.\\nO Thou, who kindly dost provide\\nFor every creature s want\\nWe bless thee, God of Nature wide,\\nFor all thy goodness lent\\nAnd, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,\\nMay never worse be sent\\nBut whether granted, or denied,\\nLord, bless us with content\\nAmen!\\nA VERSE COIMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS,\\nTO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING\\nLEA^rE AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS,\\nWHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTER-\\nTAINED.\\nWhen death s dark stream I ferry o er,\\nA time that surely shall come\\nIn Heaven itself I ll ask no more,\\nThan just a Highland welcome.\\nLIBERTY\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A FRAGMENT.^\\nThee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among.\\nThee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,\\nTo thee I turn with swimming eyes;\\nWhere is that soul of Freedom fled?\\nImmingled with the mighty dead\\nBeneath the hallow d turf where Wallace lies\\n1 Bums had asked permission of the Bailies of Canongate, to **l\u00c2\u00bby\\na simple stone over the revered ashes of Fergusson.\\nThe Fragment was the amusement of a lonely hour at a Tillage\\ninn. in the summer of 17d4.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0228.jp2"}, "229": {"fulltext": "AMSWER To VERSUS. IJ.\\nHear it not, Wallace, iu thy bed of death 1\\nYe babbling winds, in silence sweep;\\nDisturb not ye the hero s sleep,\\nNor give the coward secret breath.\\nIs this the power in Freedom s war,\\nThat wont to bid the battle rage?\\nBehold that eye which shot immortal hate,\\nCrushing the despot s proudest bearing,\\nThat arm which, nerved with thundering fate,\\nBrav d usurpation s boldest daring 1\\nOne quench d in darkness, like the sinking star.\\nAnd one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age^\\nELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUIS-\\nSEAUX/\\nNow Robin lies in his last lair.\\nHe ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,\\nCauld poverty, wi hungry stare,\\nNae mair shall fear him\\nNor anxious fear, nor cankert care\\nE er mair come near him.\\nTo tell the truth, they seldom fasht him,\\nExcept the moment that they crusht him\\nFor sune as chance, or fate, had husht em,\\nTho e er sae short.\\nThen wi a rhyme, or sang, he lasht em.\\nAnd thought it sport.\\nTho he was bred to kintra wark,\\nAnd counted was baith wight and stark,\\nYet that was never Robin s mark\\nTo mak a man\\nBut tell him, he was learn d and dark,\\nYe roos d him than.\\nANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET\\nBY THE GUroWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.\\nGUTDWIFE,\\nI MIND it weel, in early date,\\nWhen I was beardless, young, and blate,\\nIn Huisieaux^ Burns plays on his own name Stout and enduring\\nMrs. Scott, who had some skill in rhyming and painting.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0229.jp2"}, "230": {"fulltext": "An first could thrash the barn,\\nOr hand a yokin at the pleugh.\\nAn tho forfoiighten* sair eneugh\\nYet unco proud to learn\\nWhen first amang the yellow com\\nA man I reckon d was,\\nAnd wi the lave ilk merry morn\\nCould rank my rig and lass,\\nStill shearing and clearing\\nThe tither stooked raw,*\\nWi claivers, an haivers,\\nWearing the day awa;\\nEv n then a wish (I mind its power),\\nA wish that^ to my latest hour,\\nShall strongly heave my breast;\\nThat I for poor auld Scotland s sake,\\nSome usefu plan, or beuk could make.\\nOr sing a sang at least.\\nThe rough bur-thistle, spreading widd\\nAmang the bearded bear,*\\nI turn d the weeding-hook aside,\\nAn spar d the symbol dear\\nNo nation, no station.\\nMy envy e er could raise\\nA Scot still, but blot still,\\nI knew nae higher praise.\\nBut still the elements o sang\\nIn formless jumble, right an wrang.\\nWild floated in my brain\\nTill on that har st I said before,\\nMy partner in the merry core.\\nShe rous d the forming strain:\\nI see her yet, the sonsie quean,\\nThat lighted up my jingle,\\nHer witching smile, her pauky een,\\nThat gart my heart-strings tingle:\\nI fired, inspired.\\nAt ev ry kindling keek,*\\nBut bashing, and dashing,\\nI feared aye to speak.\\nHealth to the sex ilk guid chiel says,\\nWi merry dance in winter days,\\nTired. The other row of shocks. Nonsense. Barl\u00c2\u00abT.\\nLook.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0230.jp2"}, "231": {"fulltext": "Mardk, 1787.\\nTO LAPRAIK. 199\\nAn we to share in common:\\nThe gust o joy, the balm of woe,\\nThe saul o life, the heaven below,\\nIs rapture-giving woman.\\nYe surly sumphs, who hate the name,\\nBe mindf u o your mither\\nShe, honest woman, may think shame\\nThat ye re connected with her,\\nYe re wae men, ye re nae men.\\nThat slight the lovely dears;\\nTo shame ye, disclaim ye,\\nIlk honest birkie swears.\\nFor you, no bred to barn and byre*,\\nWha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,\\nThanks to you for your line\\nThe marled plaid ye kindly spare.\\nBy me should gratefully be ware\\nTwad please me to the Nine.\\nI d be mair vauntie o my hap,^\\nDouce hingin owre my curple,\\nThan ony ermine ever lap.\\nOr proud imperial purple.\\nFarewell then, lank heal then,\\nAn plenty be your fa\\nMay losses and crosses\\nNe er at your hallan ca\\nTO J. LAPRAIK.\\nSept. 13th. 1796^\\nGuiD speed an furder to you, Johnny,\\nGuid health, hale bans, and weather bonny;\\nNow when ye re nickan down fu canny\\nThe staff, o bread,\\nMay ye ne er want a stoup o bran y\\nTo clear your head.\\nMay Boreas never thresh your rigs,\\nNor kick your rickles aff their legs,\\nSendin the stuff o er muirs an haggs\\nLike diivin wrack;\\nBut may the tapmast grain that wags\\nCome to the sack.\\nStable, or sheep-pen. Mantlet", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0231.jp2"}, "232": {"fulltext": "200 BURNS.\\nTm bizzie too, an skelpin at it,\\nBut bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,\\nSae my auld stumpie pen I gat it\\nWi muckle wark,\\nAn took my jocteleg^ an what it,\\nLike ony dark.\\nIt s now twa month that I m your debtor,\\nFor your braw, nameless, dateless letter,\\nAbusin me for harsh ill-nature\\nOn holy men.\\nWhile Deil a hair yoursel ye re better.\\nBut mair profane.\\nBut let the kirk-folk ring their bells,\\nLet s sing about our noble sels\\nWe ll cry nae jads frae heathen hills\\nTo help, or roose us,\\nBut browster wives^ an whiskie stills,\\nThey are the Muses.\\nYour friendship. Sir, I winna quat it.\\nAn if ye mak objections at it.\\nThen han in nieve some day we ll knot it,\\nAn witness take,\\nAn when wi Usquebae we ve wat it\\nIt winna break.\\nBut if the beast and branks be spar d\\nTill kye be gaun without the herd,\\nAn a the vittel in the yard,\\nAn theekit right,\\nI mean your ingle-side to guard\\nAe winter night.\\nThen muse-inspirin aqua-vitae\\nShall make us baith sae blithe an witty.\\nTill ye forget ye re auld an gatty.\\nAn be as canty\\nAs ye were nine years less than thretty.\\nSweet ane an twenty.\\nBut stooks are cowpet^ wi the blast.\\nAn now the sinn keeks* in the west,\\ndasp-knife. Alehouse wives. Tuoibled OT\u00c2\u00abr\\nSun peeps.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0232.jp2"}, "233": {"fulltext": "TO THE REV. JOHN iVTMATR. 201\\nThen I maun rin amang the rest\\nAn^ quit my chanter\\nSae I subscribe mysel in haste\\nYour s, Rab the Ranter.\\nTO THE REV. JOHN M^MATH.\\nENCLOSINa A COPY OF HOLY WILUE S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD\\nREQUESTED.\\nSept. 17, 1785.\\nWhile at the stook the shearers cow r\\nTo shun the bitter blaudin show r,\\nOr in gulravage rinnin scour,\\nTo pass the time,\\nTo you I dedicate the hour\\nIn idle rhyme.\\nMy music, tir d wi^ monie a sonnet\\nOn gown, an ban an douse black bonnet,\\nIs grown right eerie* now she s done it.\\nLest they shou d blame her,\\nAn rouse their holy thunder on it,\\nAnd anathem her.\\nI own twas rash, and rather hardy,\\nThat I, a simple countra bardie,\\nShou d meddle wi a pack so sturdy,\\nWha, if they ken me,\\nCan easy, wi a single wordie.\\nLoose hell upon me.\\nBut I gae mad at their grimaces,\\nTheir sighin cantin grace-proud faces.\\nTheir three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces.\\nTheir raxin conscience,\\nWhase greed, revenge, an pride disgraces\\nWaur nor their nonsense.\\nThere s Gawn, mi ska t waur than a beast,\\nWha has mair honour in his breast\\nIt is very probable that the Poet thus named himself after the\\nBorder Piper, so spiritedly introduced in the popular song of Mag-\\ngfie Lauder. Oowi^fc.\\nDriving. Running in confusion, like boys leaving school.\\nFrighted. Stretching. Gavin Kainilton.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0233.jp2"}, "234": {"fulltext": "202 BURNS.\\nThan monie scores as guid ^s the priest\\nWha sae abused hun;\\nAn may a bard no crack his jest\\nWhat way theyVe us d him?\\nSee him, the poor man s friend in need,\\nThe gentleman in word an deed,\\nAn shall his fame an honour bleed\\nBy worthless sktillums.\\nAn no a muse erect her head\\nTo CO we thtj blellums?\\nO Pope, had I thy satire s darts\\nTo gie the rascals their deserts,\\nI d rip their rotten, hollow hearts.\\nAn tell aloud\\nTheir jagglin hocus-pocus arts\\nTo cheat the crowd.\\nGod knows, I m no the thing I shou d be,\\nNor am I even the thing I cou d be.\\nBut, twenty times, I rather wou d be\\nAn atheist clean,\\nThan under Gospel colours hid be,\\nJust for a screen.\\nAn honest man may like a glass,\\nAn honest man may like a lass.\\nBut mean revenge, an malice fause.\\nHe ll still disdain,\\nAn then cry zeal for Gospel laws.\\nLike some we ken.\\nThey tak religion in their mouth\\nThey talk o mercy, grace, an truth.\\nFor what? to gie their malice skouth^\\nOn some puir wight,\\nAn hunt him down, o er right an ruth.\\nTo ruin straight.\\nAll hail, Religion! maid divine!\\nPardon a muse sae mean as mine,\\nWho in her rough imperfect line\\nThus daurs to name thee,\\nTo stigmatise false friends of thine\\nCan ne er defame thee,\\nVent.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0234.jp2"}, "235": {"fulltext": "TO THE REV, JOHN M MATH. 203\\nTho blotch t an foul wi monie a stain,\\nAn far unworthy of thy train,\\nWi trembling voice I tune my strain,\\nTo join wi those,\\nWho boldly daur thy cause maintain\\nIn spite o foes\\nIn spite o crowds, in spite o mobs,\\nIn spite o undermining jobs,\\nIn spite o dark banditti stabs\\nAt worth an merit,\\nBy scoundrels, even wi holy robes,\\nBut hellish spirit*\\nO Ayr my dear, my native ground\\nWithin thy presbytereal bound,\\nA candid lib ral band is found\\nOf public teachers,\\nAs men, as Christians too, renown d.\\nAn manly preachers.\\nSir, in that circle you are nam d\\nSir, in that circle you are fam d\\nAn some, by whom your doctrine s blam d,\\n(Which gies you honour,)\\nEven, Sir, by them your heart s esteem d.\\nAn winning manner.\\nPardon this freedom I have ta en.\\nAn if impertinent I ve been.\\nImpute it not, good Sir, in ane\\nWhase heart ne r wrang d ye,\\nBut to his utmost would befriend\\nOught that belang d t ye.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0235.jp2"}, "236": {"fulltext": "204 BURISrx\\nTO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE.\\nRECOMMENDING A BOY.\\nMosgaviUe, May 3, 1786.\\nI HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,\\nTo warn you how that Master Tootie,\\nAlias, Laird M^Gaun,^\\nWas here to lure the lad away\\nBout whom ye spak the tither day.\\nAn wad hae don t aff han\\nBut lest he learn the callan tricks.\\nAs faith, I muckle doubt him,\\nLike scrapin out auld Crummie s nicks,\\nAn tellin lies about them;\\nAs lieve then, I d have then.\\nYour clerkship he should sair,\\nIf sae be, ye may be\\nNot fitted otherwhere.\\nAltho I say t, he s gleg^ enough.\\nAn bout a house that s rude an rough,\\nThe boy might learn to swear;\\nBut then wi you, he ll be sae taught,\\nAn get sic fair example straught,\\nI hae na ony fear.\\nYe ll catechise him every quirk.\\nAn shore^ him weel wi hell\\nAn gar* him follow to the kirk\\nAye when ye gang yoursel.\\nIf ye then, maun be then\\nFrae hame this comin Friday,\\nThen please, Sir, to lea e. Sir,\\nThe orders wi your lady.\\nMy word of honour I hae gi en.\\nIn Paisley John s, that night at e en.\\nTo meet the warld s worm:\\nTo try to get the twa to gree.\\nAn name the airles^ an the fee.\\nIn legal mode an form\\nMaster Tootie then lived in Mauchline a dealer in cows. It ^as\\nhis common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the hort\u00c2\u00ab6 of\\ncattle, to disguise their age. He was an artful trick-contriving\\ncharacter; hence he is called a snick-drawer. Bunis styles the\\nDevil, in his address to that personage, an auld, snich dr awing\\ndog. Cro7?iefc.\\nOff hand. sharp. Threaten. Make.\\nEarnest money.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0236.jp2"}, "237": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO MR, M ADAM. 205\\nI ken he weel a snick can draw,\\nWhen simple bodies let him;\\nAn if a Devil be at a\\\\\\nIn faith he s sure to get him.\\nTo phrase you, an praise you.\\nYe ken your Laureat scorns\\nThe pray r still, you share still,\\nOf grateful Minstrel Burns.\\ni\\nEPISTLE TO MR. M^ADAM OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN,\\nIN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT\\nIN THE COIVEVIENCEMENT OF MY P0ET5C CA-\\nHEER.\\nSm, o er a gill I gat your card,\\nI trow it made me proud\\n**See wha taks notice o the Bard!\\nI lap and cry fu loud.\\n**Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,\\nThe senseless, gawky million\\nI ll cock my nose aboon them a\\nI m roos d by Craigen-Gillan\\nTwas noble, Sir; twas like yoursel,\\nTo grant your high protection\\nA great man s smile, ye ken fu weel,\\nIs aye a blest infection.\\nTfiio by his banes wha in a tub\\nMatch d Macedonian Sandy\\nOn my ain legs, thro dirt and dub,\\nI independent stand aye.\\nAnd when those legs to gude, warm kail,\\nWi welcome canna bear me\\nA lee dyke-side, a sybow tail.\\nAnd barley scone shall \u00c2\u00abheer me.\\nHeaven spare you lang to kiss the breath\\nO mony flow ry simmers\\nAnd bless your bonny lasses baith,\\nI m told they re loosome kimmers I\\nAnd God bless young Dunaskin s laird,\\nThe blossom of our gentry\\nAnd may he wear an auld man s beard,\\nA credit to his country.\\nOontrive a trick, a Diogenes Girls.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0237.jp2"}, "238": {"fulltext": "206 BURNS.\\nTO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL.\\nEXTEMPORE LILIES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.\\nEllisland, Monday Evening.\\nYour News and Review, Sir, I ve read through and through,\\nWitli little admiring or blaming:\\nThe pa pi IS are barren of home-news or foreign,\\nNo murders or rapes worth the naming.\\nOur friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers,\\nArc judges of mortar and stone, Sir;\\nBut of m^^et, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete,\\nI ll boldly pronovnce they are none, Sir.\\nMy goose-quill too inide is, to tell all your goodness\\nBestow d on your servant, the Poet;\\nWould to God I had one like a beam of the sun,\\nAnd then all the world, Sir, should know it!\\nTO TERRAUGHTY,* ON HIS BIRTHDAY.\\nHealth to the Maxwells vet ran Chief!\\nHealth, aye unsour d by care or grief:\\nInspir d, I lurn d Fate s sibyl leaf\\nThis natal morn,\\nI see thy life is stufl* o prief\\nScarce quite half worn.\\nPhis day thou metes threescore eleven.\\nAnd I can tell that bounteous Heaven\\n(The second-sight, ye ken, is given\\nTo ilka Poet)\\nOn thee a tack o seven times seven\\nWill yet bestow it.\\nIf envious buckies view wi sorrow\\nThy lengthen d days on this blest morrow,\\nMay desolation s lang-teeth d harrow,\\nNine miles an hour,\\nRake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,\\nIn brunstane stoure*\\nMr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfries. Proot\\n3 Dust.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0238.jp2"}, "239": {"fulltext": "THE VOWELS, ETC. ^07\\nBat for thy frtends, and they are monie,\\nBaith honest men and lasses bonnie,\\nMay couthie fortune, kind and cannie,\\nIn social glee,\\nWi mornings blythe and e enings funny\\nBless them and thee\\nFareweel, auld birkic Lord be near ye,\\nAnd then tlie Deil he daur na steer^ ye\\nYour friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye\\nFor me, shame fa me,\\nIf neist my heart I dinna wear ye\\nWhile Burns they ca me.\\nrO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OP\\nDRINKING GLASSES.\\nEdinburgh, Marcb 17th, 1788.\\nFair Empress of the Poet s soul,\\nAnd Queen of Poetesses\\nClarinda, take this little boon,\\nThis humble pair of glasses.\\nAnd fill them high Avith generous juice,\\nAs generous as your mind\\nAnd pledge me in the generous toast\\nThe whole of human kind I\\n**To those who love us! second fill;\\nBut not to those w^hom we love\\nLest we love those who love not us\\nA third To thee and me, lovel\\nTHE VOWELS.\\nA TALE.\\nTwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply d,\\nThe noisy domicile of pedant pride\\nWhere ignorance her darkening vapour throws^\\nAnd cruelty directs the thickening blows\\nUpon a time. Sir Abece the great,\\nIn all his pedagogic povvcrs elate,\\nLoving, 2 A clever fellow. Molest.\\n*The lady was the Clarinda of the Poet s letters: some account\\nof her will be found in the prefatory Memoir.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0239.jp2"}, "240": {"fulltext": "20? BURNS,\\nHis awful chair of state resolves to mount,\\nA.nd call the treinbllDg Vowels to account.\\nFirst entered A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,\\nBut ah deform d, dishonest to the sight\\nHis twisted head look d backward on his way\\nAnd flagrant from the scourge, he grunted ai\\nReluctant, E stalk d in with piteous race\\nThe jostling tears ran down his honest face!\\nThat name, that well-worn name, and all his own,\\nPale he surrenders at the tyi ant s throne\\nThe pedant stifles keen the Roman sound\\nNot all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;\\nAnd, next, the title following close behind,\\nHe to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigned.\\nThe cobweb d gothic dome resounded, Y\\nIn sullen vengeance, I disdained reply\\nThe pedant swung his felon cudgel round.\\nAnd knock d the groaning vowel to the ground\\nIn rueful apprehension enter d O,\\nThe wailing minstrel of despairing woe\\nTh Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert,\\nMight there liave learnt new mysteries oi his art:\\nSo grim, deform d, with horrors entering, U\\nHis dearest friend and brother scarcely knewl\\nAs trembling U stood staring all aghast.\\nThe pedant in his left hand clutch d him fast,\\nIn helpless infants tears he dipped his right,\\nBaptis d him eu, and kick d him from his sight.\\nSKETCH.^\\nA LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight.\\nAnd still his precious self his dear delight;\\nWho loves his own smart shadow in the streeti\\nBetter than e er the fairest she he meets\\nA man of fashion too, he made his tour,\\nLearn d vive la bagatelle, et vive I amour\\nThe piece inscribed R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr.\\nGraham, of Fintry, accompanying a request for his assistance in a\\nmatter to me of very great moment. This poem is a species of com-\\nposition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of\\nthe kind, as you will see by the Poet s Progress. These frag-\\nments, if my design succeed, are but a small part of the intended\\nwhole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ri-\\npened by years. The fragment beginning, A little, upright, pert,\\ntart, Ac, forms the postulate, the axioms, the definition of a char-\\nacter, which, if it appear at all. shall be placed in a variety of lights.\\nThis particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at\\nportrait-stwtching.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 To Professor D. Stewart, Jan. 30, 1789.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0240.jp2"}, "241": {"fulltext": "PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND S BENEFIT. \u00c2\u00bb09\\nSo travelled monkeys their grimace improve,\\nPolish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love.\\nMuch specious lore, but little understood;\\nVeneering oft outshines the solid wood\\nHis solid sense ^by inches you must tell,\\nBut mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;\\nHis meddling vanity, a busy fiend.\\nStill making work his selfish craft must mend.\\nPROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND S BENEPIIV\\nNIGHT, DUMFRIES.\\nWhat needs this din about the town o Lon on,\\nHow this new play, an that new sang, is comin\\nWhy is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?\\nDoes nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?\\nIs there nae poet, burning keen for fame,\\nWill try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?\\nFor comedy abroad he need na toil,\\nA fool and knave are plants of every soil\\nNor need he himt as far as Rome and Greece\\nTo gather matter for a serious piece\\nThere s themes enow in Caledonian story,\\nWould show the tragic muse in a her glory.\\nIs there no daring Bard will rise and tell\\nHow glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?\\nWhere are the Muses fled that could produce\\nA drama worthy o the name o Bruce\\nHow here, even here, he first unsheath d the sword\\nGainst mighty England and her guilty lord\\nAnd after monie a bloody, deathless doin\\nWrench d his dear cotmtry from the jaws of ruin?\\nfor a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene.\\nTo draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen\\nVain all the omnipotence of female charms\\nGainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion s arms,\\nShe fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,\\nTo glut the vengeance of a rival woman\\nA woman, tho the phrase may seem uncivil,\\nAs able and as cruel as the Devil\\nOne Douglas lives in Home s immortal page,\\nBut Douglases were heroes every age\\nAnd tho your fathers, prodigal of life,\\nA Douglas f ollow d to the martial strife,\\nPerhaps, if bowls row right, and right succeeds,\\nYe yet may follow where a Douglas leads 1", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0241.jp2"}, "242": {"fulltext": "210 BURNS.\\nAs ye hae generous done, if a the land\\nWould tak the Muses servants by the hand\\nNot Only hear, but patronize, befriend them,\\nAnd where ye justly can commend, commend them;\\nAnd aiblins when they winna stand the test.\\nWink hard and say, the folks hae done their best I\\nWould a the land do this, then I ll be caution\\nYe ll soon hae Poets o the Scottish nation,\\nWill gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,\\nAnd warsle^ time an lay him on his back I\\nFor us and for our stage should onie spier,\\nWhase aught thae chiels maks a this bustle here!*\\nMy best leg foremost, I ll set up my brow,\\nWe hae the honour to belong to you\\nWe re your ain bairns, e en guide us as ye like,\\nBut, like good mithers, shore before ye strike\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nAnd gratefu still I hope ye ll ever find U3,\\nFor a the patronage and meikle kindness\\nWe ve got frae a professions, sets, and ranks:\\nGod help us 1 we re but poor ye se get but thanks.\\nELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.\\nSKETCH.\\nFor Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,\\nE en let them die for that they re bom\\nBut oh I prodigious to reflec\\nA Towmont,^ Su*s, is gane to wreck!\\nO Eighty-eight, in thy sma space\\nWhat dire events hae taken place\\nOf what enjoyments thou hast reft us!\\nIn what a pickle thou hast left us\\nThe Spanish empire s tint^ a head.\\nAnd my auld teethless Bawtie s dead\\nThe tulzie s* sair tween Pitt an Fox,\\nAnd tween our Maggie s twa wee cocks;\\nrhe tane is game, a bludie devil.\\nBut to the hen-birds unco civil\\nThe tither s something dour o treadin\\nBut better stuff ne er claw d a midden.*\\nYe ministers, come mount the poupit,*\\nAn cry till ye be haerse^ an roupet,\\nFor Eighty-eight he wish d you weel,\\nAnd gied you a baith gear and meal;\\n3 Wrestle. Twelvemonth. 5 Lost. Quarrel.\\nDunghill. Pulpit. Hoarse.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0242.jp2"}, "243": {"fulltext": "LAMENT ON LEA VING SCOTLAND. 211\\nE en monie a plack, and monie a peck,\\nYe ken yoursels, for little feck.\\nYe bonnie lasses, dight your een/\\nFor some o you hae tint a f rien\\nIn Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta en\\nWhat ye ll ne er hae to gie again.\\nObserve the vera nowte^ an sheep,\\nHow dowf and daviely they creep I\\nNay, even the yirth itsel does cry.\\nFor E mbrugh wells are grutten dry.\\nO Eighty-nine, thou s but a bairn,\\nAn no owre auld, I hope, to learn\\nThou beardless boy, I pray tak care.\\nThou now has got thy daddy s chair,\\nN ae hand-cuff d, mizzl d, hap-shackl d Regent,\\nBut, like himsel, a full free agent.\\nBe sure ye follow out the plan\\nNae waur than he did, honest man\\nAs muckle better as you can.\\nJanuary 1, 1789.\\nVERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF\\nFERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT\\nAUTHOR S WORKS, PRESENTED TO A YOUNG\\nLADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19th, 1787.\\nCurse oq ungrateful man, that can be pleas d,\\nAnd yet can starve the author of the pleasure I\\nO thou, my elder brother in misfortune,\\nBy far my elder brother in the Muses,\\nWith tears I pity thy unhappy fate\\nWhy is the Bard unpitied by the world,\\nYet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?\\nLAMENT, WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET\\nWAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.*\\nO er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain\\nstraying.\\nWhere the wild winds of winter incessantly rave,\\nWhat woes wring my heart while intently surveying\\nThe storm s gloomy path on the breast of the wave.\\nWipe your eyes. Cattle. Languid.\\nOriginally published in the Dumfries Journal, July 5th, 1815, but\\ndoubtmlly ascribed to Burns.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0243.jp2"}, "244": {"fulltext": "212 BURNS,\\nYe foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,\\nEre ye toss me afar from my lov d native shore\\nWhere the flower which bloom d sweetest in Coila s green\\nvale,\\nThe pride of my bosom, my Mary s no more.\\nNo more by the banks of the streamlet we ll wander,\\nAnd smile at the moon s rimpled face in the wave;\\nNo more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,\\nFor the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.\\nNo more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,\\nI haste with the storm to a far distant shore\\nWhere unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,\\nAnd joy shall revisit my bosom no more.\\nDELIA.\\nAN ODE.\\nFair the face of orient day,\\nFair the tints of op ning rose\\nBut fairer still my Delia dawns,\\nMore lovely far her beauty blows.\\nSweet the lark s wild-warbled lay.\\nSweet the tinkling rill to hear\\nBut, Delia, more delightful still\\nSteal thine accents on mine ear.\\nThe flower-en amour d busy bee\\nThe rosy banquet loves to sip\\nSweet the streamlet s limpid lapse\\nTo the sun-brown d Arab s lip\\nBut, Delia, on thy balmy lips\\nLet me, no vagrant insect, rove!\\nO let me steal one liquid kiss I\\nFor, oh my soul is parch d with love I\\nSaid to have been written at the inn of BrownhiU, in the parish o\\nDiosebiim, a favourite resting-place of Bums.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0244.jp2"}, "245": {"fulltext": "ON THE DEATH OF J. HUNTER BLAIR. 213\\nON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR\\nThe lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,\\nDim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave\\nTh inconstant blast howPd thro the darkening air,\\nAnd hollow whistl d in the rocky cave.\\nLone as I wander d by each cliff and dell.\\nOnce the lov d haunts of Scotia s royal train\\nOr mus d where limpid streams, once hallo w d, well,\\nOr mould ring ruins mark the sacred fane/\\nTh increasing blast roar d round the beetling rocks,\\nThe clouds swift-wing d flew o er the starry sky,\\nThe groaning trees untimely shed their locks,\\nAnd shooting meteors caught the startled eye.\\nThe paly moon rose in the livid east,\\nAnd mong the cliffs disclos d a stately form,\\nIn weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,\\nAnd mix d her wailings with the raving stonn.\\nWild to my heart the filial pulses glow,\\nTwas Caledonia s trophied shield I view d\\nHer form majestic droop d in pensive woe,\\nThe lightning of her eye in tears imbued.\\nRevers d that spear, redoubtable in war,\\nReclin d that banner, erst in fields unf url d.\\nThat like a deathful meteor gleam d afar,\\nAnd brav d the mighty monarchs of the world.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\n*My patriot son fills an untimely gravel\\nWith accents wild and lifted arms she cried\\n**Low lies the hand that oft was stretch d to save,\\nLow lies the heart that swell d with honest pride\\nA weeping country joins a widow s tear,\\nThe helpless poor mix with the orphan s cry\\nThe drooping Arts surround their patron s bier,\\nAnd grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh.\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nSir James Blair died July 1, 1787: he was a partner in Forbes\\nBank, at Edinburgh.\\nThe King s Park, at Holyrood House.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nSt. Anthony s Well.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. St. Anthony s Chapel.-R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0245.jp2"}, "246": {"fulltext": "214 BURNS.\\n**I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;\\nI saw fair Freedom s blossoms richly blow;\\nBut, ah! how hope is born but to expire!\\nRelentless fate has laid their guardian low.\\n**My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung.\\nWhile empty greatness saves a worthless nam\u00c2\u00ab?\\nNo every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,\\nAnd future ages hear his growing fame.\\nAnd I will join a mother s tender cares,\\nThro future times to make his virtues last,\\nThat distant years may boast of other Blairs,\\nShe said, and vanished with the sweeping blast\\nWRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF\\nTHE FIRST EDITION, WHICH I PRESENTED TO\\nAN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.\\nOnce fondly lov d, and still remember d dear,\\nSweet early object of my youthful vows.\\nAccept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere;\\nFriendship I tis all cold duty now allows.\\nAnd when you read the simple, artless rhymes,\\nOne friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,\\nWho distant burns in flaming torrid climes,\\nOr haply lies beneath th Atlantic roar.\\nTHE POET S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE\\nCHILD.\\nThou s welcome, wean mischanter fa me,\\nIf ought of thee, or of thy mammy,\\nShall ever danton me, or awe me,\\nMy sweet wee lady,\\nOr if I blush when thou shalt ca me\\nTit-ta, or daddy.\\nWee image of my bonnie Betty,\\nI, fatherly, will kiss and daut^ thee,\\n1 The mother was Elizabeth Paton, of Largieside, and her daughter\\ndied in 1817, the wiffe of th\u00c2\u00a9 overseer at Polkemmet.\\n2 Accident. s Fondle.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0246.jp2"}, "247": {"fulltext": "LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE. 215\\nAs dear an near my heart I set thee\\nWi as gude will,\\nAs a the priests had seen me get thee\\nThat s out o h\u00e2\u0080\u0094 II.\\nWhat tho they ea me fornicator,\\nAn tease my name in kintra clatter\\nThe mair they talk I m kent the better.\\nE en let them clash\\nAn auld wife s tongue s a feckless matter\\nTo gie ane fash.\\nSweet finiit o monie a meiTy dint,\\nMy funny toil is now a tint,\\nSin thou came to the warld asklent,*\\nWhich fools may scoff at\\nIn my last plack thy part s be in t\\nThe better half o t.\\nAn if thou be what I wad hae thee.\\nAn tak the counsel I shall gie thee,\\nA lovin father I ll be to thee,\\nIf thou be spar d\\nThro a thy childish years I ll e e thee.\\nAn think t weel war d.\\nGude grant that thou may aye inherit\\nThy mither s person, grace, an merit.\\nAn thy poor worthless daddy s spirit,\\nWithout his failins,\\nTwill please me mair to hear and see t.\\nThan stockit mailins.\\nLETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON\\nTHE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.\\nGouDiE terror o the Whigs,\\nDread o black coats and rev rend wigs,\\nSour Bigotry, on her last legs,\\nGirnin^ looks back,\\nWishin the ten Egyptian plagues\\nWad seize you quick.\\nPoor gapin glowrin Superstition,\\nWaes me! she s in a sad condition;\\nAsquint. Farms. Grinning.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0247.jp2"}, "248": {"fulltext": "216 BURNS,\\nPy^ bring Black-Jock, her state physician,\\nTo see her water\\nAlas I there s ground o great suspicion\\nShe ll ne er get better.\\nAuld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,\\nBut now she s got an unco ripple\\nHaste, gie her name up i the chapel, i\\nNigh unto death;\\nSee how she fetches at the thrapple,^\\nAn gasps for breath,\\nEnthusiasm s past redemption,\\n6aen in a galloping consumption,\\nNot a the quacks, wi a their gumption,\\nWill ever mend h3r;\\nHer feeble pulse gies strong presumption,\\nDeath soon will end her.\\nTis you and Taylor^ are the chief,\\nWha are to blame for this mischief;\\nBut gin the Lord s ain focks gat leave,\\nA toom^ tar-barrel\\nAn twa red peats wad send relief,\\nAn end the quarrel.\\nLETTER TO JAMES TAIT, GLENCONNER.*\\nAuld comrade dear, and brither sinner,\\nHow s a the folk about Glenconner;\\nHow do you this blae eastlin win\\nThat s like to blaw a body blin\\nFor me, my faculties are frozen.\\nMy dearest member nearly dozen\\nI ve sent you here by Johnnie Simson,\\nTwa sage philosophers to glimpse on\\nSmith, wi his sympathetic feeling,\\nAn Reid, to common sense appealing.\\nPhilosophers have fought an wrangled,\\nAn meikle Greek an Latin mangled.\\nTill wi their logic-jargon tir d,\\nAn in the depth of Science mir d,\\nDeath-pain. Throat. Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.\\nEmpty.\\nAccording to Burns, the most intelligent farmer in the country.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0248.jp2"}, "249": {"fulltext": "Letter to yAMES tait. s\u00c2\u00bb\\nTo common sense they now appeal,\\nWhat wives an wabsters see an feel.\\nBut, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,\\nPeruse them, an return them quickly,\\nFor now I m grown sue cursed douse,\\nI pray an ponder but the house.\\nMy shins, my lane,^ I there sit roastin\\nPerusing Bunyan, Brown, an Boston\\nTill by an by, if I hand on,\\nI ll grunt a real gospel-groan\\nAlready I begin to try it,\\nTo cast my een up like a pyet,\\nWhen by the gun she tumbles o er,\\nFlutt ring an gaspin in her gore\\nSae shortly you shall see me bright,\\nA burning an- a shining light.\\nMy heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,\\nThe ace an wale* of honest men\\nWhen bending down wi auld grey hairs.\\nBeneath the load of years and cares.\\nMay he who made him still support him,\\nAn views beyond the grave comfort him.\\nHis worthy fam ly far and near,\\nGod bless them a wi grace and gear\\nMy auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,\\nThe manly tar, my mason Billie,\\nAn Auchenbay, I wish him joy\\nIf he s a parent, lass or boy.\\nMay he be dad, and Meg the mither,\\nJust five-and-f orty years thegither 1\\nAn no forgetting wabster Charlie,\\nI m tauld he offers very fairly.\\nAn Lord remember singing Sannock,\\nWi hale-breeks, saxpence, an a bannock.\\nAn next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,\\nSince she is fitted to her fancy;\\nAn her kind stars hae airted till her\\nA good chiel wi a pickle** siller.\\nMy kindest, best respects I sen it.\\nTo cousin Kate an sister Janet;\\nTell them frae me, wi chiels be cautious,\\nFor, Faith, they ll aiblins fin them fashiouit\\nTo grant a heart is fairly civil.\\nWeavers. Myself alone. Magpie. Choice.\\nThe manly tar was probably Richard Brown.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CuNNlNOHiiM,\\nSmall quantity.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0249.jp2"}, "250": {"fulltext": "218 BURNS.\\nAn lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,\\nMay guardian angels tak a spell,\\nAn steer you seven miles south o hell:\\nBut first, before you see heav n s glory,\\nMay ye get monie a merry story,\\nMonie a laugh, and monie a drink.\\nAn aye eneugh o needfu clink.\\nNow fare ye weel, an joy be wi you,\\nFor my sake this I beg it o you,\\nAssist poor Simson a ye can,\\nYe ll fin him just an honest man\\nSae I conclude and quat my chanter,\\nYour s, saint or sinner,\\nRob the Ranteb.\\nEPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA.\\nFrom those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,\\nWhere infamy with sad repentance dwells;\\nWhere turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,\\nAnd deal from iron hands the spare repast;\\nWhere truant prentices, yet young in sin.\\nBlush at the curious stranger peeping in\\nWhere strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,\\nResolve to drink, nay half to w e, no more\\nWhere tiny thieves, not destin d yet to swing,\\nBeat hemp for others, riper for the string:\\nFrom these dire scenes my wretched lines I date.\\nTo tell Maria her Esopus fate.\\nAlas! I feel I am no actor here!\\nTis real hangmen, real scourges bear!\\nPrepare, Maria, for a horrid tale\\nWill turn thy very rouge to deadly pale\\nWill make thy hair, tho erst from gipsy poll d,\\nBy barber woven, and by barber sold.\\nThough twisted smooth with Harry s nicest care.\\nLike hoary bristles to erect and stare.\\nThe hero of the mimic scene, no more\\nI start in Hamlet, in Othello roar\\nOr haughty Chieftain, mid the din of arms,\\nIn Highland bonnet w^oo Malvina s charms\\nWhile sans culottes stoop up the mountain high,\\nAnd steal from me Maria s pr3dng eye.\\n1 The Esopus of this strange epistle was Williamson the actor, and\\nthe Maria to whom it is addressed was Mrs. Riddel.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Allan Cun-\\nNIMGHAM.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0250.jp2"}, "251": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 219\\nBless d Hiffhland bonnet Once my proudest dress,\\nNow prouder still, Maria s temples press.\\nI see her wave thy towering plumes afar,\\nAnd call each coxcomb to the wordy war.\\nI see her face the first of Ireland s sons,\\nAnd even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze\\nThe crafty colonel leaves the tartan d lines.\\nFor other wars, where he a hero shines\\nThe hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred.\\nWho owns a Bushby s heart without the head,\\nComes, mid a string of coxcombs to display\\nThat ven% vidi, viciy is his way\\nThe shrinking bard adown an alley skulks,\\nAnd dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks\\nThough there his heresies in church and state\\nMjght well award him Muir and Palmer s fate\\nStill she undaunted reels and rattles on.\\nAnd dares the public like a noontide sun.\\n(What scandal called Maria s janty stagger\\nThe ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?\\nWhose spleen, e en worse than Burns s venom when\\nHe dips in gall unmix d his eager pen,\\nAnd pours his vengeance in the burning line,\\nWho christen d thus Maria s lyre divine\\nThe idiot strum of vanity bemused,\\nAnd even th abuse of poesy abused\\nWho call d her verse, a parish workhouse made\\nFor motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray d?)\\nA workhouse ah, that sound awakes my woes.\\nAnd pillows on the thorn my rack d repose\\nIn durance vile here must I wake and weep,\\nAnd all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep;\\nThat straw where many a rogue has lain of yore.\\nAnd vermin d gipsies litter d heretofore.\\nWhy, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?\\nMust earth no rascal, save thyself, endure?\\nMust thou alone in guilt immortal swell,\\nAnd make a vast monopoly of hell?\\nThou know st the virtues cannot hate thee ^orse.\\nThe vices also, must they club their curse?\\nOr must no tiny sin to others fall.\\nBecause thy guilt s supreme enough for alii\\nMaria, send me too thy griefs and cares\\nIn all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0251.jp2"}, "252": {"fulltext": "^20 BURNS,\\nAs thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,\\nWho on my fair-one satire s vengeance hurls^\\nWho calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,\\nA wit in folly, and a fool in wit?\\nWho says that fool alone is not thy due,\\nAnd quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?\\nOur force united on thy foes we ll turn.\\nAnd dare the war with all of woman born\\nFor who can write and speak as thou and I?\\nMy periods that decyphering defy,\\nAnd thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply\\nON A SUICIDE.\\nEarth d up here lies an imp o hell,\\nPlanted by Satan s dibble\\nPoor silly wretch he s d d himseZ\\nTo save the Lord the trouble.\\nA FAREWELL.\\nFarewell, dear Friend! may guid luck hit you,\\nAnd, mang her favorites admit you\\nIf e er Detraction shore to smit you,\\nMay nane believe him 1\\nAnd ony Deil that thinks to get you,\\nGood Lord deceive him.\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\nFarewell old Scotia s bleak domains,\\nFar dearer than the torrid plains\\nWhere rich ananas blow\\nFarewell, a mother s blessing dear!\\nA brother s sigh a sister s tear\\nMy Jean s heart-rending throe\\nA melancholy person of the name of Glendinning, having taken\\naway his own life, was interred at a place called The Old Chapel,\\nclose beside Dumfries. My friend Dr. Copland Hutchinson nap)-\\npened to be walking out that way he saw Burns with his foot on\\nthe grave, his hat on his knee, and paper laid on his hat, on which\\nhe was writing. He then took the paper, thrust it with his finger\\ninto the red mould of the grave, and went away. This was the\\nabove epigram, and such was the Poet s mode of publishing it.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A.\\nCUJiNINGHAM.\\nThe friend was Mr. John Kennedy.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0252.jp2"}, "253": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAJffAM, ESQ, i2l\\nFarewell, my Bess tho thou rt bereft,\\nOf my parental care\\nA faithful brother I have left,\\nMy part in him thoult share I\\nAdieu too, to you too.\\nMy Smith, my bosom frien\\nWhen kindly you mind me,\\nO then befriend my Jean 1\\nWhen bursting anguish tears my heart I\\nFrom thee, my Jeannie, must I part 1\\nThou weeping answ rest *No!\\nAlas misfortune stares my face.\\nAnd points to ruin and disgrace,\\nI, for thy sake, must go\\nThee Hamilton, and Aiken dear,\\nA grateful, warm adieu I\\nI, with a much-indebted tear,\\nShall still remember you I\\nAll-hail then, the gale then.\\nWafts me from thee, dear shore I\\nIt rustles, and whistles\\nI ll never see thee more\\nEPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY;\\nON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION\\nBETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAP.\\nTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT\\nOF BOROUGHS.\\nFiNTKY, my stay in worldly strife.\\nFriend o* my Muse, friend o my life,\\nAre ye as idle s I am?\\nCome then, wi uncouth, kintra fleg,*\\nO er Pegasus I ll fling my leg,\\nAnd ye shall see me try him.\\nI ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears\\nWho left the all-important cares\\nOf princes and their darlings.\\nAnd, bent on winning borough towns.\\nCame shaking hands wd wabster lowns,\\nAnd kissing barefit carlins.*\\nCombustion thro our boroughs rode\\nWhistling his roaring pack abroad\\nOf mad unmuzzled lions;\\nKick. a Old women.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0253.jp2"}, "254": {"fulltext": "822 BUJ^A S.\\nAs Queensberry buff and blue unfurl d,\\nAnd Westerha^ and Hopeton hurVd\\nTo every Whig defiance.\\nBut cautious Queensberry left the war,\\nTh unmanner d dust might soil his star;\\nBesides, he hated bleeding;\\nBut left behind him heroes bright,\\nHeroes in Csesarean fight,\\nOr Ciceronian pleading.\\nO for a throat like huge Mons-meg,\\nTo muster o er each ardent whig\\nBeneath Drumlanrig s banner;\\nHeroes and heroines commix,\\nAll in the field of politics,\\nTo win immortal honour,\\nM^Murdo and his lovely spouse,\\n(Th enamour d laurels kiss her brows!)\\nLed on the loves and graces;\\nShe won each gaping burgess heart.\\nWhile he, all-conquering, play d his part\\nAmong their wives and lassea.\\nCraigdarroch led a light-arm d corps.\\nTropes, metaphors, and figures pour.\\nLike Hccla streaming thunder;\\nGlenriddle, skill d in rusty coins.\\nBlew up each Tory s dark designs,\\nAnd bared the treason under.\\nIn either wing two champions fought,\\nRedoubted Staig, who set at nought\\nThe wildest savage Tory:\\nAnd Welsh, who ne er yet fiinched his ground\\nHigh-waved his magnum-bonum round\\nWith Cyclopeian fury.\\nMiller brought up th artillery ranks,\\nThe many-poundei-s of the Banks,\\nResistless desolation 1\\nWhile Maxweltou, that baron bold,\\nMid Lawson s port entrench d his hold,\\nAnd threaten d worse damnatioi..", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0254.jp2"}, "255": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO ROBER T GRAHAM, ESQ. 223\\nTo these what Tory hosts opposed,\\nWith these what Tory warriors clos d,\\nSurpasses m}* descriving\\nSquadrons, extended long and large,\\nWith furious speed rush to the charge,\\nLike raging devils driving.\\nWhat verse can sing, what prose narrate,\\nThe butcher deeds of bloody fate\\nAmid this mighty tuhie I\\nGrim Horror girn d pale Terror roar d,\\nAs Murther at his thrapple^ shor d,\\nAnd Hell mix d in the brulzie.\\nAs highland crags by thunder cleft,\\nWhen lightnings fire the stormy lift,\\nHurl down with crashing rattle:\\nAs flames among a hundred woods\\nAs headlong foam a hundred floods\\nSuch is the rage of battle\\nThe stubborn Tories dare to die\\nAs soon the rooted oaks w^ould fly\\nBefore th approaching fellei*j:\\nThe Whigs come on like Ocean s roar,\\nWhen all his wintry billows pour\\nAgainst the Buchan Bullers.*\\nLo, from the shades of Death s deep night,\\nDeparted Whigs enjoy the fight.\\nAnd think on former daring\\nThe muflled murtherer of Charles\\nThe Magna Charta flag unfurls,\\nAll deadly gules its bearing.\\nNor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.\\nBold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,\\nAuld Covenanters shiver.\\n(Forgive, forgive, much wrong d Montrose!\\nNow death and hell engulf thy foes.\\nThou liv st on high for ever!)\\nStill o er the field the combat bm-ns.\\nThe Tories, Wliigs, give way by turns\\nBut Fate the word has spoken:\\nFor woman s wqt and strength o man,\\nAlas! can do but what they can!\\nThe Tory ranks are broken.\\nThroat. 2 The broiU\\nA rocky opening on the coast of Aberdeenshire.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0255.jp2"}, "256": {"fulltext": "d24 BURNS.\\nO that my een were flowing bums!\\nMy voice a lioness that mourns\\nHer darling cubs undoing!\\nThat I might greet, that I might cry,\\nWhile Tories fall, while Tories fly.\\nAnd furious Whigs pursuing!\\nWhat Whig but melts for good Sir James?\\nDear to his country by the names\\nFriend, patron, benefactor I\\nNot Pulceney s wealth can Pulteney save 1\\nAnd Hopeton falls, the generous brave\\nAnd Stewart, bold as Hector.\\nThou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow\\nAnd Thurlow growl a curse of woe\\nAnd Melville melt in wailing!\\nHow Fox and Sheridan rejoice\\nAnd Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,\\nThy power is all- prevailing/\\nFor yom* poor friend, the Bard, afar\\nHe only hears and sees the war,\\nA cool spectator purely 1\\nSo, when the storm the forest rends,\\nThe robin in the hedge descends,\\nAnd sober chirps securely.\\nEPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.*\\nHail, thairm -inspirin rattlin Willie\\nThough Fortune s road be rough an hilly\\nTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,\\nYYg never heed\\nBut tak it lik the unback d filly.\\nProud o her speed.\\nWhen idly ffoavan whyles we saunter,\\nYirr* fancy parks, awa we canter\\nIFphill, down brae, till some mischanter,*\\nSome black bog-hole,\\nArrests us, then the scathe\u00c2\u00ae an banter\\nWe re forced to thole.\\nMajor Logan was a skilful player on the violin. Fiddle-string.\\nWalking without an object.\\nLively. Accident. Injury. To bear.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0256.jp2"}, "257": {"fulltext": "EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. S98\\nHiJe be your heart Hale be your fiddle!\\nLang may your elbuck jink and diddle,\\nTo cheer you through the weary widdle\\nO this wild warP,\\nUntil you on a crummock driddle*\\nA grey-hair d carl.\\nCome wealth, come poortith, late or soon,\\nHeaven send your heart-strings aye in tun\u00c2\u00ab^\\nAnd screw your temper-pins aboon,\\nA fifth or mair,\\nThe melancholious, lazie croon\\nO cankrie care.\\nMay still your life from day to day\\nNae lente largo in the play,\\nBut allegretto forte gay\\nHarmonious flow\\nA sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-\\nEncore I Bravo 1\\nA blessing on the cheery gang\\nWha dearly like a jig or sang.\\nAn never think o right an wrang\\nBy square an rule,\\nBut as the clegs o feeling stang\\nAre wise or fool.\\nMy hand-waled curse keep hard in chase\\nThe harpy, hoodock,* purse-proud race,\\nWha count on poortith as disgrace\\nTheir tuneless hearts\\nMay fire-side discords jar a base\\nTo a their parts I\\nBut come, your hand, my careless brithcr,\\nr th ither warl if there s anither.\\nAn that there is I ve little swither*\\nAbout the matter,\\nWe cheek for chow shall jog thegither,\\nI se ne er bid better.\\nWe ve faults and failings granted clearly,\\nWe re frail backsliding mortals merely,\\nHobble on a stick.\\nGadflies. Sting. Miserly. Doubt\\nJ*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0257.jp2"}, "258": {"fulltext": "820 BURNS.\\nEve s bonny squad priests wyte them sheeiff\\nFor our grand fa\\nBut still, but still, I like them dearly\\nGod bless them a I\\nOchon for poor Castalian drinkers,\\nWhen they fa foul o earthly jinkers,\\nThe witching curs d delicious blinkers\\nHae put me hyte,\\nAnd gart me weet my waukrife winkers,*\\nWi girnin spite.\\nBut by yon moon and that s high swearin?-*\\nAn every star within my hearin\\nAnd by her een wha was a dear ane\\nI ll ne er forget\\nI hope to gie the jads* a clearin\\nIn fair play yet.\\nMy loss I mourn, but not repent it,\\nI ll seek my pursie whare I tint* it,\\nAnce to the Indies I were wonted,\\nSome cantraip* hour,\\nBy some sweet elf I ll yet be dinted,\\nThen, vive V amour I\\nFaites mes haissemalns respectnemes,\\nTo sentimental sister Susie,\\nAn honest Lucky no to roose ye.\\nYe may be proud,\\nThat sic a couple fate allows ye\\nTo grace your blood.\\nNae mair at present can I measure,\\nAn trowth my rhymin ware s nae treasure;\\nBut when in Ayr, some half -hour s leisure,\\nBe t light, be t dark,\\nSir Bard will do himsel the pleasure\\nTo call at Park.\\nRobert BuBirit\\n0:oi$giel, SOth October, 1786.\\nBlaroe. Frantic. Wet my sleepless ejM.\\nJades. Lost. Charmod.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0258.jp2"}, "259": {"fulltext": "EPITAPHS, ETC. ^2?\\nEPITAPH ON THE POET S DAUGHTER.*\\nHere lies a rose, a budding rose,\\nBlasted before its bloom\\nWhose Innocence did sweets disclose\\nBeyond that flower s perfume.\\nTo those who for her loss are grieved,\\nThis consolation s given\\nShe s from a world of woe relieved,\\nAnd blooms a rose in Heaven,\\nEPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON.*\\nHere Brewer Gabriel s fire s extinct,\\nAnd empty all his barrels\\nHe s blest if, as he brew d, he drink\\nIn upright honest morals.\\nEPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER.\\nIn this strange land, this uncouth clime,\\nA land unknown to prose or rhyme\\nWhere words ne er crost the Muse s heckles,*\\nNor limpet in poetic shackles\\nA land that prose did never view it.\\nExcept when drunk he stachert through it\\nThese lines are said to have been written by Burns on the loss of\\nhis daughter, who died in the autumn of 1795, and of whom he thus\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0peaks in his letter to Mrs. Dunlop, from Dumfries, January 31, 1796:\\nThese many months you have been two packets in my debt what\\nsin of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend\\nI am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas I madam, ill can I afford, at\\nthis time, to be depi-ived of any of the small remnan t of my pleasures.\\nI have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed\\nme of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance\\ntoo, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last du-\\nties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock when\\nI became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and\\nlong the die spun doubtful: until, after many weeks of sick bed, it\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0eems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across\\nmy room, and once indeed have been before my own door in th\u00c2\u00ab\\nStreet.\\nWhen pleasure fascinates the mental sight,\\nAffliction purifies the visual ray^\\nReligion hails the drear, the untried night,\\nThat shuts, for ever shuts, life s doubtful day.\\n2 A brewer in Dumfries.\\nA merchant of Kilmai-nock. and a generous patron of Burns at\\nfile beginning of his poetical career.\\nInstrument for dr^ssinj flax.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0259.jp2"}, "260": {"fulltext": "BVRMS.\\nHere, ambush d by the chimla^ cho\u00c2\u00abk,\\nHid in an atmosphere of reek,\\nI hear a wheel thrum i the neuk,\\nI hear it ^for in vain I leuk.\\nThe red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,\\nEnhusked by a fog infernal\\nHere, for my wonted rhyming rapture*,\\nI sit and count my sins by chapters\\nFor life and spunk, like ither Christians,\\nI m dwindled down to mere existence,\\nWi nae converse but Gallowa bodies,\\nWr nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.\\nJenny, my Pegasean pride\\nDowie^ she saunters down Nithside,\\nAnd aye a westlin leuk she throws.\\nWhile tears hap o er her auld brown nose I\\nWas it for this, wi canny care.\\nThou bure the Bard through many a shire!\\nAt howes or hillocks never stumbled,\\nAnd late or early never grumbled?\\nOh, had I power like inclination,\\nI d heeze thee up a constellation.\\nTo canter with the Sagitarre,\\nOr loup the ecliptic like a bar,\\nOr turn the pole like any arrow\\nOr, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,\\nDown the zodiac urge the race,\\nAnd cast dirt on his godship s face\\nFor I could lay my bread and kail,\\nHe d ne er cast saut upo thy tail.\\nWi a this care and a this grief.\\nAnd sma sma prospect of relief,\\nAnd nought but peat reek i my head.\\nHow can I write what ye can read?\\nTarbolton, twenty-fourth o June,\\nYe ll find me in a better tune\\nBut till we meet and weet our whistle,\\nTak this exoug for ^ae epistle.\\nHoBSBT BxmHib", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0260.jp2"}, "261": {"fulltext": "ADDRESS OF JJEEL/EBVB. 229\\nADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT^\\nOF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.\\nLong life, my Lord, an health be yours,\\nUnskuith d by hunger d Highland boors;\\nLord i^rant nae duddie desperate beggar,\\nWi dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,\\nMay twin auld Scotland o a life\\nShe likes as lambkins like a knife.\\nFaith you and A s ^^ere right\\nTo keep the Highland hounds in sight;\\nI daubt na they wad bid nae better\\nThan let them ance out owre the water;\\nThen up amang thae lakes and seas\\nThey ll mak what rules and laws they please^\\nSome daring Hancock, or a Franklin,\\nMay set their Highland bluid a rankliu\\nSome Washington again may head them,\\nOr some Montgomery fearless lead them,\\nTill God knows what may be effected,\\nWhen by such heads and hearts directed^\\nPoor dunghill sons of dirt and mire\\nMay to Patrician rights aspire\\nNae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,\\nTo watch and premier o er the pack vile\\nAn whare will ye get Howes and Clintons\\nTo bring them to a right repentance.\\nTo cowe the rebel generation.\\nAn save the honour o the nation?\\nThey an be what right hae they\\nTo meat or sleep, or light o day?\\nFar less to riches, pow r, or freedom.\\nBut what your Lordship likes to gie them.\\nBut hear, my Lord Glengarry, hear\\nYour hand s owre light on them, I fear;\\nYour factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies^\\nI canna say but they do gaylies\\nThey lay aside a tender mercies.\\nAn tirl the hallions to the birses;\\nYet while they re only poind t and herriet,*\\nThey ll keep their stubborn Highland spiril-A\\nBut smash them! crash them a to spailsl^\\nAn rot the dyvors i the jails\\nThe Earl of Breadalbane. 2 Ragged. ^\u00c2\u00bbriTft\\nPretty well.\\nSeized aad plundered. Chips. Bankrupts", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0261.jp2"}, "262": {"fulltext": "430 BURNS,\\nThe young dogs, swinge^ tliem to the labour;\\nLet wark and hunger mak them sober\\nThe hizzies, if they re auglitlins fawsont,\\nLet them in Drury-Iane be lesson d\\nAn if the wives an dirty brats\\nE en thigger at your doors an yetts*\\nFlafifan wi duds^ an grey \\\\vi beas\\nFrightin awa your deucks an geese,\\nGet out a horsewhip, or a jowler,\\nThe iangest thong, the fiercest growler.\\nAn gar the tatter d gypsies pack\\nWi a their bastarts on their back\\nGo on, my Lord I lang to meet you,\\nAn in my house at hame to greet you;\\nWi common lords ye shanna mingle,\\nThe benmost neuk beside the ingle,\\nAt my right han assign d your seat\\nTvreen Herod s hip and Poly crate,\\nOr if you on your station tarrow,\u00c2\u00ae\\nBetween Almagro and Pizarro,\\nA seat, I m sure ye re weel deservin t;\\nAn till ye come Your humble servant,\\nBeelzkbub\u00c2\u00bb\\nJune 1, Anno Mundi^ 5790.\\nTO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.\\nNow, Kennedy, if foot or horse\\nE er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,\\nLord, man, there s lasses there wad force\\nA hermit s fancy,\\nAnd down the gate, in faith, they re worse,\\nAnd mair unchancy.\\nBut, as Pm sayin please step to Dow s,\\nAnd taste sic gear as Johnnie brews.\\nTill some bit callan bring me news\\nThat you are there,\\nAnd if we dinna hand a bouze,\\nPse ne er drink mair.\\nIt s no I like to sit an swallow.\\nThen like a swine to puke an wallow\\nWhip. 2 Decent. Crowd. Farm-yard gate^\\nFluttering with rags. Murmur,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0262.jp2"}, "263": {"fulltext": "GN THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUN DAS, ESQ, 231\\nBut gie me just a true good fallow\\nY/i right ingine,\\nAnd spunkie ance to make us mellow,\\nAnd then we ll shine.\\nNow, if ye re ane o warl s folk,\\nWha rate the wearer by the cloak,\\nAn sklent on poverty their joke,\\nWr bitter sneer,\\nWi you no friendship mil I troke,\\nNor cheap nor dear.\\nBut if, as I m informed weel.\\nYe hate, as ill s the vera Deil,\\nThe flinty heart that canna feel\\nCome, Sir, here s tae you;\\nHae, there s my haun I wiss- you weel,\\nAnd guid be wi you.\\nON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ,, O^\\nARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THR\\nCOURT OF SESSION.\\nLone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks\\nShun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks:\\nDown from the rivulets, red with dashing rains.\\nThe gathering floods burst o er the distant plains\\nBeneath the blasts the leafless forests groan\\nThe hollow caves retiu n a sullen moan.\\nYe hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,\\nYe howling winds, and wintry swelling waves I\\nUnheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,\\nSad to your sympathetic scenes I fly\\nWhere to the whistling blast and waters roar,\\nPale Scotia s recent wound I may deplore.\\nO heavy loss, thy country ill could bear\\nA loss these evil days can ne er repair\\nJustice, the high vicegerent of her God,\\nHer doubtful balance eyed, and sway d her rod;\\nHearing the tidings of the fatal blow\\nShe sunk, abandoned to the wildest woe.\\nWrongs, injuries from many a darksome den,\\nNow gay in hope explore the paths of men\\n1 Genius, or disposition. Wish,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0263.jp2"}, "264": {"fulltext": "232 RURNS,\\nSee from his cavern grim Oppression rise,\\nAnd tiirow on Poverty his cruel eyes\\nKeen on the helpless victim see him fly,\\nAnd stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry\\nMark ruffian Violence, distain d with crimes,\\nRousing elate in these degenerate times\\nView unsuspecting Innocence a prey,\\nAs guileful Fraud points out the erring vf ay\\nWhile subtile Litigation s pliant tongue\\nThe life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong.\\nHark, injured Want recounts th unlisten d tale,\\nAnd much-wrong d Mis ry pours th unpitied wail\\nYe dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,\\nTo you I sing my grief -inspired strains\\nYe tempests, rage ye turbid torrents, roll\\nYe suit the joyless tenor of my soul.\\nLife s social haunts and pleasures I resign.\\nBe nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,\\nTo mourn the woes my country must endure,\\nThat wound degenerate ages cannot cure.\\nTO JOHN M^MURDO, ESQ.*\\nO, COULD I give thee India s wealth,\\nAs I this trifle send\\nBecause thy joy in both would be\\nTo share them with a friend.\\nBut golden sands did never grace\\nThe Heliconian stream\\nThen take what gold could never buy-\\nAn honest Bard s esteem.\\nON fHE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO\\nIn wood and wild, ye warbling throng,\\nYour hea\\\\7- loss deplore\\nNow half -extinct your powers of song,\\nSweet Echo is no more.\\nSteward to the Diilce of Queensberry.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0264.jp2"}, "265": {"fulltext": "THE KIRICS ALARM. ^33\\nYe jarring, screeching things around,\\nScream your discordant joys\\nNow half your din of tuneless sound\\nWith Echo silent lies.\\nTHE KIRK S ALARM.*\\nA SATIRE.\\nOrthodox, orthodox,\\nWha believe in John Knox,\\nLet me sound an alarm to your conscience^\\nThere s a heretic blast,\\nHas been blawn i- the wast,\\nThat what is not sense must be nonsense.\\nDoctor Mac, Doctor Mac;\\nYe should stretch on a rack,\\nTo strike evil-doers wi terror;\\nTo join faith and sense,\\nUpon any pretence,\\nIs heretic, damnable error.\\nTown of Ayr, town of Ayr,\\nIt was mad, I declare,\\nTo meddle wi mischief a-brewing;\\nProvost John is still deaf\\nTo the Church s relief.\\nAnd Orator Bob is its ruin.\\nD rymple mild, D rymple mild,\\nTho your heart s like a child,\\n1 It is impossible to look back now to the civil war which then\\nraged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without con.\\nfessing that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little\\n\u00e2\u0099\u00a6o blame; and no one can doubt that, in the, at best, unsettled state\\nof Robert Bums principles, the unhappy effect must have been\\npowerful indeed, as to him. M Gill and Dalrymple, the two minis-\\nters of the town of Ayr, had long been suspected of entertainiisg\\nheterodox opinions. The gf\u00c2\u00bbntry of the country took, for the\\nmost part, the side of M Gill: the bulk of the lower orders espoused\\nthe cause of those who conducted the prosecution against this err\\ning Doctor. Gavin Hamilton, and all persons of his stamp, were, of\\ncourse, on the side of M Gill; Auld. and the Mauchline Elders, with\\nhis enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, had the principal\\nmanagement of MGiil s cause. He was an intimate friend of Ham\\nllton, and through him had formed an acquaintance which now\\nripened into a warm friendship with Bums. M Gill, DalrjrmpJe, and\\ntheir brethren were the New-hght Pastors of his earliest Satires.\\n^LockharVs Life of Burns, p. 60.\\nRobert Aiken, agent, or, as we should say, attorney for Dr. M GUL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0265.jp2"}, "266": {"fulltext": "834 BURNS.\\nAnd your life like the new-driven snaw,\\nYet that winna save ye,\\nOld Satan must have ye,\\nFor preaching that three s ane an twa.\\nCalvin s sons, Calvin s sons,\\nSeize your spiritual guns,\\nAmmunition ye never can need;\\nYour hearts are the stuff,\\nWill be powder enough,\\nAnd your skulls are storehouses of lead.\\nRumble John, Rumble John,^\\nMount the steps wi a groan,\\nCry, the book is with heresy cramm d;\\nThen lug out your ladle.\\nDeal brimstone like adle,^\\nAnd roar every note o the damn d.\\nSimper James, Simper James,\\nLeave the fair Killie dames,\\nThere s a holier chase in your view;\\nI ll lay on your head,\\nThat the pack ye ll soon lead.\\nFor puppies like you there s but few.\\nSinget Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,*\\nAre ye herding the penny.\\nUnconscious what danger awaits?\\nWith a jump, yell, and howl,\\nAlarm every soul.\\nFor Hannibal s just at your gates.\\nAndrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,*\\nYe may slander the book.\\nAnd the book nought the waur let me tell you;\\nTho ye re rich and look big,\\nYet lay by hat and wig,\\nAnd ye ll hae a calf s-head o sma value.\\nBarr Steenie, Barr Steenie,\u00c2\u00ae\\nWhat mean ye? what mean ye?\\nJohn Russell, with the loud voice. Stagnant water.\\nJames M Kinla. Alexander Moodie. Dr. MitcheQ\\nStephen Young, Barr.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0266.jp2"}, "267": {"fulltext": "THE KIRICS ALARM. 235\\nIf ye ll meddle uae mair wi llie matter\\nYe may hae some pretence\\nTo havins and sense\\nWr people wha ken ye nae better.\\nJamie Goose, Jamie Goose,*\\nYe hae made but toom roose,\\nIn hunting the wicked Lieutenant;\\nBut the Doctor s your mark,\\nFor the Lord s haly ark,\\nHe has cooper d and ca d a wrang pin in t,\\nDavie Bluster, Davie Bluster,\\nFor a saunt if ye muster.\\nIt s a sign they re no nice o recruits,\\nYet to worth let s be just,\\nRoyal blood ye might boast,\\nIf the ass was the king o the brutes.\\nMuirland Jock, Muirland Jock,^\\nWhen the L makes a rock,\\nTo crush Common Sense for her sins\\nIf ill manners were wit.\\nThere s no mortal so fit.\\nTo confound the poor Doctor at ance.\\nCessnockside, Cessnockside,*\\nWi your turkey-cock pride,\\nO manhood but sma is your share\\nYe ve the figure, it s true.\\nEven our faes maun allow,\\nAnd your friends daui-na say ye hae mair.\\nDaddie Auld, Daddie Auld,*\\nThere s a tod* i the fauld,\\nA tod meikle waur than the-clerk;\\nTho ye downa do skaith,\\nYe ll be in at the death,\\niind if ye canna bite, ye can bark.\\nPoet Burns, Poet Burns,\\nWi your priest-skelping turns,\\nMr. Young. -^y^ Grant. Mr. John Sheppard.\\nMr. G. Smith. Of Mauchiine. Fox. Gavin Hamiltoik", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0267.jp2"}, "268": {"fulltext": "1^ BU^NS.\\nWhy desert ye your auld native shiret\\nTho your Muse is a gipsy,\\nYet were she even tipsy,\\nShfi could ca us nae waur than we art,*\\nDAIKTIE DAVIE.\\nKow rosy May comes in wi flowers,\\nTo deck her gay, green-spreading bowew;\\nAnd now come in my happy hours.\\nTo wander wi my Davie.\\nCHORUS.\\nMeet me on the warlock-knowe,\\nDaintie Davie, daintie Davie,\\nThere I ll spend the day wi you,\\nMy ain dear daintie Davie.\\nThe crystal waters round us fa\\\\\\nThe merry birds arc lovers a\\nThe scented breezes round us blaw,\\nA wandering wi- my Davie.\\nMeet me, c.\\nWhen purple morning starts the har%\\nTo steal upon her early fare,\\nThen through the dews I will repaii.\\nTo meet my faithfu Davie.\\nMeet me, c.\\nWhen day, expiring in the west,\\nThe curtain draws o Nature s rest,\\nI flee to his arms I lo e best.\\nAnd that s my ain dear Davie.\\nMeet me, c.\\nfhe chosen champioDS of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, presented.\\niTi many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad\\na mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. That Burns has\\ngrossly overcharged the portraits of them, deepening the shadowi\\nthat were sufficiently dark, and excluding altogether those brighter,\\nand perhaps softer, traits of character which redeemed the o/ igin*\\nals within the sympathies of many of the worthiest and beat of men\\nseems equally clear.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LocfcTmr^, p. 62.\\nA knoll where wizards have held tryste.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0268.jp2"}, "269": {"fulltext": "ELEGY, ETC. 237\\nTHE SELKIRK GRACE.\\nBoME hae meat, and canna eat,\\nAnd some wad eat that want it;\\nBut we hae meat and we can eat,\\nAnd sae the Lord be thankit.\\nBLE^IT ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON\\nPEe Nicholson was a gude bay mare,\\nAs ever trode on aim\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\nAn past the mouth o Cairn.\\nPeg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,\\nAn rode thro thick an thin\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\nAn wanting ev n the skin.\\nPeg Nicholson was a gude bay mare.\\nAn ance she bare a priest\\nBut now she s floating down the Nith,\\nFor Solway fish a feast.\\nPeg Nicholson was a gude bay mare.\\nAn the priest he rode her sair\\nAn meikle oppress d an bruised she was,\\nAs^ priest-rid cattle are.\\nON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE\\nCHARACTER.\\nSweet naivete of feature,\\nSimple, wild, enchanting elf.\\nNot to thee, but thanks to Nature,\\nThou art acting but thyself,\\nWert thou awkward, stiff, affected,\\nSpuming nature, torturing art\\nLoves and graces all rejected.\\nThen indeed thou d st act a part.\\n8akl by Bums, at the request of the Earl of 8elkirlL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0269.jp2"}, "270": {"fulltext": "238 BURNS,\\nTHE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.*\\nThe solemn League and Covenant\\nCost Scotland blood cost Scotland tears;\\nBut it seal d Freedom s sacred cause\\nIf thou rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.\\nON MISS JESSY LEWARS.\\nTalk not to me of savages\\nFrom Afric s burning sun,\\nNo savage e er could rend my heart,\\nAs, Jessy, thou hast done.\\nBut Jessy s lovely hand in mine,\\nA mutual faith to plight.\\nNot ev n to view the Heavenly choir,\\nWould be so blest a sight.\\nEPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.\\nSay, Sages, what s the charm on earth\\nCan turn Death s dart aside?\\nIt is not purity and worth,\\nElse Jessy had not died.\\nTHE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.\\nBut rarely seen since Nature s birth,\\nThe natives of the sky,\\nYet still one Seraph s left on earth.\\nFor Jessy did not die.\\nTHE TOAST.\\nFill me with the rosy wine,\\nCall a toast, a toast divine\\nGive the Poet s darling flame,\\nLovely Jessy be the name\\nThen thou mayest freely boast,\\nThou hast given a peerless toast.\\nIn reply to a gentleman who undei valued the sufiPerings of\\nScotland *for conscience sake.\\n2 Playfully written, when she was indisposed.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0270.jp2"}, "271": {"fulltext": "THE BOOK-WORMS. 239\\nTHE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.\\nAs cauld a wiud as ever blew,\\nA caulder kirk, and in t but few;\\nAs cauld a minister s e er spak,\\nYe se a be het^ ere I come back.\\nTO MISS C\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF uF ONE\\nOF MISS HANNAH MORE S WORKS.\\nThou flattering mark of friendship kind,\\nStill may thy pages call to mind\\nThe dear, the beauteous donor\\nThough sweetly female every part,\\nYet such a head, and more the heart,\\nDoes both the sexes honour.\\nShe showed her taste refined and just\\nWhen she selected thee,\\nYet deviating, own I must.\\nFor so approving me.\\nBut kind still, Til mind still\\nThe giver in the gift\\nI ll bless her and wiss her\\nA Friend above the Lift.\\nINSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.\\nTheke s death in the cup sae beware\\nNay, more\u00e2\u0080\u0094 there is danger in touching;\\nBut wha can avoid the fell snare?\\nThe man and his wine sae bewitching I\\nTHE BOOK-WORMS.^\\nThkough and through the inspired leaves,\\nYe maggots, make your windings\\nBut, oh respect his Lordship s taste,\\nAnd spare his golden bindings.\\nHot. Sky.\\nSuggested by a splendidly bound, but worm-eaten copy of Shakar*\\npeare.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0271.jp2"}, "272": {"fulltext": "240 BURIES,\\nON ROBERT RIDDEL.\\nTo Riddel, much-lamented man,\\nThis ivied cot was dear\\nReader, dost value matchless worth?\\nThe ivied cot revere.\\nWILLIE CHALMERS.\\nWi braw new branks in mickle pride^\\nAnd eke a braw new brechan,*\\nMy Pegasus I m got astride,\\nAnd up Parnassus pechin\\nWhiles owre a bush wi downward cnub\\nThe doited beastie stammers;\\nThen up he gets, and off he sets,\\nFor sake o Willie Chalmers.\\nI doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn d nami\\nMay cost a pair o blushes\\nI am nae stranger to your fame,\\nNor his warm-urged wishes.\\nYour bonnie face sae mild and sweet,\\nHis honest heart enamours,\\nAnd, faith, ye ll no be lost a whit,\\nTho waired on Willie Chalmers.\\nAuld Truth herseP might swear ye re faixy\\nAnd Honour safely back her,\\nAnd Modesty assume your air.\\nAnd ne er a ane mistak her\\nAnd sic twa love-inspiring een\\nM ght fire even holy Palmers\\nNae wonder then they ve fatal been\\nTo honest Willie Chalmers.\\nI doubt nae fortune may you shore\\nSome mim-mou d* pouthered priestie;\\nFu lifted up wi Hebrew lore,\\nAnd band upon his breastie\\nMr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of\\nmine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, kli\\nDulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquaintea with her,\\nand wrote as follows.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nWith new bridle and collar. Panting. Gtentle-mouthed,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0272.jp2"}, "273": {"fulltext": "TO JOHN TA YLOR. 241\\nBut oh 1 what signifies to you,\\nHis lexicons and grammars\\nThe feeling heart s the royal bl lo,\\nAnd that s wi Willie Chalmers.\\nSome gapin* glowrin countra laird\\nMay warsle for your favour\\nJVIay claw his lug, and straik his beard,\\nAnd hoast up some palaver;\\nMy bonny maid, before ye wed\\nSic clumsy-witted hammers,\\nSeek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp\\nAwa wi Willie Chalmers.\\nForgive the Eard my fond regard,\\nFor ane that shares my bosom.\\nInspires my muse to gie m his dues,\\nFor deil a hair I roose^ him.\\nMay powers aboon unite you soon,\\nAnd fructify your amours,\\nAnd every year come in mair dear\\nTo ^ou and Willie Chalmers.\\nTO JOHN TAYLOR.\\nWith Pegasus upon a day,\\nApollo, weary flying,\\nThrough frosty hills the journey lay.\\nOn foot the way was plying.\\nPoor slip-shod giddy Pegasus\\nWas but a sorry walker\\nTo Vulcan then Apollo goes,\\nTo get a frosty calker.\\nObliging Vulcan fell to work,\\nThrew by his coat and bonnet.\\nAnd did Sol s business in a crack\\nSol paid him with a sonnet.\\nYe Vulcan s sons of Wanlockhead,\\nPity my sad disaster\\nMy Pegasus is poorly shod^\\nI ll pay you like my master.\\nPraise.\\nBums, during one of his excise journeys, on a winter day, found\\nit necessary to get his horse s shoes roughed. The blacksmith\\nwas very busy; and the Poet sought Mr. Taylor s influence in ob*\\ntaming bis aid.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0273.jp2"}, "274": {"fulltext": "242 BURNS.\\nLINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.\\nThe following verses, in the handwriting of Bums, were copied\\nfrom a bank-note, in the possession of Mr. James F. Gracie, of\\nDumfries. The note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated on the\\n1st of March, 1780.\\nWae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf I\\nFail source o a my woe and grief I\\nFor lack o thee I ve lost my lass\\nFor lack o thee I scrimp my glass.\\nI see the children of affliction\\nUnaided, thro thy curs d restriction.\\nI ve seen the oppressor s cruel smile,\\nAmid his hapless victim s spoil.\\nAnd for thy potence vainly wish d,\\nTo crush the villain in the dust.\\nFor lack o thee I leave this much-lov d shore,\\nNever, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.\\nBURNS\u00e2\u0080\u0094 EXTEIVIPORE.\\nYe true Loyal Natives, attend to my song,\\nIn uproar and riot rejoice the night long;\\nFrom envy and hatred your corps is exempt\\nBut where is your shield from the darts of contempt!\\nREMORSE.\\nOf all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,\\nThat press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish.\\nBeyond comparison, the worst are those\\nThat to our folly, or our guilt, we owe.\\nThe political fever ran high in 1794, and a member of a club at\\nDumfries, called the Loyal Natives, in a violent paroxvsm, produced\\npome verses, to which Burns gave the extempore repiy.\\n2 I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in\\nhis excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the\\nmost painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any\\nordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those\\ncalamities in the procurement of which we oursc?lves have had no\\nhand; but when our own follies or crimes have made us miserable\\nand wretched, to bea.r up witli manly firmness, and at the same\\ntime have aproper peniteatial sense of our misconduct, is aglorioiw\\neffort of self-command. \u00e2\u0080\u0094K D.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0274.jp2"}, "275": {"fulltext": "IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE. 243\\nIn every other circumstance, the mind\\nHas this to say It was no deed of mine;*\\nBut when to all the evil of misfortune\\nThis sting is added Blame thy foolish self I\\nOr worser far, the pangs of keen Kemorse\\nThe torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nOf guilt, perhaps, where we ve involved others;\\nThe young, the innocent, who fondly lov d us;\\nNay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!\\nO burning hell in all thy store of torments, X\\nThere s not a keener lash I\\nLives there a man so firm, who, while his heart\\nFeels all the bitter horrors of his crime,\\nCan reason down its agonizing throbs\\nAnd, after proper purpose of amendment,\\nCan firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?\\nO, happy happy enviable man 1\\nO glorious magnanimity of soul 1\\nTO\\nMossgiel. 178^\\nSib,\\nYours this moment I unseal,\\nAnd faith I m gay and hearty!\\nTo tell the truth an shame the Deil,\\nI am as fu as Bartie\\nBut foorsday. Sir, my promise leal\\nExpect me o your party,\\nIf on a beastie I can speel,\\nOr hurl in a cartie.\\nB. B.\\nEST VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.\\nIn vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer.\\nPoint out a cens ring world, and bid me fear;\\nAbove that world on wings of love I rise,\\nI know its worst and do that worst despise.\\n**Wrong d, injur d, shunn d, unpitied, unredwst,-\\nThe mock d quotation of the scorner s jest,\\nLet Prudence dii-est bodements on me fall,\\nClarinda, rich reward o erpays them all 1\\nA proverb for a drinker, Climb.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0275.jp2"}, "276": {"fulltext": "2^4 BURNS.\\nTHOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE.\\nThough fickle Fortune has deceived me,\\nShe promis d fair and perform d but ill\\nOf mistress, friends, and wealth bereav d me,\\nYet I bear a heart shall support me still.\\nI ll act with prudence as far s I m able,\\nBut if success I must never find.\\nThen come, Misfortune, I bid thee welcome,\\nril meet thee with an undaunted mind.\\nI BURN, I BURN.\\nI BURN, I burn, as when thro ripen d com,\\nBy driving winds the crackling flames are borne,\\nNow maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night;\\nNow bless the hour which chami d my guilty sight\\nIn vain the laws their feeble force oppose\\nChained at his feet they groan, Love s vanquish d foea;\\nIn vam Religion meets my sinking eye\\nI dare not combat but I turn and fly\\nConscience in vain upbraids th unhallowed fire;\\nLove grasps his scorpions stifled they expire\\nReason droj)s headlong from his sacred throne,\\nYour dear idea reigns and reigns alone\\nEach thought intoxicated homage yields,\\nAnd riots wanton in forbidden fields\\nBy all on high adoring mortals know\\nBy all the conscious villain fears below\\nBy 3^our dear self I the last great oath I swear;\\nNor life nor soul were ever half so dear I\\nThe above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy\\ntrain of misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me alto-\\ngether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period before men-\\ntioned (March. 1784); and though thn weather has brightened up a\\nlittle with me since, yet there has always been a tempest brewing\\nround me in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see\\nwill some time or other, perhaps ere lon^r, overwhelm me. and drive\\nme into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness.\\nHowever, as I hope my poor coimtry Muse, who. all rustic, awkward,\\nfind unpolished as she is, has more* charms for me than any other\\nof the pleasures of life beside\u00e2\u0080\u0094 as I hope she will not then desert\\nme, I may end, then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and\\ntowth a sang to soothe my misery.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n3 To dlarinda.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0276.jp2"}, "277": {"fulltext": "TO THE OWL.\\nTAM, THE CHAPMAN.\\nAs Tarn, the Chapman, on a day\\nWi\u00c2\u00bb Death forgather d by the way,\\nWeel pleas d, he greets a wight sae famous,\\nAnd Death was nae less pleased wi* Thomas,\\nWha cheerfully lays down the pack,\\nAnd there blaws up a hearty crack\\nHis social, friendly, honest heart,\\nSae tickled Death they could na part:\\nSae after viewing knives and garters.\\nDeath takes him hame to gie him quarters.\\nTO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSY STAIG S\\nRECOVERY.\\nMaxwell, if merit here you crave,\\nThat merit I deny\\nTon save fair Jessy from the grave i\\nAn Angel could not die.\\nON A SICK CHILD.\\nNow health forsakes that angel face,\\nNae mair my Dearie smiles\\nPale sickness withers ilka grace.\\nAnd a my hopes beguiles.\\nThe cruel Powers reject the prayer\\nI hourly mak for thee\\nYe Heavens, how great is my despair,\\nHow can I see him die\\nTO THE OWL.\\nBY JOHN M CREDDIE.2\\n8a^ Bird of Night, what sorrow calls thee forth,\\nTo vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?\\nIs it some blast that gathers in the north,\\nThreatening to nip the verdure of thy bow r?\\n^l^L Svk who is styled Chapman, in allusion to hia con.\\n?S^ S^ a mercantile house, as agent.\\n-^eirJ Y^^^die is supposed to be a mythical personage, the rer*\\nses having been found m the hand writing of Burns.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0277.jp2"}, "278": {"fulltext": "246 BURNS,\\nIs it, sad Owl, that Autumn strips the shade,\\nAnd leaves thee here, unshelter d and forlorn?\\nOr fear that Winter will thy nest invade?\\nOr friendly Melancholy bids thee mourn\\nShut out, lone Bird, from all the feather d train,\\nTo tell thy sorrows to th unheeding gloom\\nNo friend to pity when thou dost complain.\\nGrief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.\\nSing on, sad mourner I will bless thy strain.\\nAnd pleased in sorrow listen to thy song\\nSing on, sad mourner to the night complain,\\nWhile the lone echo wafts thy notes along.\\nIs beauty less, when down the glowing cheek\\nSad piteous tears in native sorrows fall?\\nLess kind the heart, when Sorrow bids it break?\\nLess happy he who lists to pity s call?\\nAh no, sad Owl nor is thy voice less sweet,\\nThat Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there\\nThat Spring s gay notes, unskilled, thou canst repeat\\nAnd Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.\\nNor that the treble songsters of the day,\\nAre quite estranged, sad Bird of night! from thee;\\nNor that the thrush deserts the evening spray.\\nWhen darkness calls thee from thy reverie.\\nFrom some old tower, thy melancholy dome,\\nWhile the grey walls and desert solitudes\\nReturn each note, responsive, to the gloom\\nOf ivied coverts and surrounding woods;\\nThere hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,\\nThan ever lover to the nightingale\\nOr drooping wretch, oppress d with misery.\\nLending his ear to some condoling tale.\\n^^WAS E ER PUIR POET.\\n**Was e er puir Poet sae befitted,\\nThe maister drunk the horse committed\\nPuir harmless beast tak thee nae care,\\nThou lt be a horse, v^^hen he s nae inair (mayor).\\nBurns once visited Carlisle; and while he vras in the condition\\nwhich his verses describe, the Mayor put his horse, which had tres-\\npassed on a corpoitttion meadow, iu to the i^ound/", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0278.jp2"}, "279": {"fulltext": "TO THE RUINS OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY, 217\\nTHERE^S KAETHING LIKE THE HONEST NA^PY,\\nThere s iiaetliiDg like the honest nappy I\\nWhaur 11 ye e er see men sae happy,\\nOr women sonsie, saft, an sappy,\\nTween morn and morn,\\nAs them wha like to taste the drappie\\nIn glass or horn.\\nIVe seen me daez t upon a time;\\nI scarce could wink or see a styme\\nJust ae hauf muchkin does me prime,\\nOught less is little\\nThen back I rattle on the rhyme\\nAs gleg s a whittle I\\nTO THE RUINS OF LESTCLUDEN ABBEY.*\\nYe holy walls, that still sublime\\nResist the crumbling touch of Time,\\nHow strongly still your form displays\\nThe piety of ancient days.\\nAs through your ruins, hoar and grey\\nRuins, yet beauteous in decay\\nThe silvery moonbeams trembling fly,\\nThe forms of ages long gone by\\nCrowd thick on Fancy s w^ond ring eye.\\nAnd wake the soul to musings high.\\nEv n now, as lost in thought profoimd,\\nI view the solemn scene around,\\nAnd pensive gaze with wistful eyes,\\nThe past returns, the present flies\\nAgain the dome, in pristine pride,\\nLifts high its roof, and arches wide,\\nThat, knit with curious tracery\\nEach Gothic ornament display\\nThe high-arched windows, painted fair,\\nShow many a saint and martyr there\\nAs on their slender forms I gaze,\\nMethinks they brighten to a blaze\\nWith noiseless step and taper bright.\\nWhat are yon forms that meet my sight?\\nSlowly they move, while every eye\\nIs heavenward raised in ecstasy\\n1 Glimmer. 2 Half-a-pini.\\nOn the banks of the river Cluden, near Dumfries. The verses\\nwere ascribed to Burns by an anonymous writer, and are included\\nin later editions of his works.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0279.jp2"}, "280": {"fulltext": "248 BURNS.\\nTis the fair, spotless, vestal train,\\nThat seeks in prayer the midnight fane.\\nAnd hark what more than mortal sound\\nOf music breathes tlie pile around?\\nTis the soft-chaunted choral song,\\nWhose tones the echoing aisles prolong:\\nTill thence return d they softly stray\\nO er Cluden s wave with fond delay\\nNow an the rising gale swell high.\\nAnd now in fainting murmurs die\\nThe boatmen on Nith s gentle stream,\\nThat glistens in the pale moon s beam,\\nSuspend their dashing oars to hear\\nThe holy anthem, loud and clear;\\nEach worldly tliought a while forbear,\\nAnd mutter forth a half-formed prayer.\\nBut as I gaze, the vision fails.\\nLike frost-work touch d by southern gales;\\nThe altar sinks, the tapers fade,\\nAnd all the splendid scene s decay d.\\nIn window fair the painted pane\\nNo longer glows with holy stain.\\nBut, through the broken glass, the gale\\nBlows chilly from the misty vale.\\nThe bird of eve flits sullen by.\\nHer home, these aisles and arches high:\\nThe choral hymn, that erst so clear\\nBroke softly sweet on Fancy s ear,\\nIs drown d amid the mournful scream,\\nThat breaks the magic of my dream\\nRoused by the sound, I start and see\\nThe ruin d, sad reality.\\nPROLOGUE,^ SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HI3\\nBENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787,\\nWhen by a generous Public s kind acclaim.\\nThat dearest meed is granted honest fame\\nWhen here your favour is the actor s lot,\\nNor even the man in private life forgot;\\nWhat breast, so dead to heavenly virtue s glow,\\nBut heaves impassion d with the grateful throe?\\nPoor is the task to please a barb rous throng,\\nIt needs no Siddons power in Southern s song:\\n1 Ascribed to Bunis on very slight evidence.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0280.jp2"}, "281": {"fulltext": "y RA GIC FRA GMBNT, 249\\nBut here an ancient nation, fam d afar\\nFor genius, learning high, as great in war\\nHail, Caledonia name for ever dear\\nBefore whose sons I m honour d to appear\\nWhere every science, every nobler art\\nThat can inform the mind, or mend the heart,\\nIs known as grateful nations oft have found,\\nFar as the rude barbarian marks the bound.\\nPhilosophy, no idle, pedant dream.\\nHere holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason s beam\\nHere History paints, with elegance and force,\\nThe tide of Empire s fluctuating course\\nHere Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,\\nAnd Harley rouses all the God in man.\\nWhen well-forni d taste, and sparkling wit unite.\\nWith manly lore, or female beauty bright,\\n(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,\\nCan only charm us in the second place),\\nWitness my heart, how oft with panting fear,\\nAs on this night, I ve met these judges here\\nBut still the hope Experience taught to live,\\njEqual to judge you re candid to forgive.\\n2^0 hundred -headed Riot here we meet,\\nWith decency and law beneath his feet,\\nNor Insolence assumes fair Freedom s name\\nLike Caledonians, you applaud or blame,\\nO Thou, dread Power whose empire-giving hand\\nHas oft been stretch d to shield the honour d land I\\nStrong may she glow with all her ancient fire\\nMay every son be worthy of his sire\\nFirm may she rise with generous disdain\\nAt Tyranny s, or direr Pleasure s, chain\\nStill self-dependent in her native shore.\\nBold may she brave grim Danger s loudest roar\\nTill Fate the cui-tain drop on worlds to be no more.\\nTRAGIC FRAGMENT.\\nAll devil as I am, a damned wretch,\\nA harden d, stubborn, unrepenting villain,\\nStill my heart melts at human wretchedness\\nAnd with sincere, tho unavailing, sighs\\nI view the helpless children of distress.\\nWith tears indignant I behold the oppressor\\nIn my early years nothing less would serve me than courting the\\nTragic Muse. I was, I think, about eighteen or nineteen when I", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0281.jp2"}, "282": {"fulltext": "250 BURNS.\\nRejoicing in the honest man s destructioii,\\nWhose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.\\nEven you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;\\nYe, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;\\nYe poor, despis d, abandoned vagabonds,\\nWhom Vice, as usual, has turn d o er to Ruin.\\nbut for kind, tho ill-requited friends,\\n1 had been driven forth like you, forlorn,\\nThe most detested, worthless wretch among you!\\nO injui* d God! thy goodness has endow d me\\nWith talents passing most of my compeers,\\nWhich I in just proportion have abus d\\nAs far surpassing other common villains,\\nAs Thou in natural parts had given me more.*\\nO CAN YE LABOUR LEA.\\nCAN ye labour lea, young man,\\nAn can ye labour lea\\nGae back the gate ye cam again,\\nYe se never scorn me.\\n1 feed a man at Martinmas,\\nWi airr-pennies three\\nAn a the faut I fan wi him,\\nHe couldna labour lea.\\nThe stibble rig is easy plough d,\\nThe fallow land is free\\nBut wha wad keep the handless coof,\\nThat couldna labour lea?\\nO Thou, in whom we live and move,\\nWho mad st the sea and shore;\\nThy goodness constantly we prove,\\nAnd grateful would adore.\\nAnd if it please thee, Pow r above!\\nStill grant us with such store,\\nThe friend we trust, the fair we love,\\nAnd we desire no more.\\nsketched the outhnes of a trag^clv, forsooth: but the bursting of a\\ncioud of family mL-^fortuiies, vvhi jh had for some time threatened\\nus, prevented my fi: ether progress. In tboso days I never wrote\\ndown anything; so. except a speech or two, the whole has escaped\\nmy memory. The loilo wing, \u00e2\u0080\u00a2which I mo^3t disrinctly remember, was\\nan exclamation from a great character great in occasional in-\\nstances of generosity, and daring at times in villanies.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n1 bilvcr penny given as hiring money.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0282.jp2"}, "283": {"fulltext": "Sntigs*\\nTHE LASS 0\u00c2\u00bb BALLOCHMYLE.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MISS FORBKS S FAREWELL TO BANFF.\\nTwAS even the dewy fields were green,\\nOn every blade the pearls hang,\\nThe Zephyrs wanton d round the bean,\\nAnd bore its fragrant sweets alang\\nIn every glen the Mavis sang,\\nAll nature listening seem d the while,\\nExcept where green-wood echoes rang,\\nAmang the braes o Ballochmyle.\\nWith careless step I onward stray d,\\nMy heart rejoic d in nature s joy,\\nWhen musing in a lonely glade,\\nA maiden fair I chanc d to spy\\nHer look was like the morning s eye,\\nHer air like nature s vernal smile,\\nPerfection whisper d, passing by,\\nBehold the Lass o Ballochmyle I\\nFair is the morn in flowery May,\\nAnd sweet is night in Autumn mild,\\nWhen roving through the garden gay,\\nOr wandering in a lonely wild\\nBut Woman, Nature s darling child\\nThere all her charms she does compile\\nEv n there her other works are foil d\\nBy the bonnie Lass o Ballochmyle.\\nThe Lass of Ballochmyle was Miss Alexander, whose brother\\nhad recently come to reside in Ballochmyle House, of which the\\npleasure grounds extend along the north bank of the Ayr. The farm\\nof Burns, Mossgiel, was in the immediate neighbourhood. He inclosed\\na copy of the song to Miss Alexander, and was extremely indignant\\nat the lady s silence respecting his letter. Of the verses his own\\nopinion. was justly high:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I think myself, he told Mrs. Stewart of\\nStair, ^it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of\\nNatui*e s scenes a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of\\nNature s workmanship,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the finest indeed we know anything of \u00e2\u0080\u0094an\\nH-raiable, beautiful young woman.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0283.jp2"}, "284": {"fulltext": "253 BURNS.\\nO, had she been a country maid,\\nAnd I the happy country swain,\\nTho sheltered in the lowest shed\\nThat ever rose in Scotland s plain\\nThro weary Winter s wind and rain,\\nWith joy, with rapture, I would toil;\\nAnd nightly to my bosom strain\\nThe bonnie Lass o Ballochmyle.\\nThen pride might climb the slipp ry steep\\nWhere fame and honours lofty shine\\nAnd thirst of gold might tempt the deep,\\nOr downward seek the Indian mine\\nGive me the cot below the pine,\\nTo tend the flocks, or till the soil,\\nAnd C /ery day have joys divine,\\nWith the bonnie Lass o Ballochmyle.*\\nSONG OF DEATH.\\nA GAELIC AIR.\\nScene\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A field of battle. Time of the day\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Evening. The ii^ i\u00c2\u00bbi\\\\5Ml\\nand dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in tibw osJi\\nFarewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,\\nNow gay with the broad setting sun\\nFarewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties.\\nOur race of existence is run\\nThou grim King of Terrors, thou life s gloomy foe 1\\nGo, frighten the coward and slave\\nGo, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant but know,\\nNo terrors hast thou for the brave\\nThou strik st the dull peasant ^he sinks in the dark,\\nNor saves e en the wreck of a name\\nThou strik st the young hero a glorious markl\\nHe falls in the blaze of his fame\\nIn the field of proud honour our swords in our hands,\\nOur King and our Country to save\\nWhile victory shines on life s last ebbing sands,\\nO who would not die with the brave 1\\n1 Under the above song is written Miss Wilhe Alexander.\\nWhen the pressing nature of pubhc affairs called, in 1795, for a\\ngeneral arming of the people, Burns appeared in the ranks of the\\nDumfries Volunteers, employed his poetical talents in stimulating\\ntheir patriotism and at this season of alarm he brought forward the\\nfollowing hymn.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 (CuRaiE.) The song was written in 1791.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0284.jp2"}, "285": {"fulltext": "AULD ROB MORRIS. ^53\\nMY AIjST kind DEARIE! O.\\nWhen o er the hill the eastern star\\nTells bughtin-time^ is near, my jo-\\nAnd owsen* frae the furrow d field\\nReturn sae dowf and wearie, O\\nDown by the burn, where scented birki\\nWi dew are hanging clear, my jo\\nI ll meet thee on the lea-rig,\\nMy ain kind dearie O.\\nIn mirkest glen, at midnight hour,\\nI d rove, and ne er be eerie, O,\\nIf thro that glen I gaed to thee,\\nMy ain kind dearie, O.\\nAltho the night were ne er sae wild,\\nAnd I were ne er sae wearie, O,\\nI d meet thee on the lea-rig,\\nMy ain kind dearie O.\\nThe hunter lo es the morning sun,\\nTo rouse the mountain deer, my jo*\\nAt noon the fisher seeks the glen,\\nAlong the burn to steer, my jo\\nGie me the hour o gloamin grey\\nIt maks my heart sae cheery, O\\nTo meet thee on the lea-rig,\\nMy ain kind dearie O.\\nAULD ROB MORRIS.\\nTheke s auld Rob Morris that wons^ in yon fflen\\nHe s the king o^ guid fellows and wale of auld m en-\\nHe has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine\\nAnd ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.\\nShe s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;\\nShe s sweet as the evening amang the new hay;\\nAs blythe and as artless as lamb on the lea,\\nAnd dear to my heart, as the light to my e e.\\nBut oh! she s an heiress, auld Robin s a laird.\\nAnd my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard:\\nA wooer like me maunna hope to come speed\\nTae wound I must hide that will soon be my dead.\\nTime of collecting the sheep. 2 oxen. Dwellg.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0285.jp2"}, "286": {"fulltext": "254 BURNS.\\nThe day comes to me, but deligtit brings me nane\\nThe night comes to me, but my rest it is gane\\nI wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist,\\nAnd I sigh as my heart it wud burst in my breast.\\nhad she but been of a lower degree,\\n1 then might hae hop d she wad smiFd upon me;\\nO how past describing had then been my bliss,\\nAs now my distraction no words can express I\\nNAEBODY.\\nI HAE a wife o my ain,\\nI ll partake wi naebody;\\nI ll tak cuckold frae nane,\\nI ll gie cuckold to naebody,\\nI hae a penny to spend.\\nThere thanks to naebody;\\nI hae naething to lend,\\nI ll borrow frae naebody.\\nI am naebody 3 lord,\\nI ll be slave to naebody\\nI hae a guid braid sword,\\nI ll tak dunts^ frae naebody,\\nI ll be merry and free,\\nI ll be sad for naebody\\nIf naebody care for me,\\nI ll care for naebody.\\nMY WIFE S A WINSOME WEE THING.\\nShe is a winsome wee thing.\\nShe is a handsome wee thing,\\nShe is a bonnie wee thing.\\nThis sweet wee wife o mine.\\n1 Knocks.\\nThere is peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity\\nof adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the\\nfeature-notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under\\nalmost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, My Wife s\\na wanton wee Thing, if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be\\nadapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made\\nextempore to it and though, on further study, I might give you\\nsomething moie profound, yet it might not suit the light-hoi-se gallop\\nof the air so well as this random oiink.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Burns to Thomson,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0286.jp2"}, "287": {"fulltext": "DUNCAN GRAY. 255\\nI never saw a fairer,\\nI never lo ed a dearer,\\nAnd neist^ my heart I ll wear her,\\nFor fear my jewel tine.\\nShe is a winsome wee thing,\\nShe is a handsome wee thing,\\nShe is a bonnie wee thing,\\nThis sweet wee wife o mine.\\nThe warld s wrack we share o t,\\nThe warstle and the care o t\\nWi her I ll blythely bear it,\\nAnd think my lot divine.\\nDUNCAN GRAY.*\\nDuncan Gray came here to woo,\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t,\\nOn blythe yule^ night when we were fou,\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t.\\nMaggie coost* her head fu high,\\nLook d asklent and mico skeigh,*\\nGart poor Duncan stand abeigh;*\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t.\\nDuncan fleech d,^ and Duncan pray d;\\nHa, ha, c.\\nMeg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nDuncan sigh d baith out and in,\\nGrat his een baith bleer t and blin\\nSpak o lowpin o er a linn\\nHa, ha, c.\\nTime and chance are but a tide,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nSlighted love is sair to bide,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nNext.\\nThe foregoing I submit to j^our liotter judgment; acquit or con-\\ndemn them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that\\nkind of light-horse gallop of a,n air which precludes sentiment. Th\u00c2\u00ab\\nludicrous is its ruling feature.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Burns io Thoinson.\\nChristmas. Tossed. Proud.\\nAt a shy distance Besought. Bleared and blind. Preclpic\u00c2\u00a9.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0287.jp2"}, "288": {"fulltext": "266 BURNS.\\nShall I, like a fool, quoth he,\\nFor a haughty hizzie die?\\nShe may gae to France for me,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nHow it comes let doctors tell,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nMeg grew sick as he grew well,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nSomething in her bosom wrings.\\nFor relief a sigh she brings\\nAnd 0, her een, they spak sic things!\\nHa, ha, c.\\nDuncan was a lad o grace,\\nHa, ha, c.\\nMaggie s was a piteous case,\\nHa, ha, \u00c2\u00abfec.\\nDuncan couldna be her death,\\nSwelling pity smoor d^ his wrath;\\nNow they re crouse and cantie^ baith,\\nHa, ha, the wooing o t.\\nO POORTITH.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 l HAD A HORSE.\\nO POORTITH cauld, and restless love,\\nYe wreck my peace between ye\\nYet poortith a I could forgive.\\nAn t were na for my Jeanie.\\nO why should fate sic pleasure have^\\nLife s dearest bands untwining?\\nOr why sae sweet a flower as love\\nDepend on Fortune s shiningP\\nThis warld s wealth when I think on.\\nIts pride, and a the lave o t\\nFie, ^Q, on silly coward man,\\nThat he should be the slave o t.\\nO why, c.\\nHer e en sae bonnie blue betray\\nHow she repays my passion\\nBut prudence is her o erword aye.\\nShe talks of rank and fashion.\\nO why, c.\\nSmothered. Cheerful and merry*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0288.jp2"}, "289": {"fulltext": "GALLA WATER, ETC. 25?\\nwha can prudence think upon,\\nAnd sic a lassie by him?\\nO wha can prudence think upon,\\nAnd sae in love as I am?\\nO why, c.\\nHow blest the humble cotter s fate\\nHe woos his simple dearie\\nThe sillie bogles, wealth and state,\\nCan never make them eerie.\\nO why should fate sic pleasure have,\\nLife s dearest bands untwining?\\nOr why sae sweet a flower as love\\nDepend on Fortune s shining?\\nGALLA WATER.\\nThere s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes.\\nThat wander thro the blooming heather\\nBut Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws,\\nCan match the lads o Galla Water.\\nBut there is ane, a secret ane,\\nAboon them a I lo e him better\\nAnd I ll be his, and he ll be mine,\\nThe bonnie lad o Galla Water.\\nAitho his daddie was nae laird,\\nAnd tho I hae nae meikle tocher\\nYet rich in kindest, truest love.\\nWe ll tent our flocks by Galla Water.\\nIt ne er was wealth, it ne er was wealth,\\nThat cof t^ contentment, peace, or pleasurt\\nThe bands and bliss o mutual love,\\nO that s the chiefest warld s treasure\\nLORD GREGORY.*\\nO MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,\\nAnd loud the tempest s roar\\nA waefu wanderer seeks thy tow r,\\nLord Gregory, ope thy door.\\nHobgoblins. 2 Marriage portion. Bought.\\nA friend of Burns writes-- We had the song of Lord Gregory,*\\nwhich I asked for to have an opportunity of calling on Burns to\\nrecite his ballad to that tune. He did recite it, and such was the\\neffect that a dead silence ensued.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0289.jp2"}, "290": {"fulltext": "258 BURNS.\\nAn exile frae her father s ha\\\\\\nAnd a for loving thee\\nAt least some pity on me shaw,\\nIf love it mayna be.\\nLord Gregory, minds t thou not the groTt\\nBy bonnie Irwine side,\\nWhere first I own d that virgin-love,\\nI lang, lang had denied?\\nHow aften didst thou pledge and vow,\\nThou wad for aye be mine\\nAnd my fond heart, itsel sae true,\\nIt ne er mistrusted thine.\\nHard is thy heart. Lord Gregory,\\nAnd flinty is thy breast\\nThou dart of heaven that flashest by,\\nO will thou give me rest\\nYe mustering thunders from above,\\nYour willing victim see\\nBut spare, and pardon my fause love,\\nHis wrangs to heaven and me\\nOPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH I\\nWITH ALTEKATIONS.\\nOh, open the door, some pity to shew,\\nOh, open the door to me, oh\\nTho thou hast been false, 111 ever prove true,\\nOh, open the door to me, oh I\\nCauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,\\nBut caulder thy love for me, oh\\nThe frost, that freezes the life at my heart,\\nIs nought to my pains fra thee, oh\\nThe wan moon is setting behind the white wave,\\nAnd time is setting with me, oh\\nFalse friends, false love, farewell for mair\\nI ll ne er trouble them, nor thee, oh!\\nShe has open d the door, she has open d it wide\\nShe sees his pale corse on the plain, oh I\\nMy tru\u00c2\u00ab Ipv^ 1 slie rrjpd a^d sank down by his sido*\\nl^ever to rise again,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0290.jp2"}, "291": {"fulltext": "JESSIE. 259\\nMEG O THE MILL.\\nAIR\u00e2\u0080\u0094* hey, BONNIE LASS, WILL YOU LIE IN A BARRACX.\\nO KEN ye what Meg o the Mill has gotten?\\nAn ken ye what Meg o the Mill has gotten?\\nShe has gotten a coof wi a claut^ o siller,\\nAnd broken the heart o the barley Miller.\\nThe Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;\\nA heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady;\\nThe laird was a widdiefu bleerit^ knurl\\nShe s left the guid fellow and ta en the churl.\\nThe Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving\\nThe Laird did address her wi matter mair moving,\\nA fine pacing horse wi a clear chained bridle,\\nA whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.\\nO wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;\\nAnd wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen 1*\\nA tocher s nae word in a true lover s parle,^\\nBut, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl I\\nJESSIE.\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BONNIE DUNDEE.\\nTbue hearted was he, the sad swain o the Yarrow,\\nAnd fair are the maids on the banks o the Ayr,\\nBut by the sweet side o the Nith s winding river,\\nAre lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair\\nTo equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;\\nTo equal young Jessie you seek it in vain\\nGrace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover.\\nAnd maidenly modesty fixes the chain.\\nO, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning.\\nAnd sweet is the lily at evening close\\nBut in the fair presence o lovely young Jessie,\\n-Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.\\nLove sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;\\nEnthron d in her een he delivers his la\\nAnd still to her charms she alone is a stranger,\\nHer modest demeanour s the jewel of a\\nBlockhead. A scraping. Crooked, bleared. Farm. Speech.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0291.jp2"}, "292": {"fulltext": "860 BURNS.\\nWANDERING WILLIE.\\nHebe awa, there awa, wandering Willie\\nNow tired with wandering, hand awa hame\\nCome to my bosom, my ain only dearie,\\nTell me thou bring st me my Willie the same.\\nWinter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,\\nFears for my Willie brought the tear in my e e\\nNow welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,\\nThe simmer to nature, my Willie to me\\nRest, ye wild storms, in the cave o your slumbers\\nHow your dread howling a lover alarms\\nWauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,\\nAnd waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.\\nBut oh, if he s faithless, and minds na his Nannie,\\nO still flow between us, thou wide-roaring main;\\nMay I never see it, may I never trow it,\\nBut, dying, believe that my Willie s my aia.\\nLOGAN BRAES.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LOGAN WATER.\\nLogan, sweetly didst thou glide\\nThat day I was my Willie s bride;\\nAnd years sinsyne hae o er us run,\\nLike Logan to the simmer sun;\\nBut now thy flow ry banks appear\\nLike drumlie winter, dark and drear,\\nWhile my dear lad maun face his faet,\\nFar, far frae me and Logan Braes.\\nAgain the merry month o May\\nHas made our hills and valleys gay;\\nThe birds rejoice in leafy bowers,\\nThe bees hum round the breathing flowewf\\nBlithe morning lifts his rosy eye,\\nAnd evening s tears are tears of joy\\nMy soul, delightless, a surveys.\\nWhile Willie s far frae Logan braes.\\ni The song was the fruit of three-quarters of an hour s medlti^\\ntlon hy the poet in his elbow -chair, on the wickedness of ambitloa", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0292.jp2"}, "293": {"fulltext": "THERE WAS A LASS. %l\\nWithin yon milk-white hawthorn bush,\\nAmang her nestlings, sits the trush:\\nHer faithfu mate will share her toil,\\nOr wi his song her cares beguile\\nBut I wi my sweet nurslings here,\\nNae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,\\nPass widow d nights and joyless days,\\nWhile Willie s far frae Logan Braea.\\nO wae upon you, men o state.\\nThat brethren rouse to deadly hate 1\\nAs ye mak monie a fond heart mourn,\\nSae may it on your heads return I\\nHow can your flinty hearts enjoy\\nThe widow s tears, the orphan s cry?\\nBut soon may peace bring happy dayi,\\nAnd WlUie hame to Logan Braes\\nTHERE WAS A LASS.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BONIflE JEAN.\\nFhsbb was a lass, and she was fair,\\nAt kirk and market to be seen\\nfHien a the fairest maids were met.\\nThe fairest maid was bonnie Jean.\\nAnd aye he wrought her mammie s war);^\\nAnd aye she sang sae merrily\\nrhe blithest bird upon the bush\\nHad ne er a lighter heart than she.\\nBut hawks will rob the tender joys\\nThat bless the little lintwhite s nest;\\nAnd frost will blight the fairest flowers;\\nAnd love will break the soundest rest.\\nYoung Robie was the brawest lad,\\nThe flower and pride of a the glen\\nAnd he had owsen, sheep, and kye,\\nAnd wanton naigies nine or ten.\\nHe gaed wi Jeanie to the tryste,\\nHe danc d wi Jeanie on the down;\\nAnd lang ere witless Jeanie wist,\\nHer heart was tint, her peace was stoim.\\nMiss Jean M Murdo, of Dmmlanriic-", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0293.jp2"}, "294": {"fulltext": "262 BURNS.\\nAs in the bosom o the stream\\nThe moon-beam dwells at dewy e en;\\nSo trembling, pure, w^as tender love\\nWithin the breast o bonnie Jean.\\nAnd now she works her mammie s wark^\\nAnd aye she sighs wi care and pain;\\nYet wistna what her ail might be,\\nOr w^hat w^ad mak her weel again.\\nBut didna Jeanie s heart loup light,\\nAnd didna joy blink in her e e,\\nAs Robie tauld a tale o love,\\nAe e enin on the lily lea?\\nThe sun was sinking in the west,\\nThe birds sang sweet in ilka grove;\\nHis cheek to hers he fondly prest.\\nAnd whisper d thus his tale o love\\nO Jeanie faii\\\\ I lo e thee dear;\\nO canst thou think to fancy me?\\nOr wilt thou leave thy mammie s cot,\\nAnd learn to tent the farms wP me?\\nAt barn or byre thou shaltna di-udgt,\\nOr naething else to trouble thee\\nBut stray amang the heather-bells.\\nAnd tent the waving corn wi me.\\nNow w^hat could artless Jeanie do?\\nShe had nae will to say him na:\\nAt length she blush d a sweet consent,\\nAnd love was aye between them twa*\\nPHILLIS THE FAm.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ROBIN ADAIR.\\nWhile larks with little wing\\nFann d the pure air,\\nTasting the breathing spring,\\nForth I did fare\\nGay the sun s golden eye\\nPeep d o er the mountains high;\\nSuch thy morn! did I cry,\\nPhillis the fair.\\nSaid to be the sister of Jean M Murdo,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0294.jp2"}, "295": {"fulltext": "BY ALLAN STREAM. 26i\\nIn each bird s careless song\\nGlad did I share\\nWhile yon mid flowers among,\\nChance led me there\\nSweet to the opening day,\\nRosebuds bent the dewy spray\\nSuch thy bloom did I say,\\nPhillis the fair.\\nDown in a shady walk,\\nDoves cooing were,\\nI mark d the cruel hawk\\nCaught in a snare\\nSo kind may fortune be,\\nSuch make his destiny,\\nHe who would injure thee,\\nPhillis the fau*.\\nBY ALLAN STREAM.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ALLAN WATER.\\nBy Allan stream I chanc d to rove.\\nWhile Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi\\nThe winds were whispering thro the grove,\\nThe yellow corn was waving ready\\nI listened to a lover s sang,\\nAnd thought on youthfu pleasures manie I\\nAnd aye the wild-wood echoes rang\\nO dearly do I love thee, Annie\\nO, happy be the woodbine bower,\\nISTae nightly bogle mak it eerie\\nNor ever soitow stain the hour,\\nThe place and time I met my dearie\\nI walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the Museum\\nIn my hand; when turning up Allan Water, What numbers\\nshall the Muse repeat, c., as the words appeared to me rather\\nunworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I\\nBat, and raved, under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote out one\\nto suit the measure. I may be wrong, but I think it is not in my worst\\nstyle. You must know, that in Ramsay s Tea-Table, where the\\nmodern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan\\nsays, is Allan Water, or My love Annie s verybonnie. This\\nlast nas certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the\\nidea, and, as vou will see. have introduced the line in its place, which\\nI presume it formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a choos\\ning line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. Bravo, say\\nI: it is a good song. Burns to Tlionisdn.\\nA mountain west of Strathailan, 3000 feet high.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n3 Qr, 0 my love Ajinie s very bonnie. R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0295.jp2"}, "296": {"fulltext": "\u00e2\u0080\u00a2264 BURNS.\\nHer head upon my throbbing breast,\\nShe, sinking, said *^I m thine for ever I\\nWhile monie a kiss the seal imprest,\\nThe sacred vow, we ne er should sever.\\nThe haimt o spring s the primrose brae;\\nThe simmer joys the flocks to follow\\nHow cheery, thro her shortening day,\\nIs autumn, in her weeds o yellow\\nBut can they melt the glowing heart,\\nOr chain the soul in speechless pleasure,\\nOr, thro each nerve the rapture dart,\\nLike meeting her, our bosom s treasure?\\nHAD I A CAVE.\\nTUNE robin ADAIR.\\nHad I a cave on some wild, distant shore,\\nWhere the winds howl to the waves dashing roar;\\nThere would I weep my woes.\\nThere seek my lost repose,\\nTill grief my eyes should close,\\nNe er to wake more.\\nFalsest of womankind, canst thou declare\\nAll thy fond plighted vows fleeting as air!\\nTo thy new lover hie.\\nLaugh o er thy perjury,\\nThen in thy bosom try.\\nWhat peace is there\\nWHISTLE, AND I LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.\\nO WHISTLE, and I ll come to you, my lad\\nO whistle, and I ll come to you, my lad\\nTho father and mither and a should gae mad,\\nO whistle, and I ll come to you, my lad.\\nBut warily tent, when ye come to court me.\\nAnd comena unless the back-yett be a-jee;\\nSyne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,\\nAnd come as ye werena comin to me.\\nAnd come, c.\\nAt Kirk, or at market, whene er ye meet me,\\nGang by me as tho that ye car dna a flie", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0296.jp2"}, "297": {"fulltext": "HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE. 265\\nBut steal me a blink o your bonnie black e e,\\nYet look as ye werena lookin at me.\\nYet look, c.\\nO whistle, c.\\nAye vow and protest that ye carena for mc,\\nAnd whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;\\nBut courtna anither, tho jokin ye be,\\nFor fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.\\nFor fear, c.\\nO whistle, and PU come to you, my lad;\\nO whistle, and I ll come to you, my lad:\\nTho father and mither and a should gae mad,\\nO whistle, and Til come to you, my lad.\\nHUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JO JANET.\\nHusband, husband, cease your stnfa^\\nNo longer idly rave, sir\\nTho I am your wedded wife,\\nYet I am not your slave, sir.\\nOne of two must still obey,\\nNancy, Nancy;\\nIs it man or woman, say.\\nMy spouse, Nancy?\\nIf tis still the lordly word,\\nService and obedience\\nI ll desert my sovereign lord,\\nAnd so, good-bye, allegiance I**\\nSad will I be, so bereft,\\nNancy, Nancy!\\nYet I ll try to make a shift.\\nMy spouse, Nancy.\\n**My poor heart then break it must.\\nMy last hour I m near it\\nWhen you lay me in the dust.\\nThink, think how you will bear it.**\\n**I will hope and trust in Heaven,\\nNancy, Nancy;\\nStrength to bear it will be given,\\nMy spouse, Nancy.\\nL", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0297.jp2"}, "298": {"fulltext": "366 BURNS.\\nWell. Sir, from the silent dead\\nStill I ll try to daunt you\\nEver round your midnight bed\\nHorrid sprites shall haunt you.\\nI ll wed another, like my dear\\nNancy, Nancy;\\nThen all hell will fly for fear,\\nMy spaase, Nancy.\\nDELUDED SWAIN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE collier s DOCHTKR.\\nDeluded swain, the pleasure,\\nThe fickle Fair can give thee,\\nIs but a fairy treasure.\\nThy hopes will soon deceive th\u00c2\u00ab6\\nThe billows on the ocean,\\nThe breezes idly roamin\\nThe clouds uncertain motion,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThey are but types of woman.\\nO art thou not ashamed\\nTo doat upon a feature?\\nIf man thou wouldst be named,\\nDespise the silly creature.\\nGo, find an honest fellow\\nGood claret set before thee\\nHold on till thou art mellow,\\nAnd then to bed in glory.\\nSONG.\\nTUNR\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE QUAKER S WIF*.\\nThine am I, my faithful fair,\\nThine, my lovely Nancy;\\nEv ry pulse along my veins,\\nEv ry roving fancy.\\nTo thy bosom lay my heart,\\nThere to throb and languish\\nThe despair had wrung its core,\\nThat would heal its^nguish.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0298.jp2"}, "299": {"fulltext": "HERE IS THE GLEN, ETC. 267\\nTake away these rosy lips,\\nRich with balmy treasure I\\nTurn away thine eyes of love,\\nLest I die with pleasure I\\nWhat is life when wanting lovet\\nNight without a morning 1\\nLove s the cloudless summer sim,\\nNature gay adorning.\\nWILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?*\\nA NEW SCOTS SONG.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the SUTOR S DOCHTKB.\\nWilt thou be my dearie?\\nWhen sorrow wrings thy gentle heart\\nWilt thou let me cheer thee?\\nBy the treasure of my soul,\\nThat s the love I bear thee 1\\nI swear and vow that only thou\\nShalt ever be my dearie\\nOnly thou, I swear and vow,\\nShalt ever be my dearie.\\nLassie, say thou loe s me\\nOr, if thou wilt na be my ain,\\nSay na thou lt refuse me\\nIf it winna, canna be,\\nThou for thine may choose me,\\nLet me, lassie, quickly die.\\nTrusting that thou lo es me-\\nLassie let me quickly die,\\nTrusting that thou lo es me.\\nHERE IS THE GLEN.\u00c2\u00bb\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0^UNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 banks of CREK.\\nHebe is the glen, and here the bower,\\nAll underneath the birchen shade\\nThe village-bell has toird the hour,\\nO what can stay my lovely maid?\\nBurns considered this to be one of his best songs.\\nIgot an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron,\\nof Heron, which she calls The Banks of the Cree. Cree is a\\nbeautiful romantic stream, and as her ladyship is a particular\\nfriend of mine, I have written this song to it.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. o.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0299.jp2"}, "300": {"fulltext": "268 BURNS,\\n*Tis not Maria s whispering call\\nTis but the balmy-breathing gale,\\nMixt with some warbler s dying fall,\\nThe dewy star of eve to hail.\\nIt is Maria s voice I hear\\nSo calls the woodlark in the grove,\\nHis little faithful mate to cheer,\\nAt once tis music and tis love.\\nAnd art thou come? and art thou true!\\nO welcome, dear to love and me I\\nAnd let us all our vows renew,\\nAlong the flow ry banks of Cree.\\nON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 o er the hills AND PAR AWAY.\\nHow can my poor heart be glad.\\nWhen absent from my Sailor lad?\\nHow can I the thought forego,\\nHe s on the seas to meet the foe?\\nLet me wander, let me rove,\\nStill my heart is with my love\\nNightly dreams and thoughts by day\\nAre with him that s far away,\\nOn the seas and far away,\\nOn stormy seas and far away\\nNightly dreams and thoughts by day\\nAre aye with him that s far away.\\nWhen in summer s noon I faint,\\nAs weary flocks around me pant,\\nHaply in this scorching sun\\nMy Sailor s thund ring at his gun\\nBullets, spare my only joy,!\\nBullets, spare my darling boy\\nFate, do with me what you may,\\nSpare but him that s far away\\nAt the starless midnight hour.\\nWhen winter rules with boundless power;\\nrfjurns was at first pleaaed with these verses, but he afterwardi\\nkhoaght them unequal and flimsy. And his second thoughtt\\nwere the best.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0300.jp2"}, "301": {"fulltext": "HARK! THE MA VIS. 209\\nAs the storms the forest tear,\\nAnd thunders rend the howling air,\\nListening to the doubling roar,\\nSurging on the rocky shore,\\nAll I can I weep and pray,\\nFor his weal that s far away.\\nPeace, thy olive wand extend,\\nAnd bid wild War his ravage end,\\nMan with brother man to meet, J\\nAnd as a brother kindly greet\\nThen may Heaven with prosperous gales\\nFill my Sailor s welcome sails,\\nTo my arms their charge convey,\\nMy dear lad that s far away.\\nOn the seas and far away.\\nOn stormy seas and far away\\nNightly dreams and thoughts by day\\nAre aye with him that s far away.\\nHARK! THE MAVIS.\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CA the rOWES TO THE KNO^VES.\\nCHORUS.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where the heather grows,\\nCa them where the burnie rows,*\\nMy bonnie dearie.\\nHark the mavis evening sang\\nSounding Clouden s woods amang I\\nThen a f aulding let us gang\\nMy bonnie dearie.\\nCa the, c.\\nWe ll gae down by Clouden side,\\nThro the hazels spreading wide.\\nO er the waves that sweetly glide\\nTo the moon sae clearly.\\nCa the, c.\\nYonder Clouden s silent towers.\\nWhere at moonshine midnight houri\\nO er the dewy-bending flowers,\\nFairies dance sae cheery.\\nCa the, c.\\nRolls.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0301.jp2"}, "302": {"fulltext": "S70 BURNS.\\nGnaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;\\nThou^rt to love and Heaven sae dear,\\nNocht of ill may come thee near,\\nMy bonnie dearie.\\nCa the, c.\\nFair and lovely as thou art,\\nThou hast stown* ray very heart\\nI can die but canna part,\\nMy bonnie dearie.\\nCa the yowes to the knowes,\\nCa them where the heather grows,\\nCa them where the burnie rows,\\nMy bonnie dearie.\\nSHE SAYS SHE LO ES ME BEST OF A\\\\\u00c2\u00ab\\nTDXK ONAGH s water-fall.*\\nSae flaxen were her ringlets,\\nHer eyebrows of a darker hue,\\nBewitchingly o erarching\\nTwa laugliing een o bonnie blue.\\nHer smiling, sae wyling,\\nWad make a wretch forget his woe;\\nWhat pleasure, what treasure,\\nUnto these rosy lips to grow\\nSuch was my Chloris bonnie face,\\nWhen first her bonnie face I saw.\\nAnd aye my Chloris dearest charm.\\nShe savs she lo ee me best of a\\n\u00c2\u00bbi\\nLike harmony her motion;\\nHer pretty ancle is a spy s\\nBetraying fair proportion,\\nWad make a saint forget the sky\\nSae warming, sae charming,\\nHer faultless form and gracef u air\\nIlk feature auld Nature\\nDeclar d that she could do nae mair\\n1 stolen.\\nTb\u00c2\u00ab ladr In whose honour Bums composed this song wm MIm\\nLorlmer, or Craigieburn.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0302.jp2"}, "303": {"fulltext": "HO W LANG AND DREA R V. 271\\nHers are the A\\\\allmg chains o love,\\nBy conquering Beauty s sovereign law;\\nAnd aye my Chkris dearest charm,\\nShe says she lo es me best of a\\\\\\nLet others love the city,\\nAnd gaudy show at siumy noon\\nGie me the lonely valley.\\nThe dewy eve, the rising moon\\nFair beaming, and streaming,\\nHer silver light the boughs amang;\\nWhile falling, recalling.\\nThe amorous thrush concludes his sang;\\nThere, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove\\nBy wimpling burn and leafy shaw.\\nAnd hear my vows o truth and love,\\nAnd say thoj lo es me best of a\\nHOW LANG AND DREARY.\\nTUNE CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.\\nHow lang and dreary is the night,\\nWhen I am frae my dearie\\nI restless lie frae e en to morn,\\nTho I were ne er sae weary.\\nCHORUS.\\nFor ohl her lanely nights are lang;\\nAnd oh her dreams are eerie\\nAnd oh 1 her widow d heart is sair,\\nThat s absent frae her dearie.\\nWhen I think on the lightsome days\\nI spent wi thee, my dearie\\nAnd now that seas between us roar,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHow can I be but eerie?\\nFor oh, c.\\nHow slow ye move, ye heavy hours;\\nThe joyless day how drearie 1\\nIt wasna sae ye glinted by,\\nWhen I was wi my dearie.\\nFor oh, c.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0303.jp2"}, "304": {"fulltext": "272 BURNS.\\nTHE LOVER S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS Mia\\nTRESS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DEIL TAK THE WARS.\\nSleep st thou, or wak st thou, fairest creature!\\nRosy morn now lifts his eye,\\nNumbering ilka bud which Nature\\nWaters wi the tears o joy\\nNow thro the leafy woods,\\nAnd by the reeking floods,\\nWild nature s tenants freely, gladly stray;\\nThe lintwhite in his bower\\nChants o er the breathing flower\\nThe lav rock to the sky\\nAscends wi sangs o joy,\\nWhile the sun and thou arise to bless the day.\\nPhoebus, gilding the brow o morning,\\nBanishes ilk darksome shade.\\nNature gladdening and adorning;\\nSuch to me my lovely maid.\\nWhen absent frae my fair.\\nThe murky shades o care\\nWith starless gloom o ercast my sullen sky:\\nBut when, in beauty s light.\\nShe meets my ravish d sight.\\nWhen thro my very heart\\nHer beaming glories dart\\nTis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.\\nLASSIE WI THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS.\\nTUNE ROTHIEMURCHIK S RANT.\\nCHORUS.\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks,\\nBonny lassie, artless lassie.\\nWilt thou wi me tent the flocks?\\nWilt thou be my dearie, O?\\nNow nature deeds the flowery lea,\\nAnd a is young and sweet like thee,\\nO wilt thou share its joys wi me.\\nAnd say thou lt be my dearie, O?\\nLassie wi c.\\nMiss Lorimer is reported to have inspired these verges.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0304.jp2"}, "305": {"fulltext": "THE AULD MAN, 273\\nAnd when the welcome simmer-shOwer\\nHas cheer d ilk drooping little flower,\\nWe ll to the breathing woodbine boww\\nAt sultry noon, my dearie, O.\\nLassie wi c.\\nWhen Cynthia lights, wi silver ray,\\nThe weary shearer s hameward way.\\nThro yellow waving fields we ll stray,\\nAnd talk o love, my dearie, O.\\nLassie wi c.\\nAnd when the howling wintry blast\\nDisturbs my lassie s midnight rest\\nEnclasped to my frithfu breast,\\nI ll comfort thee, my dearie, O.\\nLassie wi the lint-white locks,\\nBonnie lassie, artless lassie.\\nWilt thou wi me tent the flocks?\\nWilt thou be my dearie, 0?*\\nTHE AULD MAN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GIL MORICK.\\nBut lately seen in gladsome green,\\nThe woods rejoic d the day,\\nThro gentle showers the laughing flowers\\nIn double pride were gay\\nBut now our joys are fled.\\nOn winter blasts awa\\nYet maiden May, in rich array\\nAgain shall bring them a\\nBut my white pow, nae kindly thowe*\\nShall melt the snaws of age\\nMy trunk of eild, but buss or bield,*\\nSinks in time s wintry rage.\\nOh, age has weary days.\\nAnd nights o sleepless painl\\nThou golden time o youthfu prime,\\nWhy com st thou not again?\\nThis piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the\\nTemal moon, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and th\u00c2\u00ab\\nwinter night, are regularly rounded.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\na Thaw. Without shelter.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0305.jp2"}, "306": {"fulltext": "274 BURNS.\\nFAREWELL, THOU STREAM.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 nancy s to THE GREENWOOD GANE.\\nFarewell, thou stream that winding flowi\\nAround Eliza s dwelling\\nMem ry spare the cruel throes\\nWithin my bosom swelling:\\nCondemn d to drag a hopeless chain,\\nAnd yet in secret languish,\\nTo feel a fire in ev ry vein.\\nNor dare disclose my anguish.\\nLove s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,\\nI fain my griefs would cover\\nThe bursting sigh, th unweeting groan,\\nBetray the hapless lover.\\n1 know thou doom st me to despair,\\nNor wilt, nor canst, relieve me\\nBut oh, Eliza, hear one prayer,\\nFor pity s sake forgive me\\nThe music of thy voice I heard,\\nNor wist while it enslav d me\\nI saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear d,\\nTill fears no more had sav d me\\nTh unwary sailor thus aghast.\\nThe wheeling torrent viewing,\\nMid circling horrors sinks at last\\nIn overwhelming ruin.\\nCONTENTED WI LITTLE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LUMPS O PUDDING.\\nContented wi little, and cantie^ wi mair.\\nWhene er I forgather wi sorrow and care,\\nI gie them a skelp^ as they re creepin alang,\\nWi a cog o guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.\\nI whyles claw the elbow o troublesome thought\\nBut man is a sodger, and life is a f aught\\nMy mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,\\nAnd my Freedom s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.\\nCheerful. 2 slap. Jug of good ale. Fight,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0306.jp2"}, "307": {"fulltext": "MY NANNIE S A WA, ETC. 27{\\nA. towmond o trouble, should that be my fa\\nA nio ht o guid fellowship sowthers it a\\nWhen at the blvthe end of our journey at last,\\nWha the deil ever thinks o^ the road he has past?\\nBlind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte^ on her way,\\nBe t to me, be t frae me, e en let the jad gae\\nCome ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pam;\\nMy warst word is\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Welcome, and welcome agam!\\nIVIY NANNIE S AWA.\\nTUNB- THERE LL KEVEB BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME/\\nNow in her oreen mantle blvthe Nature arrays.\\nAnd listens the lambkins that bleat o er the braes,\\nWhile birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;\\nBut to me it s delightless\u00e2\u0080\u0094 my Nannie s awa.\\nThe snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn.\\nAnd violets bathe in the weet o the morn:\\nThey pain mv sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,\\nThey mind me o Nannie\u00e2\u0080\u0094 my Nannie s awa.\\nThou lav rock that springs frae the dews o the lawn,\\nThe shepherd to warn o the gray-breakmg dawn,\\nAnd thou mellow mavis that hails the mght-fa\\nGie over for pity\u00e2\u0080\u0094 my Nannie s awa.\\nCome Autumn sae T3ensive, in yellow aud gray.\\nAnd soothe me wi tidings o nature s decay;\\nThe dark, dreary Winter, and wild-drivmg snaw,\\nAlane can delight me\u00e2\u0080\u0094 now Nannie s awa.\\nSWEET FA S THE EVE.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CRAIGIEBURN-WOOD.\\nSweet fa s the eve on Craigieburn,\\nAnd blythe awakes the morrow,\\nBut a the pride o spring s return\\nCan yield me nocht but sorrow.\\nSolders Mistake and stumble. _\\n\u00c2\u00abums again celebrates Miss Lorimer. Craigieburn-wood is sit\u00c2\u00ab-\\ni.t6do?\\\\he banks of the river Moffat. The woods of Craigiebura\\nand of Dundrief, were, at one time, favourite haunts of our poet.\\ntCurrie.)", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0307.jp2"}, "308": {"fulltext": "276 BURNS.\\nI see the flowers and spreading trees,\\nI hear the wild birds singing\\nBut what a weary wight can please,\\nAnd care his bosom wringing?\\nFain, fain would I my griefs impart,\\nYet dare na for your anger\\nBut secret love will break my heart,\\nIf I conceal it langer.\\nIf thou refuse to pity me,\\nIf thou shalt love anither,\\nWhen yon green leaves fa frae the tree,\\nAround my grave they ll wither.\\nO LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YETi\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LET MK IN THIS AE NIGHT.\\nO Lassie, art thou sleeping yet?\\nOr art thou wakin I would wit?\\nFor love has bound me, hand and foot,\\nAnd I would fain be in, jo.\\nCHORUS.\\nO let me in this ae night.\\nThis ae, ae, ae night\\nFor pity s sake this ae night,\\nO rise and let me in, jo.\\nThou hear st the winter wind and weet,\\nNae star blinks thro the driving sleet\\nTak pity on my w^eary feet,\\nAnd shield me frae the rain, jo.\\nO let me in, c.\\nThe bitter blast that round me blaws.\\nUnheeded howls, unheeded fa s\\nThe cauldness o thy heart s the cause\\nOf a my grief and pain, jo.\\nO let me in, c.\\nHER ANSWER.\\nO TELL na me o wind and rain,\\nUpbraid na me wi cauld disdain 1\\nGae back the gait ye cam again,\\nI winna let you in, jo.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0308.jp2"}, "309": {"fulltext": "SONG. 277\\nCHORUS.\\nI tell you now this ac night,\\nThis ae, ae, ae night,\\nAnd ance for a this ae night,\\nI winna let you in, jo.\\nThe snellest* blast, at mirkest hours,\\nThat round the pathless wand rer pours.\\nIs nocht to what poor she endures,\\nThat s trusted faithless man, jo.\\nI tell you now, c.\\nThe sweetest flower that decked the mead^\\nNow trodden like the vilest weed\\nLet simple maid the lesson read.\\nThe weird* may be her ain, jo.\\nI tell you now, c.\\nThe bird that charm d his summer-day\\nIs now the cruel fowler s prey\\nLet witless, trusting woman say\\nHow aft her fate s the same, jo.\\nI tell you now, c.\\nSONG.\\nTTKB\u00e2\u0080\u0094** HUMOURS OF GLEN.\\nTheir groves o sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon,\\nWhere bright-beaming summers exalt their perfiune\\nFar dearer to me yon lone glen o green breckan,*\\nWi the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.\\nFar dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,\\nWhere the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen\\nFor there lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,\\nA listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.\\nTho rich is the breeze in their gay simny valleys,\\nAnd cauld Caledonia s blast on the wave\\nTheir sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud\\npalace.\\nWhat arc they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave!\\nBitterest. Darkest. Fate. Fern.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0309.jp2"}, "310": {"fulltext": "278 BURNS.\\nThe slave s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fount^ns,\\nThe brave Caledonian views wi disdain\\nHe v^^anders as free as the winds of his mountains,\\nSave love s willing fetters, the chains o his Jean.\\nTWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE E E.\\nTUNE laddie lie NEAR ME.\\nTwAS na her bonnie blue e e was my ruin\\nFair tho she be, that was ne er my undoin\\nTwas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,\\nTwas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o kindness\\nSair do I fear that to hope is denied me,\\nSair do I fear that despair maun abide me\\nBut tho fell fortune should fate us to sever,\\nQueen shall she be in my bosom for ever.\\nChloris, I m thine wi a passion sincerest,\\nAnd thou hast plighted me love o the dearest I\\nAnd thou rt the angel that never can alter,\\n.Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.\\nADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WHERE LL BONNIE ANN LIE.\\nO STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, 9*^y,\\nNor quit for me the trembling spray\\nA hapless lover courts thy lay,\\nThy soothing fond complaining.\\nAgain, again that tender part,\\nThat I may catch thy melting art\\nFor surely that wad touch her heart,\\nWha kills me wi disdaining.\\nSay, was thy little mate unkind.\\nAnd heard thee as the careless wind?\\nOh, nocht but love and soitow join d\\nSic notes o wae could wauken.\\nThou tells o never-ending care\\nO speechless grief, and dark despair;\\nFor pity s sake, sweet bird, nae mairl\\nOr my poor h.eart is broken\\nStolen.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0310.jp2"}, "311": {"fulltext": "MARK yOXD\u00c2\u00a3K FOMP.\\nHOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JOHS ANDERSON MY JO.*\\nHow cruel are the parents\\nWho riches only prize,\\nAnd to the wealthy booby\\nPoor woman sacrifice.\\nMeanwhile the hapless daughter\\nHas but a choice of strife\\nTo shun a tyrant father s hate,\\nBecomes a wretched wife.\\nThe ravening hawk pursuing,\\nThe trembling dove thus flieJi,\\nTo shun impelling ruin\\nAwhile her pinions tries\\nTill of escape despairing,\\nNo shelter or retreat,\\nShe trusts the ruthless falconer,\\nAnd drops beneath his feet.\\nMARK YONDER POl^IP.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DEIL TAK THE WARS.\\nMark yonder pomp of costly fashion,\\nRound the wealthy, titled bride\\nBut when compared with real passion,\\nPoor is all that princely pride.\\nWhat are the showy treasures?\\nWhat are the noisy pleasures?\\nAfwe gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art:\\nThe polish d jewel s blaze\\nMay draw the wond ring gaze,\\nAnd courtly grandeur bright.\\nThe fancy may delight,\\n4^t never, never can come near the heart;\\nBut did you see my dearest Chloris,\\nIn simplicity an ay;\\nLovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,\\nShrinking from the gaze of day\\nthen, the heart alarming.\\nAnd all resistless cliarmin^.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0311.jp2"}, "312": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nIn Love s delightful fetters she chains the willing soul I\\nAmbition would disown\\nThe world s imperial crown\\nEven Avarice would deny\\nHis worshipped deity,\\nAnd feel thro every vein Love s raptures rolL\\nI SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094** THI8 IS NO MT AIN H0D8B.\\nO THIS is no my ain lassie.\\nFair tho the lassie be\\nO weel ken I my ain lassie,\\nKind love is in her e e.\\nI see a form, I see a face,\\nYe weel may wi the fairest place\\nIt wants, to me, the witching grace,\\nThe kind love that s in her e e.\\nO this is no, c.\\nBhe s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,\\nAnd lang has had my heart in thrall\\nAnd aye it charms my very saul.\\nThe kind love that s in her e e.\\nO this is no, c.\\nA thief sae pawkie is my Jean,\\nTo steal a blink, by a unseen;\\nBut gleg^ as light are lovers een,\\nWhen kind love is in the e e.\\nO this is no, c.\\nIt may escape the courtly sparks,\\nIt may escape the learned clerks;\\nBut weel the watching lover marka\\nThe kind love that s in her e e.\\nO this is no, c.\\nO BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I WISH MY LOVR WA8 IN A MIRK.*\u00c2\u00bb\\nO BONNIE was yon rosy brier,\\nThat blooms sae far frae haunt o man;\\nAnd bonnie she, and ah, how dear\\nIt shaded frae the e enin^ sun.\\nQuick. Evening.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0312.jp2"}, "313": {"fulltext": "PORLORN, MY LOVE. S81\\niTon rosebuds in the morning dew,\\nHow pure amang the leaves sae green^^\\nBut purer was the lover s vow\\nThey witnessed in their shade yestreen.\\nAll in its rude and prickly bower,\\nThat crimson rose, how sweet and fair I\\nBut love is far a sweeter flower\\nAmid life s thorny path o care.\\nThe pathless wild and wimpling bum,\\nWi Chloris in my arms, be mine\\nAnd I the world nor wish, nor scorn,\\nIts joys and griefs alike resign.\\nFORLORN, MY LOVE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LET ME IN THIS AB NIGHT.\\nPOBLOBN, my love, no comfort near,\\nFar, far from thee, I wander here\\nFar, far from thee, the fate severe\\nAt which I most repine, love.\\nCHOBUS.\\nO wert thou, love, but near me,\\nBut near, near, near me\\nHow kindly thou wouldst cheer me.\\nAnd mingle sighs with mine, love.\\nAround me scowls a wintry sky,\\nThat blasts each bud of hope and joy;\\nAnd shelter, shade, nor home have I,\\nSave in those arms of thine, love.\\nO wert, c.\\nCold, altered friendship s cruel part,\\nTo poison fortune s ruthless dart\\nLet me not break thy faithful heart.\\nAnd say that fate is mine, love.\\nO wert, c.\\nBut dreary tho the moments fleet,\\nO let me think we yet shall meet I\\nThat only ray of solace sweet\\nCan on thy Chloris shine, love.\\nwert, c.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0313.jp2"}, "314": {"fulltext": "2^ BU^NS.\\nLAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE LOTHIAN LASSIE.\\nLast Xuy a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,\\nAnd aair wi his love he did deave me\\nI said there was naethiug I hated like men,\\nThe deuce gae wi m to believe me, believe me,\\nThe deuce gae wi m to believe me.\\nHe spak o the darts in my bonnie black een,\\nAnd vow d for my love he was Sying;\\nI said he might die when he liked for Jean:\\nThe Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,\\nThe Lord forgie me for lying I\\nA weel- stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,\\nAnd marriage alf-hand, were his proffers:\\nI never loot on that I kennVl it, or car d;\\nBui thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,\\nBut thought I might liae waur offers.\\nBut what wad ye think in a fortnight or less,\\nThe deil tak his taste to gae near her!\\nHe up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,\\nGuess ye how, the jad I could bear her, could bear\\nher,\\nGuess ye how, the jad 1 I could bear her.\\nBut a the niest week as I fretted v/i care,\\nI gaed to the tryste o Dalgarnock,^\\nAnd wha but my fine fickle lover was there\\nI giov, r d as I d seen a warlock, a warlock,\\nI glowr d as I d seen a warlock.\\nBut owre my left shouther I gae him a blink.\\nLest neebors might say I was saucy\\nMy wooer he caper d as he d been in drink.\\nAnd vow d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie.\\nAnd vow d I was his dear lassie.\\nI spier d for my cousin fu couthy and sweet,\\nGin she had recover d iier liearin,\\nAnd how her new shoon fit her shachl t^ feet\\nBut Heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,\\nBut Heavens! how he fell a swearin.\\nDalgarnock is the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where\\nai t. stiii a ruined church and a burial-g::ouud.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Twisted.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0314.jp2"}, "315": {"fulltext": "HEY FOR A LASS, ETC, 28S\\nHe begged, for Gn.dcsake, I wad be his wife,\\nOr else I wad kill him wi sorrow:\\nSo e en to preserve the poor body in life,\\nI think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow^\\nI think I maan wed him to-morrow.\\nHEY FOR A LASS WP A TOCHER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094* BALINAMONA ORA.\\nAwA wi your witchcraft o beauty s alarms,\\nThe slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms\\nO, gie me the lass that has acres o charms,\\nO, gie me the lass wi the weel-stockit farms.\\nCHORUS.\\nThen hey, for a lass wi a tocher, then hey, for 9\\nlass wi a tocher.\\nThen hey, for a lass wi a tocher the nice yello vf\\nguineas for me.\\nYour beauty s a flower in the morning that blows.\\nAnd withers the faster, the faster it grows\\nBut the rapturous charm o the bonnie green knowes,\\nnk spring they re new deckit wi bonnie white yowes.\\nThen hey, c.\\nAnd e en when this beauty your bosom has blest,\\nThe brightest o beauty may cloy, when possest\\nBut the sweet yellow darlings wi Geordie imprest,\\nThe langer ye hae them the mair they re carest.\\nThen hey, c.\\nALTHO THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 here s a HEAI.TH TO TF .M THAT S AWA.\\nCHORUS.\\nHere s a health to ane I lo e dear,\\nHere s a health to ane I lo e dear\\nThou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet^\\nAnd soft as their parting tear Jessy I^\\nIHioS Jessy Lewars.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0315.jp2"}, "316": {"fulltext": "S84 BURNS.\\nkXiho^ thou maun never be mine,\\nAltho even hope is denied;\\nTis sweeter for thee despairing,\\nThan aught in the world beside Jessy!\\nHere s a health, c.\\nmourn thro the gay, gaudy day.\\nAs, hopeless, I muse on thy charms\\nBut welcome the dream o sweet slumber,\\nFor then I am lockt in thy arms Jessy 1\\nHere s a health, c.\\nI guess by the dear angel smile,\\nI guess b\\\\ the love-rolling e e\\nBut why urge the tender confession\\nGainst fortune s fell cruel decree Jessy 1\\nHere s a htjalth, c.\\nTHE BIRKS^ OF ABERFELDY\\nBonnie lassie, will ye go,\\nBonnie lassie, will ye go,\\nTo the Birks of Aberfeldy?\\nNow simmer blinks on flowery braes,\\nAnd o er the crystal streamlet plays.\\nCome let us spend the lightsome days\\nIn the Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nWhile o er their heads the hazels hing,\\nThe little birdies blithely sing.\\nOr lightly flit on wanton wing\\nIn the Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nThe braes ascend like lofty wa s.\\nThe foaming stream deep roaring fa s,\\nO er-hung wi fragrant spreading shaws.\\nThe Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nThe hoary cliffs are crown d wi flowers,\\nWhite o er the linns the feurnie pours,\\nAnd, rising, weets wi misty showers\\nThe Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nLet fortune s gifts at random flee.\\nThey ne er shall draw a wish frae me,\\nSupremely blest wi love and thee,\\nN\u00c2\u00abar Moness, in Perthshire. The birch-trees were there very\\nabundant", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0316.jp2"}, "317": {"fulltext": "THE YOUNG HIGHLAXD ROVER, ETt\\\\ Sdi;\\nIII the Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nBonnie lassie, will ye go,\\nBonnie lassie, will ye go,\\nTo the Birks of Aberfeldy.\\nTHE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MOB AG.\\nLoud blaw the frosty breezes,\\nThe snaws the mountains cover;\\nLike winter on me seizes,\\nSince my young Highland Rover\\nFar wanders nations over.\\nWhere er he go, where er he stray,\\nMay Heaven be his warden\\nReturn him safe to fair Strathspey,\\nAnd bonnie Castle-Gordon 1\\nThe trees now naked groaning,\\nShall soon wi leaves be hinging;\\nThe birdies dowie moaning.\\nShall a be blithely singing,\\nAnd every flower be springing.\\nSae I ll rejoice the lee-lang day.\\nWhen by his mighty warden\\nMy youth s return d to fair Strathspey,\\nAnd bonnie Castle- Gordon.\\nSTAY, MY CHARMER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 AN GILLE DCBH CIAR PHUBH.\\nStay, my charmer can you leave me?\\nCruel, cruel to deceive me\\nWell you know how much you grieve xa\u00c2\u00bb\\\\\\nCruel charmer, can you go?\\nCruel charmer, can you go?\\nBy my love so ill requited\\nBy the faith you fondly plighted\\nBy the pang^ of lovers slighted;\\nDo not, do not leave me sol\\nDo not, do not leave me so", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0317.jp2"}, "318": {"fulltext": "2BQ BURNS.\\nFULL WELL THOU KNOW ST.*\\nCHORUS.\\nFairest maid on Devon banks,\\nCrystal Devon, winding Devon,\\nWilt thou lay that frown aside,\\nAnd smile as thou were wont to do?\\nFull well thou know st I love thee dear,\\nCouldst thou to malice lend an ear?\\nO, did not Love exclaim, Forbear,\\nNor use a faithful lover so?\\nFaireg-t maid, c.\\nThen come, thou fairest of the fair,\\nThose wonted smiles, O, let me share;\\nAnd by thy beauteous self I swear,\\nNo love but thine my heart shall know.\\nFairest maid, c.\\nSTRATHALLAN S LAMENT.\\nThickest night, o erhang my dwelling I\\nHowling tempests, o er me rave\\nTurbid torrents, wintry swelling,\\nStill surround my lonely cave\\nCrystal streamlets gently flowing.\\nBusy haunts of base mankind,\\nWestern breezes softly blowing.\\nSuit not my distracted mind.\\nIn the cause of right engag d.\\nWrongs injurious to redress.\\nHonour s war we strongly wag d.\\nBut the Heavens denied success.\\nRuin s wheel has driven o er us,\\nNot a hope that dare attend\\nThe wide world is all before us\\nBut a world witliout a friend\\nfhis is supposed to be the last song w^ritten by Bums. I tried\\nm hand on Rothiemurche this morning. The* measure is so dif-\\nficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines.\\nR. B.\\nLord Strathallan, bewailing his forlorn stat\u00c2\u00ab after the defeat of\\nCulloden.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0318.jp2"}, "319": {"fulltext": "MUSIXG OX THE ROARING OCEAN, 287\\nRAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 M GREG0R OP RUARA S LAMEKT.V\\nRaving winds around her blowing,\\nYellow leaves the woodlands strowing,\\nBy a river hoarsely roaring,\\nIsabella stray d deploring\\nFarewell, hours that late did measure\\nSunshine days of joy and pleasure\\nHail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,\\nCheerless night that knows no morrow.\\n^^O er the past too fondly wandering,\\nOn the hopeless future pondering\\nChilly grief my life-blood freezes,\\nFell despair my fancy seizes.\\nLife, thou soul of every blessing,\\nLoad to misery most distressing,\\nO, how gladly I d resign thee.\\nAnd to dark oblivion join thee\\nMUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN,\\nTUNE DRUIMION DUBH.\\nMusing on the roaring ocean\\nWhich divides my love and me\\nWearying Heaven in warm devotion,\\nFor his weel where er he be.\\nHope and fear s alternate billow\\nYielding late to nature s law,\\nWhisp ring spirits round my pillow\\nTalk of him that s far awa.\\nYe whom sorrow never wounded,\\nYe who never shed a tear,\\nCare-untroubl d, joy-surrounded,\\nGaudy day to you is dear.\\nGentle night, do thou befriend me\\nDowny sleep, the curtains draw\\nSpirits kind, again attend me.\\nTalk of him that s far awa I\\nMiBS Isabella M Leod, who had lost a sister and abrotljer-m-law.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0319.jp2"}, "320": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nBLITHE WAS SHE.\\nTU\u00c2\u00bb\u00c2\u00ab--* mDRKW AND HIS CUTTT \u00c2\u00a9UK.\\nCHORUS.\\nBlithe, blithe and merry was she,\\nBlithe was she but and ben\\nBlithe by the banks of Era,\\nAnd blithe in Glenturit glen.\\nBy Ochtertyre grows the aik,\\nOn Yarrow banks the birken shaw\\nBut Phemie^ was a bonnier lass\\nThan braes o Yarrow ever saw.\\nBlithe, c.\\nHer looks were like a flower in May,\\nHer smile was like a simmer morn\\nShe tripped by the banks of Era,\\nAs light s a bird upon a thorn.\\nBlithe, c.\\nHer bonnie face it was as meek\\nAs onie lamb s upon a lea\\nThe evening sun was ne er sae sweet\\nAs was the blink o Phemie s e e.\\nBlithe, c.\\nThe Highland hills IVe wander d wide,\\nAnd o er the Lowlands I hae been;\\nBut Phemie was the blithest lass\\nThat ever trod the dewy green.\\nBlithe, c.\\nPEGGY S CHARMS.\\nTUKB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 **NEIL GOW S LAMENTATION POR ABKRGAIRNT.^\\nWhere, braving angry winter s storms,\\nThe lofty Ochils rise.\\nPar in their shade my Peggy s charms\\nFirst blest my wondering eyes.\\nAs one who, by some savage stream,\\nA lonely gem surveys,\\nAstonish d, doubly marks its beam\\nWith art s most polish d blaze.\\nIf fM Puphemia Murray, Misa Margaret Chi^lm\u00c2\u00abri.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0320.jp2"}, "321": {"fulltext": "THE LAZY MIST, ETC. 289\\nBlest be the wild sequestered shade,\\nAnd blest the day and hour,\\nWhere Peggy s charms I first survey d.\\nWhen st I felt their pow r!\\nThe tyrant Death with grim control\\nMay seize my fleeting breath\\nBut tearing Peggy from my soul\\nMust be a stronger death.\\nTHE LAZY MIST.\\nIBI8HAIR\u00e2\u0080\u0094 COOLUN.\\nThe lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,\\nConcealing the course of the dark-winding rill\\nHow languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,\\nAs Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year 1\\nThe forests are leafless, the meadows are brown.\\nAnd all the gay foppery of Summer is flown\\nApart let me wander, apart let me muse.\\nHow quick Time is flying, how keen fate pursues;\\nHow long I have lived, but how much lived in vain;\\nHow little of life s scanty span may remain\\nWhat aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn\\nWhat ties, cruel Fate in my bosom has torn.\\nHow foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain d I\\nAnd downward, how weakened, how darkened, howpain dl\\nThis life s not worth having with all it can give,\\nFor something beyond it poor man sure must live.\\nA ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE SHEPHERD S WIFE.\\nA ROSE-BUD by my early walk,\\nAdown a corn-enclosed bawk,*\\nSae gently bent its thorny stalk,\\nAll on a dewy morning.\\nEre twice the shades o dawn are fled,\\nLi a its crimson glory spread.\\nAnd drooping rich the dewy head,\\nIt scents the early morning.\\nBank.\\nIf", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0321.jp2"}, "322": {"fulltext": "290 BURNS.\\nWithin the bush, her covert nest\\nA little linnet fon^dly prest,\\nThe dew sat chilly on her breast\\nSae early in the morning.\\nShe soon shall see her tender brood,\\nThe pride, the pleasure o the wood,\\nAmang the fresh green leaves bedew d,\\nAwake the early morning.\\nSo thou, dear bird, young Jeany^ fair,\\nOn trembling string, or vocal air,\\nShall sweetly pay the tender care\\nThat tents thy early morning.\\nSo thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,\\nShalt beauteous blaze upon the day.\\nAnd bless the parent s evening ray\\nThat watch d thy early morning.\\nTIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.\u00c2\u00bb\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 INVERCAULD S REEL.\\nCHORUS.\\nTibbie, I hae seen the day,\\nYe would na been sae shy\\nFor laik o gear ye lightly me.\\nBut trowth, I care na by.\\nYestreenI met you on the moor,\\nYe spak na, but gaed by like stoure\\nYe geek at me because I m poor,\\nBut fient a hair care I.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nI doubt na, lass, but ye may think,\\nBecause ye hae the name o clink.\\nThat ye can please me at a wink,\\nWhene er ye like to try.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nMiss Jeany Cruikshanks.\\n2 Burna was about seventeen 3 ears old when he composed thes\u00c2\u00ab\\nrhymes.\\n3 Despise.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0322.jp2"}, "323": {"fulltext": "I LOVE MY yEAJ^.\\nBut soiTow tak him that s sae mean;\\nAltho his pouch o coin were clean,\\nWha follows onie saucy quean\\nThat looks sae proud and high.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nAltho a lad were e er sae smart,\\nIf that he want the yellow dirt,\\nYe ll cast your head anither airt,\\nAnd answer him fu dry.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nBut if he hae the name o gear,\\nYe ll fasten to him like a brier,\\nTho hardly he for sense or lear\\nBe better than the kye.\\nTibbie, I hae, c.\\nBut, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,\\nYour daddy s gear maks you sae nice\\nThe deil a ane wad spier your price\\nWere ye as poor as I.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nThere lives a lass in yonder park,\\nI would na gie her in her sark,\\nFor thee wi a thy thousand mark\\nYe need na look sae high.\\nO Tibbie, I hae, c.\\nI LOVE MY JEAN.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MISS ADMIRAL GORDON S STRATHSPBT.\\nOf a the airts^ the wind can blaw,\\nI dearly like the west,\\nFor there the bonnie lassie lives,\\nThe lassie I lo e best\\nThere wild woods grow^ and rivers row.\\nAnd monie a hill between\\nBy day and night my fancy s flight\\nIs ever wi my Jean.\\nWritten out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.\\n2 Points of the compass.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0323.jp2"}, "324": {"fulltext": "292 BUI^NS.\\nI see her in the dewy flowers,\\nI see her sweet and fair;\\nI hear her in the tunefu birds,\\nI hear her charm the air\\nThere s not a bonnie flower that spring!\\nBy fountain, shaw, or green\\nThere s not a bonnie bird that sings,\\nBut minds me o my Jean.\\nO, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MY LOVE IS LOST TO ME.\\nO, WERE I on Parnassus hill,\\nOr had of Helicon my fill,\\nThat I might catch poetic skill,\\nTo sing how dear I love thee\\nBut Nith maun be my Muse s well,\\nMy Muse maun be thy bonnie sel\\nOn Corsincon^ I ll glow r and spell,\\nAnd write how dear I love thee.\\nThen come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay I\\nFor a the lee-lang simmer s day,\\nI coud na sing, I coud na say.\\nHow much, how dear I love thee.\\nI see thee dancing o er the green.\\nThy waist sae jimp,^ thy limbs sae cleaiiy\\nThy tempting looks, thy roguish een\\nBy Heaven and earth I love thee\\nBy night, by day, a-field, at hame.\\nThe thoughts o thee my breast inflame^\\nAnd aye I muse and sing thy name,\\nI only live to love thee.\\nTho I were doom d to wander on,\\nBeyond the sea, beyond the sun,\\nTill my last weary sand was run\\nTill then and then I d love thee.\\nhill near Ellisland. Slefidor.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0324.jp2"}, "325": {"fulltext": "THE BRAES O BALLOCHMYLE.\\nTHE BLISSFUL DAY/\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER***\\nThe day retarns, my bosom burnSj\\nThe blissful day we twa did meet,\\nTho winter wild in tempest toil d,\\nNe er summer-sun was half sae sweet,\\nThan a the pride that loads the tide,\\nAnd crosses o er t\u00c2\u00bbhe sultry line\\nThan kingly robes, than crowns and globes;-\\nHeaven gave me more, it made thee mine.\\nWhile day and night can bring delight,\\nOr nature aught of pleasure give\\nWhile joys above my mind can move,\\nFor thee, and thee alone, I live\\nWhen that grim foe of life below\\nComes m between to make us part;\\nThe iron hand that breaks our band,\\nIt breaks my bliss it breaks my heart.\\nTHE BRAES O BALLOCHMYLE,\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094** MISS FORBES S FAREWELL TO BANFF.\\nThe Catrine woods were yellow seen.\\nThe flowers decay d on Catrine lea,\\nNae lav rock sang on hillock green,\\nBut nature sickcn d on the e e.\\nThro faded groves Maria sang,\\nHersel in beauty s bloom the whyle,\\nAnd aye the wild-wood echoes rang,\\nFareweel the braes o Ballochmyle.\\nLow in your wintry beds, ye flowers.\\nAgain ye ll flourish fresh and fair\\nYe birdies dumb, in with ring bowers,\\nAgain ye ll charm the vocal air.\\nBut here, alas I for me nae mair\\nShall birdie charm, or flow^ ret smile;\\nFareweel the ])onnie banks of Ayr,\\nFareweel, fareweel sweet Ballochmyle.\\ni Th^ Voet declared Robert Riddel and his wiie to be V one of the\\nhappiest lid wo^-tiiiest .naiTi i couples i^ the v/orld. These\\n\u00c2\u00abtaiizaa were compo.\u00c2\u00ab^d lOr the aan \u00c2\u00abYor.su y of *lieir wedding-day.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0325.jp2"}, "326": {"fulltext": "g94 BURNS.\\nTHE HAPPY TBIO.*\\nTUNE WILLIE KRRW A PECK O MAUT.\\nO, Willie brew d a peck o maut,\\nAnd Rob and Allan came to see\\nThree blithei- hearts, that lee-lang night,\\nYe wad na find in Christendie.\\nCHORUS.\\nWe are na fou, we re no that fou,\\nBut just a drappie in our e e;\\nThe cock may craw, the day may daw,\\nAnd aye we ll taste the barley bree.\\nHere are w^e met, three merry boys,\\nThree merry boys, I trow, are we\\nAnd monie a night we ve merry been,\\nAnd monie mae we hope to be 1\\nWe are na fou, c.\\nIt is the moon, I ken her horn,\\nThat s blinkin in the lift sae nie:\\nShe shines sae bright to wyle us hame,\\nBut, by my sooth, she ll wait a wee I\\nWe are na fou, c.\\nWha first shall rise to gang awa,\\nA cuckold, coward loun is he\\nWha last beside his chair shall fa\\\\\\nHe is the king amang us three I\\nWe are na fou, c.\\nTHE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.\\nI GAED a waefu gate yestreen,\\nA gate, I fear, I ll dearly rue\\nI gat my death frae tvva sweet een,\\nTwa lovely een o bonnie blue.\\nI This air is Masterton s: the song mine. The occasion of it was\\nthis: IMr. Aviiliain Nieol, of the Righ School of Edinburgh, during\\nthe Autumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that\\ntime c.n a \\\\\\\\sM to DalsAvinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. We\\nhad FMo\\\\\\\\ a joyous nieeti)ig, that Mr. Masteiton and I agreed, each\\nIn f)ur own wav, that we should celebrate the business.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B,\\nLive-long.\\nJean Jetf ly, daugliter of the minister of Lochmabeu.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0326.jp2"}, "327": {"fulltext": "JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, ETC. 295\\nTwas not her golden ringlets bright,\\nHer lips like roses wet wi dew,\\nHer heaving bosom, lily-white;\\nIt was her eea sae bonnie blue.\\nShe talk d, she smil d, my heart she wyPd,\\nShe charmed my soul I wist na how\\nAnd aye the stound/ the deadly wound,\\nCam frae her een sae bonnie blue.\\nBut spare to speak, and spare to speed;\\nShe ll aiblins listen to my vow\\nShould she refuse, I ll lay my dead\\nTo her twa een sae bonnie blue.\\nJOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.\\nJohn Anderson, my jo, John,\\nWhen we were first acquent.\\nYour locks were like the raven,\\nYour bonnie brow was brent\\nBut now your brow is held, John,\\nYour locks are like the snaw\\nBut blessings on your frosty pow,\\nJohn Anderson, my jo.\\nJohn Anderson, my jo, John,\\nWe clamb the hill thegither\\nAnd monie a canty day, John,\\nWe ve had wi ane anither:\\nNow we maun totter down, John^\\nBut hand in hand we ll go,\\nAnd sleep thegither at the foot,\\nJohn Anderson, my jo.\\nTAM GLEN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE MUCKING O GEOUDIF/S BYRI,**\\nMy heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,\\nSome counsel unto me come len\\nTo anger them a is a pity\\nBut what will I do wi Tarn Glen?\\nPang. 3 High and smootlle", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0327.jp2"}, "328": {"fulltext": "296 BURNS,\\nI m thinking, wi sic a braw fallow,\\nIn poortith^ I might mak a fen\\nWhat care I in riches to wallow,\\nIf I maunna marry Tarn Glen?\\nThere s Lowrie the laird o Dumeller,\\nGiiid-day to you, brute! he comes beni\\nHe brags and he blaws o his siller\\nBut when will he dance like Tam Glen?\\nMy minnie does constantly deave^ me,\\nAnd bids me beware o young men\\nThey flatter, she says, to deceive me\\nBut wha can think sae o Tam Glen?\\nMy daddie says, gin I ll forsake him.\\nHe ll gie me guid hunder marks ten;\\nBut if it s ordain d I maun take him,\\nO wha will I get but Tam Glen?\\nYestreen at the Valentines dealing,\\nMy heart to my mou gied a si en\\nFor thrice I drew ane without failing,\\nAnd thrice it was written, Tam Glen,\\nThe last Halloween I was waukin^\\nMy droukit*^ sark-sleeve, as ye ken\\nHis likeness cam up the house staukin\\nAnd the very grey breeks o Tam Glen!\\nCome counsel, dear Tittle, don t tarry;\\nI ll gie you my bonnie black hen,\\nGif you will advise me to marry\\nThe lad I lo e dearly, Tam Glen.\\nGANE IS THE DAY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN.\\nGane is the day, and mirk s the night,\\nBut we ll ne er stray for faute^ o light,\\nFor ale and brandy s stars and moon,\\nAnd bluid-red wine s the risin sun.\\nPoverty. jyiake a shift. -Deafen. Leap\\nWfttching. Wet. Fault.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0328.jp2"}, "329": {"fulltext": "WHAT CA.V A YOUNG LASSIE, ETC. 5 9;\\nCHORUS.\\nThen giiidwife count the lawin/ the lawin, the lawin,\\nThen guid wife count the lawin, and bring a coggie mair,\\nThere s wealth and ease for gentlemen,\\nAnd semple-folk maun fecht and fen\\nBut here we re a in ae accord,\\nFor ilka man that s drunk s a lord.\\nThen guidwife count, c.\\nMy coggie is a haly pool,\\nThat heals the wounds o care and dool;\\nAnd pleasure is a wanton trout,\\nAn ye drink it a ye ll find him out.\\nThen guidwife count, c.\\nVVHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI AN AULD\\nMAN?\\nTCTNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WHAT CAN A LASSIE DO.\\nWhat can a young lassie, w^hat shall a young lassie\\nWhat can a young lassie do wi an auld man?\\nBad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie\\nTo sell her poor Jenny for siller an Ian\\nBad luck on the penny, c.\\nHe s always compleenin frae mornin to e enin,\\nHe hosts and he hirples^ the weary day lang:\\nHe s doylt* and he s dozin, his bluid it is frozen,\\nO, dreary s the night wi a crazy auld man\\nHe hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,\\nI never can please him do a that I can\\nHe s peevish, and jealous of a the young fellows;\\nO, dooP on the day I met wi an auld man 1\\nMy auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,\\nI ll do my endeavour to follow her plan\\nI ll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him,\\nAnd then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.\\nReckoning. Holy well. Coughs and hobbles.\\nStupid. 6 Sorrow.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0329.jp2"}, "330": {"fulltext": "298 BURNS.\\nO, FOR AISrE-AOT)-TWENTY, TAM!\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the MOUDIEWORT.\\nCHORUS.\\nAn O for ane-and-twenty, Tain\\nAn hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn I\\nI ll learn my kin a rattlin sang,\\nAn I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn.\\nThey snooP me sair, and hand me down,\\nAnd gar me look like bluntie,^ Tarn!\\nBut three short years will soon wheel roun\\nAnd then comes ane-and-twenty. Tarn.\\nAn O for ane, c.\\nA gleib o Ian a claut o gear,\\nWas left me by my auntie, Tarn\\nAt kith or kin I need na spier.\\nAn I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam,\\nAn for ane, c.\\nThey ll hae me wed a wealthy coof,*\\nTho I mysel hae plenty, Tam\\nBut hear st thou, laddie, there s my loof,*\\nI m thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam\\nAn O for ane, c.\\nTHE BONNIE WEE THING.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE LADS OF SALTCOATS,\\nBonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,\\nLovely wee thing, wast thou mine,\\nI wad wear thee in my bosom,\\nLest my jewel I should tine.\\nWistfully I look and languish\\nIn that bonnie face of thine\\nAnd my heart it stounds^ wi anguish,\\nLest my wee thing be na mine.\\nWit, and grace, and love, and beauty,\\nIn ae constellation shine\\nTo adore thee is my duty,\\nGoddess o this soul o mine\\nBonnie wee, c.\\nOppress. 2 Snivelling, s A portion of ground. Blockhead\\nHand. Throbs,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0330.jp2"}, "331": {"fulltext": "BESSY AND HER SPEVNJN WHEEL. 230\\nTHE BANKS OF NITH.\\nTUNE KOBIE DONNA GORACH.\\nThe Thames flows proudly to the sea,\\nWhere royal cities stately stand\\nBut sweeter flows the Nith to me,\\nWhere Cummins ance had high command}\\nWhen shall I see that honour d land,\\nThat winding stream I loved so dear,\\nMust wayward fortune s adverse hand,\\nFor ever, ever keep me here?\\nHow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales.\\nWhere spreading hawthorns gaily bloom\\nHow sweetly wind thy sloping dales,\\nWhere lambkins wanton thro the broom!\\nTho wandering, now, must be my doom,\\nFar from thy bonnie banks and braes,\\nMay there my latest hour consume,\\nAmang the friends of early days 1\\nBESSY AND HER SPINNIN WHEEL.\\nO LEEZE^ me on my spinnin wheel,\\nO leeze me on my rock and reel\\nFrae tap to tae that deeds me bien,*\\nAnd haps^ me fiel* and warm at e en I\\nI ll set me down and sing and spin,\\nWhile laigh^ descends the simmer sun,\\nBlest wi content, and milk, and meal\\nO leeze me on my spinnin wheel.\\nOn ilka hand the burnies trot,\\nAnd meet below my theekit\u00c2\u00ae cot;\\nThe scented birk and hawthorn white\\nAcross the pool their arms unite,\\nAlike to screen the birdie s nest.\\nAnd little fishes caller*^ rest\\nThe sun blinks kindly in the bieP,*\\nWhere blithe I turn my spinnin wheel.\\n1 A phrase of endearment: I am proud of thee.\\nThat abundantly clothes me, Wraps. Soft. Low.\\nThatched. Sound. Nook.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0331.jp2"}, "332": {"fulltext": "300 BURN S,\\nOn lofty aiks^ the cushats wail,\\nAnd echo cons the doolfu tale\\nThe lintwhites in the hazel braes,\\nDelighted, rival ither s lays:\\nThe craik^ amang* the claver hay,\\nThe paitrick^ whirrin o er the ley,\\nThe swallow jinkin round my shiel,*\\nAmuse me at my spinnin wheel.\\nWi sma to sell, and less to buy,\\nAboon distress, below envy,\\nO wha wad leave this humble state,\\nFor a the pride of a the great?\\nAmid their flarin, idle toys,\\nAmid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,\\nCan they the peace and pleasure feel\\nOf Bessy at her spinnin vrheel?\\nCOUNTRY LASSIE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JOHN, COME KISS MR NOW.\\nIn simmer, when the hay was mawn,\\nAnd corn wav d green in ilka field.\\nWhile claver blooms white o er the lea,\\nAnd roses blaw in ilka bield;^\\nBlithe Bessie in the milking shiel,\\nSays, I ll be wed, come o t what will;\\nOut spak a dame in wrinkled eild,\\nO guid advisement comes nae ill:\\nIt s ye hae wooers monie ane,\\nAnd, lassie, ye re but young, ye ken;\\nThen wait a wee, and cannie wale^\\nA routhie but, a routhie ben\\nThere s Johnie o the Buskie-glen,\\nFu is his barn, fu is his byre\\nTak this frae me, my bonnie hen.\\nIt s plenty beets the luver s fire.\\nFor Johnie o the Buskie-glen\\nI dinna care a single flie\\nHe lo es sae w^eel his craps and kye,\\nHe has nae luve to spare for me\\ni Oaks. 2 The corn-rail. Partridge. Dodging.\\nShed. SuPxny nook of a wood. Choose.\\nA plentiful kitchen and parlour. Sheep-pen. 1\u00c2\u00b0 Adds fuel to fir\u00c2\u00a9.\\n1 1 Crops and cows.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0332.jp2"}, "333": {"fulltext": "FAIR ELIZA. 301\\nBut blithe s the blink o Robie s e e,\\nAnd weel I wat he lo es me dear:\\nAe blink o him I wad na gie\\nFor Buskie-glen and a his gear.\\nO thoughtless lassie, life s a f aught\\nThe canniest gate, the strife is sair;\\nBut aye fu han t is fechtin^ best,\\nAn hungry care s an unco care\\nBut some will spend, and some will spare,\\nAn wilf u folk maun hae their will\\nSyne as ye brew, my maiden fair.\\nKeep mind that ye maun drink the yill.\\nO, gear will buy me rigs o land.\\nAnd gear will buy me sheep and kye\\nBut the tender heart o leesome* luve\\nThe gowd and siller canna buy\\nWe may be poor Robie and I,\\nLight is the burden luve lays on\\nContent and luve brings peace and joy,\\nWhat mair hae queens upon a throne?\\nFAIR ELIZA.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.*\\nTurn again, thou fair Eliza,\\nAe kind blink before we part,\\nRew^ on thy despairing lover\\nCanst thou break his faithfu heart?\\nTurn again, thou fair Eliza\\nIf to love thy heart denies,\\nFor pity hide the cruel sentence\\nUnder friendship s kind disguise I\\nThee, dear maid, hae I offended?\\nThe offence is loving thee\\nCanst thou wreck his peace for ever,\\nWha for thine wad gladly die?\\nWhile the life beats in my bosom,\\nThou shalt mix in ilka throe\\nTurn again, thou lovely maiden,\\nAe sweet smile on me bestow.\\nFlgh*. Fighting. 3 Ale, 6rladsom\u00c2\u00a9.\\nLook tenderly.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0333.jp2"}, "334": {"fulltext": "^ot the bee upon the blossom,\\nIn the pride o sunny noon;\\nNot the little sporting fairy,\\nAll beneath the simmer moon\\nNot the poet in the moment\\nFancy lightens in his e e,\\nKens the pleasure, feels the rapture,\\nThat thy presence gies to me.\\nSHE S FAIR AND FAUSE.\\nShe s fair and fause that causes my smart,\\nI lo ed her meikle and lang\\nShe s broken her vow, she s broken my heart,\\nAnd I may e en gae hang.\\nA coof cam in wi rowth o gear,*\\nAnd I hae tint my dearest dear,\\nBut woman is but warld s gear,\\nSae let the bonnie lass gang.\\nWhae er ye be that woman love,\\nTo this be never blind,\\nNae ferlie^ tis tho fickle she prove,\\nA woman has t by kind\\nO Woman lovely, Woman fair!\\nAn Angel form s fa n to thy share,\\nTwad been o er meikle to ve gien thee mair,\\nI mean an Angel mind.\\nTHE POSIE.\\nO LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen,\\nO luve will venture in, w^here wisdom ance has been\\nBut I will down yon river rove, amang the wood saf?\\ngreen,\\nAnd a to pu a Posie to my ain dear May.\\nThe primrose I will pu the firstling o the year.\\nAnd I will pu the pink, the emblem o my dear.\\nFor she s the pink o womankind, and blooms without a\\npeer\\nAnd a to be a Posie to my ain dear May.\\nA blockhead came with plenty of wealth, Lost,\\n3 No vronder.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0334.jp2"}, "335": {"fulltext": "THE BANKS O DOOM, 303\\nrU Iju the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,\\nFor it s like a baumy kiss o her sweet bonnie mou\\nThe hyacinth s for constancy, wi its unchanging blue,\\nAnd a to be a Posie to my ain dear May.\\nThe lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,\\nAnd in her lovely bosom I ll place the lily there\\nThe daisy s for simplicity and unaffected air,\\nAnd a to be a Posie to ray ain dear May.\\nThe hawthorn I will pu wi it s locks o siller gray,\\nWhere, like an aged man, it stands at break o day,\\nBut the songster s nest within the bush I winna tak\\naway\\nAnd a to be a Posie to my ain dear May.\\nThe woodbine I will pu when the e ening star is near,\\nAnd the diamond drops o dew shall be her een sae clear;\\nThe violet s for modesty whicli weel she fa s to wear,\\nAnd a to be a Posie to mv ain dear Mav.\\n1*11 tie the Posie round wi the silken band o luve.\\nAnd I ll place it in her breast, and I ll swear by a above,\\nThat to my latest draught o life the band shall ne er\\nremuve,\\nAnd this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.\\nTHE BANKS O DOOK\u00c2\u00bb\\nTUNE the CALEDONIAN HUNT S DHJGHT.\\nYe banks and braes o bonnie Doon,\\nHow can ye bloom sae fresh and fair\\nHow can ye chant, ye little birds.\\nAn I sae weary, fu o care\\n1 We have this soDg in an earUer and simpler form, as the writer\\nient it to jNIt. Ballantine: Mr. Cimningham, on the authority of an\\nAyrshire legend, discovers the heroine of the song in Miss Ken-\\nnedy, of DalgaiTock, who broke her heart for one M DougaU, of\\nLogan:\\nYe flowery banks o bonnie Doon,\\nHow can ye blume sae fair!\\nHow can ye chant, ye little birds,\\nAnd I sae fu o care.\\nThou ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,\\nThat sings upon the bough\\nThou minds me o the hapuy days,\\nWhen my fause luve was true.\\nThou ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,\\nThat sings beside thy mate\\nFor sae I sat. and sae 1 sang,\\nAnd wist na o my fate.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0335.jp2"}, "336": {"fulltext": "304 BURNS.\\nThou lt break my heart, thou warbling birj^\\nThat wantons thro the flowermg thorn\\nThou minds me o departed joys,\\nDeparted never to return.\\nThou lt break my heart, thou bonnie bir4\\nThat sings beside thy mate\\nFor sae I sat, and sae I sang,\\nAnd wist na o my fate.\\nAft hae I rov d by bonnie Boon,\\nTo see the rose and woodbine twine\\nAnd ilka bird sang o its luve.\\nAnd fondly sae did I o mine.\\nWi lightsome heart I pu d a rose,\\nFu sweet upon its thorny tree\\nAnd my fause luver stole my rose,\\nBut ah 1 he left the thorn wi^ me.\\nGLOOMY DECEMBER\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WANDERING WILLIE.\\nAnce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December I\\nAnce mair I hail thee wi son-ow and care\\nSad was the parting thou makes me remember,\\nParting wi Nancy, Oh ne 9r to meet mair.\\nPond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure,\\nHope beaming mild on the soft parting hour\\nBut the dire feeling, O farewell for ever\\nIs anguish unmingl d and agony pure.\\nWild as the winter now tearing the forest,\\nTill the last leaf o the summer is flown,\\nSuch is the tempest has taken my bosom.\\nSince my last hope and my comfort is gone 5\\nAft have I rov d by bonnie Doon,\\nTo see the woodbine twine.\\nAnd ilka bird sang o its love.\\nAnd sae did I o mine.\\nWi hghtsome heart I pu d a rose\\nFrae off its thorny tree;\\nAnd my fause luver staw the rose,\\nBut left the thorn wi me.\\nJ On parting from Clarinda.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0336.jp2"}, "337": {"fulltext": "BEHOLD THE HO UR, E TC, 3U5\\nbtill as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,\\nStill shall I hail thee wi sorrow and care\\nFor sad was the parting thou makes me remember\\nParting wi Nancy, oh ne er to meet mair.\\nBEHOLD THE HOUR.\\nTUNE OUAN-GAOIL.\\nBehold the hour, the boat arrive\\nThou go st, thou darling of my heart:\\nSevered from thee can I survive?\\nBut fate has wilPd, and we must parti\\nI ll often greet this surging swell\\nYon distant isle v dll often hail\\nE en here I took the last farewell;\\nThere latest marked her vanish d sail.\\nAlong the solitary shore,\\nWhile Hitting sea-fowls round me cry,\\nAcross the rolling, dashing roar,\\nI ll westward turn my wistful eye\\nHappy, thou Indian grove, I ll say,\\nWhere now my Nancy s path may be*\\nWhile thro thy sweets she loves to stray,\\nO, tell in\u00c2\u00a3, does she muse on me?\\nWILLIE S WIFE.\\nTUWE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 TIBBIE FOWLER IN THE GLEN.\\nWillie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,\\nThe spot they ca d it Linkiun-doddie,\\nWillie was a wabster- guid,\\nCou d stown a clue wi onie bodie\\nHe had a wife was dour and din,\\nOh, Tinkler Madgie was her mither;\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\ne3^\\nShe has an e e, she has but ane,\\nThe cat has twa the very colour\\nFive rusty teeth, forbye a stump,\\nA clapper tongue wad deave* a miller;\\nA whiskin beard about her mou.\\nHer nose and chin they thi-eaten ither;\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\n1 TVillie s wife is said to have been the ^ife of a farmer near\\nEllisland. Weaver. 3 Sullen and sallow. Deafen.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0337.jp2"}, "338": {"fulltext": "306 BURNS,\\nShe s bow-hougb d, she s hein-shmn d,\\nAe limpin leg, a hand-breed shorter;\\nShe s twisted right, she s twisted left,\\nTo balance fair in ilka quarter\\nShe has a hump upon her breast,\\nThe twin o that upon her shouther;\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nAuld baudrons^ by the ingle sits,\\nAn wi her loof her face a-washin\\nBut Willie s wife is na sae trig,*\\nShe dights^ her grunzie\u00c2\u00ae wi a hushion;\\nHer walie nieves^ like midden-creels,*\\nHer face wad fyle^ the Logan- water;\\nSic a wife as Willie had,\\nI wad na gie a button for her.\\nAFTON WATER.\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,\\nFlow gently, I ll sing thee a song in thy praise\\nMy Mary s asleep by thy murm.uring stream,\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.\\nThou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro the glen,\\nYe wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den.\\nThou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,\\nI charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.\\nHow lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,\\nFar mark d with the courses of clear, winding rills;\\nThere daily I wander as noon rises high,\\nMy flocks and my Mary s sweet cot in my eye.\\nHow pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,\\nWhere wild in the woodlands the primroses blow\\nThere oft as mild ev ning weeps over the lea,\\nThe sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.\\nThy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,\\nAnd winds by the cot where my Mary resides\\nHow wanton .thy waters her snowy feet lave.\\nAs gathering sweet flow rets she -stems thy clear wa\u00c2\u00ab^e.\\nOutkiieed. 2 Hand s-breadtb. 3 Oat. Neat.\\nfi Wipes. Mouth. Cushion. Big fists.\\nDung-baskets. Soil. Afton, a stream in Ayrshire.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0338.jp2"}, "339": {"fulltext": "LOUIS, WHA T RECK I BY THEE, 307\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,\\nFlow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays\\nMy Mary s asleep by thy murmuring stream,\\nFlow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.\\nLOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.\\nTUM6\u00e2\u0080\u0094 my mother s ayk glowring o er me.\\nLouis, what reck I by thee,\\nOr Geordie on his ocean?\\nDyvor, beggar loons to me,\\nI reign in Jeanie s^ bosom.\\nLet her crown my love her law,\\nAnd in her breast enthrone me\\nKings and nations, swith awa P\\nReif randies, I disown ye\\nBONNIE BELL.\\nThe smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,\\nAnd surly Winter grimly flies\\nNow crystal clear are the falling waters.\\nAnd bonnie blue are the simny skies\\nFresh o er the mountains breaks forth the mornings\\nThe ev ning gilds the ocean s swell\\nAll creatures joy in the sun s returning,\\nAnd I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.\\nThe flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,\\nAnd yellow Autumn presses near,\\nThen in his turn comes gloomy Winter,\\nTill smiling Spring again appear.\\nThus seasons dancing, life advancing,\\nOld Time and Nature their changes tell\\nBut never ranging, still unchanging,\\nI adore my bonnie Bell.\\nMrs. Bums. Get away. Sturdy b\u00c2\u00abggari.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0339.jp2"}, "340": {"fulltext": "308 BURNS.\\nFOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.\\nTUNE THE HIGHLAND WATCH S FAKKWELL.**\\nMy heart is sair, I dare na tell,\\nMy heart is sair for somebody;\\nI could wake a winter night,\\nFor the sake o somebody.\\nOh-hon! for somebody!\\nOh-hey I for somebody I\\nI could range the world around.\\nFor the sake o somebody.\\nYe powers that smile on virtuous loTC^\\nO sweetly smile on somebody I\\nFrae ilka danger keep him free,\\nAnd send me safe my somebody!\\nOh-hon for somebody\\nOh-hey for somebody 1\\nI wad do what wad I not?\\nFor the sake o somebody I\\nMAY, THY MORN.\\nO IVIay, thy morn was ne er sae sweet.\\nAs the mirk night o December,\\nFor sparkling was the rosy wine.\\nAnd private was the chamber:\\nAnd dear was she I dare na name,\\nBut I will aye remember.\\nAnd dear, c.\\nAnd here s to them that, like oursel,\\nCan push about the jorum\\nAnd here s to them that wish us weel\\nMay a that s guid watch o er them;\\nAnd here s to them we dare na tell,\\nThe dearest o the quorum.\\nAnd here s to, c.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0340.jp2"}, "341": {"fulltext": "A RED, RED ROSE, 309\\nTHE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.\\nThe lovely lass o Inverness,\\nNae joy nor pleasure can she see\\nFor e en and morn she cries, alas 1\\nAnd aye the saut tear blins her e e\\nDrumossie Moor, Drumossie day,*\\nA waef u day it was to me\\nFor there I lost my father dear,\\nMy father dear, and brethren three.\\nTheir winding-sheet the bluidy clay.\\nTheir graves are growing green to se\u00c2\u00ab;\\nAnd by them lies the dearest lad\\nThat ever blest a woman s e e\\nNow wae to thee, thou cruel lord,\\nA bluidy man I trow thou be\\nFor monie a heart thou hast made sair,\\nThat ne er did wrang to thine or thee.\\nA RED, RED ROSE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WISHAW S FAVOURITE.\\nO, MY luve s like a red, red rose,\\nThat s newly sprung in June\\nO, my luve s like the melodic\\nThat s sweetly play d in tune.\\nAs fair art thou, my bonnie lass,\\nSo deep in luve am I\\nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear,\\nTill a the seas gang dry.\\nTill a the seas gang dry, my dear,\\nAnd the rocks melt wi the sun:\\nwill luve thee still, my dear.\\nWhile the sands o life shall run.\\nAnd fare thee weel, my only luve\\nAnd fare thee weel awhile\\nAnd I will come again, my luve,\\nTho it were ten thousand mile.\\nThe battle of CuUoden, on Drumossie Moor,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0341.jp2"}, "342": {"fulltext": "BIO BURNS.\\nO, WAT YE WHA S IK YON TOWN!\\nTUKE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE BONNIE LASS IN TON TOWN.\\nO, WAT ye wha s in yon town,\\nYe see the e enin sun upon?\\nThe fairest dame s^ in yon town,\\nThat e^enin sun is shining on.\\nNow haply down yon gay green shaw,\\nShe wanders by jon spreading tree\\nHow blest, ye flow rs that round her blaw,\\nYe catch the glances o her e e\\nHow blest, ye birds that round her sing,\\nAnd welcome in the blooming year;\\nAnd doubly welcome be the spring,\\nThe season to my Lucy dear\\nThe sun blinks blithe on yon town.\\nAnd on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;\\nBut my delight in yon town.\\nAnd dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.\\nWithout my love, not a the charms\\nO Paradise could yield me joy;\\nBut gie me Lucy in my arms,\\nAnd welcome Lapland s dreary sky.\\nMy cave wad be a lover s bower,\\nTho raging winter rent the air;\\nAnd she a lovely little flower.\\nThat I wad tent and shelter there.\\nO, sweet is she in yon town,\\nYon sinkin sun s gane down upon;\\nA fairer than s in yon town.\\nHis setting beam ne er shone upon.\\nIf angry fate is sworn my foe,\\nAnd suffering I am doom d to bear;\\nI careless quit aught else below.\\nBut spare me, spare me Lucy dear.\\n1 Mrs. Oswald, of Auchincruive, whose beauty and accomplish\\nmerits so dazzled Bums, that he resolved to say n thing at all\\nubout her, in despair of saying anything adequate.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0342.jp2"}, "343": {"fulltext": "A Vision. 311\\nFor while life s dearest blood is warm,\\nAe thought frae her shall ne er depart,\\nAnd she as fairest is her form,\\nShe has the truest, kindest heart.*\\nA VISION.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094* CUMNOCK PSALMS.\\nAs I stood by yon roofless tower,*\\nWhere the wa -flower scents the dewy air;\\nWhere the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,\\nAnd tells the midnight moon her care\\nThe winds were laid, the air was still,\\nThe stars they shot alang the sky\\nThe fox was howling on the hill,\\nAnd the distant-echoing glens reply.\\nThe stream, adown its hazily path,\\nWas rushing by the ruin d wa*,\\nHasting to join the sweeping Nitb,\\nWhase distant roarings swell and fa.\\nThe cauld blue north was streaming forth\\nHer lights, wi hissing, eerie din;\\nAthort the lift they start and shift,\\nLike f ortune^s favours, tint as wia\\nBy heedless chance I turn d mine eyeai\\nAnd, by the moonbeam, shook to see\\nA stern and stalwart ghaist arise,\\nAttir d as minstrels wont to be.\\nHad I a statue been o stane.\\nHis darin look had daunted me\\nAnd on his bonnet grav d was plain\\nThe sacred posy Libertie\\nAnd frae his harp sic strains did flow,\\nMight rouse the slumbering dead to hear;\\nBut oh, it was a tale of woe.\\nAs ever met a Briton s ear\\nHe sank wi joy his former day.\\nHe weeping wail d his latter times\\nBut what he said it was nae play\\nI winna venture t in my rhymes.\\nThese lines are in the form of an address from the husband t\u00c2\u00ab\\nhis wife.\\nThe tower belonged to the ruins of Lincluden Abbey, near Duio^\\nfries, a most poetical scene, and often visited by Bums.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0343.jp2"}, "344": {"fulltext": "813 BURNS.\\nO, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.\\nTU^ E\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE LASS OF LIVINGSTONE.\\nO, WERT thou in the cauld blast,\\nOn yonder lea, on yonder lea\\nMy plaidie to the angry airt,\\nI d shelter thee, I d shelter thee.\\nOr did misfortune s bitter storms\\nAround thee blaw, around thee blaw,\\nThy bield should be my bosom,\\nTo share it a to share it a\\nOr were I in the wildest waste,\\nOf earth and air, of earth and air,\\nThe desert were a paradise,\\nIf thou wert there, if thou wert there.\\nOr were I monarch o the globe,\\nWi thee to reign, wi thee to reign.\\nThe only jewel in my crown.\\nWad be my queen, wad be my queen.\\nTHE HIGHLAND LASSIE.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE DEDKS DANG OE R MY DADDY.\\nNae gentle dames, tho e er sae fair,\\nShall ever be my Muse s care\\nTheir titles a are empty show\\nGie me my Highland lassie, O.\\nCHORUS.\\nWithin the glen sae bushy, O,\\nAboon the plain sae rushy, O,\\nI set me down wi right good will,\\nTo sing my Highland lassie, O.\\nOh, were yon hills and valleys mine,\\nYon palace and yon gardens fine!\\nThe world then the love should know\\nI bear my Highland lassie, O.\\nWithin the glen, c.\\ni Quarter of the sky.\\nMary Campbell, my Highland lassie, was a warm-hearted charm-\\ning young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. \u00e2\u0080\u0094R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0344.jp2"}, "345": {"fulltext": "yOC KEY S TA EN THE PARTING KISS. 313\\nBut fickle fortune frowns on me,\\nAnd I maun cross the raging sea\\nBut while my crimson currents flow\\nril love my Highland lassie, O.\\nWithin the glen, c.\\nAltho thro foreign climes I range,\\nI know her heart will never change.\\nFor her bosom burns with honour s glow.\\nMy faithful Highland lassie, O.\\nWithin the glen, c.\\nFor her I ll dare the billow s roar,\\nFor her I ll dare the distant shore,\\nThat Indian wealth may lustre throw\\nAround my Highland lassie, O.\\nWithin the glen, c.\\nShe has my heart, she has my hand.\\nBy sacred truth and honour s band\\nTill the mortal stroke shall lay me low,\\nI m thine my Highland lassie, O.\\nFareweel the glen sao bushy, O I\\nFareweel the plain sae rushy, 01\\nTo other lands I now must go,\\nTo sing my Highland lassie, O I\\nJOCKEY S TA EN THE PARTING KISSL\\nJockey s ta en the parting kiss,\\nO er the mountains he is gane\\nAnd with him is a my bliss,\\nNought but griefs with me remain.\\nSpare my luve, ye winds that blaw,\\nPlashy sleets and beating rain\\nSpare my luve, thou feathery snaw,\\nDrifting o er the frozen plain\\nWhen the shades of evening creep\\nO er the day s fair, gladsome e e,\\nSound and safely may he sleep.\\nSweetly blithe his waukening be!\\nHe will think on her he loves.\\nFondly he ll repeat her name\\nFor where er he distant roves.\\nJockey s lieart is still at hameo", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0345.jp2"}, "346": {"fulltext": ",114 BURNS.\\nPEGGY S CHARMS.\\nMy Peggy s face, my Peggy s form,\\nThe frost of hermit age might warm\\nMy Peggy s worth, my Peggy s mind,\\nMight charm the first of human kind.\\nI love my Peggy s angel air,\\nHer face so truly heavenly fair,\\nHer native grace so void of art;\\nBut I adore my Peggy s heart.\\nThe lily s hue, the rose s dye,\\nThe kindling lustre of an eye\\nWho but owns their magic sway.\\nWho but knows they all decay\\nThe tender thrill, the pitying tear.\\nThe generous purpose, nobly dear,\\nThe gentle look that rage disarms,\\nThese are all immortal charms.\\nXJP IN THE MORNING EARLY.\\nCHORUS.\\nUp in the morning s no for me,\\nUp in the morning early\\nWhen a the hills are cover d wi snaWj\\nI m sure it s winter fairly.\\nCauld blaws the wind frae east tc west,\\nThe drift is driving sairly;\\nSae loud and shrill I hear the blast,\\nI m sure it s winter fairly.\\nThe birds sit chittering- in the thorn,\\nA day they fare but sparely\\nAnd lang s the night frae e en to morn,\\nI m sure it s winter fairly.\\nUp in the morning, c.\\nTHO CRUEL FATE,\\nTho cruel fate should bid us part,\\nAs f ar s the pole and line\\nHer dear idea round my heart\\nShould tenderly entwine.\\nPeggy was Miss Margaret Chalmers. Shivering,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0346.jp2"}, "347": {"fulltext": "DREAM D I LA K, ETC, 315\\nTho mountains frown and deserts howl,\\nAnd oceans roar between\\nYet, dearer than my deathless soul,\\nI still would love my Jean.\\nXt 4:\\nI DREAM D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE\\nSPRINGING.^\\nI dream d I lay where flowers were springing\\nGaily in the sunny beam\\nList ning to the wild birds singing,\\nBy a falling, crystal stream\\nStraight the sky grew black and daring:\\nThro the woods the whirlwinds rave\\nTrees with aged arms were warring.\\nO er the swelling, drumlie^ wave.\\nSuch was my life s deceitful morning,\\nSuch the pleasures I enjoy. d\\nBut lang or noon, lou tempests, storming,\\nA my flowery bliss destroyed.\\nTho fickle fortune has deceived me.\\nShe promis d fair, and perform d but ill,\\nOf monie a joy and hope bereav d me,\\nI bear a heart shall support me still.\\nBONNIE ANN.\\nYe gallants bright, I rede* you right,\\nBeware o bonnie Ann\\nHer comely face sae fu o grace.\\nYour heart she will trepan.\\nHer een sae bright, like stars by night.\\nHer skin is like the swan\\nSae jimply* lac d her genty* waist,\\nThat sweetly ye might span.\\nYouth, grace, and love, attendant move.\\nAnd pleasure leads the van\\nIn a their charms and conquering arms,\\nThey wait on bonnie Ann.\\nThe captive bands may chain the hands,\\nBut love enslaves the man\\nYe gallants braw, I rede you a\\nBeware o bonnie Ann.\\nWritten in the poet s eighteenth year. Muddy.\\nAnn Masterton, the daughter of a friend of Burns.\\nCounsel. Slenderly. Elegant.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0347.jp2"}, "348": {"fulltext": "316 BURNS.\\nMY BONNIE MARY.\\nGo fetch to me a pint o wine,\\nAn fill it in a silver tassie;^\\nThat I may drink, before I go,\\nA service to my bonnie lassie.\\nThe boat rocks at the pier o Leith\\nFu loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;\\nThe ship rides by the Berwick-law,\\nAnd I maun leave my bonnie Mary.\\nThe trumpets sound, the banners fly,\\nThe glittering spears are ranked ready;\\nThe shouts o war are heard afar.\\nThe battle closes thick and bloody;\\nBut it s no the roar o sea or shore\\nWad mak me langer wish to tarry\\nNor shout o war that s heard afar,\\nIt s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.\\nMY HEART S IN THE HIGHLANDS.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, my heart is not here:\\nMy heart s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;\\nChasing the wild deer, and following the roe,\\nMy heart s in the Highlands wherever I go.\\nFarewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,\\nThe birth-place of valour, the country of worth;\\nWherever I wander, wherever I rove,\\nThe hills of the Highlands for ever I love.\\nFarewell to the mountains high cover d with snow;\\nFarewell to the straths and green valleys below\\nFarevv^ell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;\\nFarewell to the torrents and Icud-pouring floods.\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;\\nMy lieart s in the Higtilands a-chasing the deer;\\nChasing the wild deer, and following the roe,\\nMy heart s in the Highlands, wherever I go.\\n1 Measure.\\nThe first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is mine.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 B. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0348.jp2"}, "349": {"fulltext": "THE RANTIX DOG THE DADDIE O T. 317\\nTHERE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 NEIL GOW S LAMENT.\\nThere s a youth in this city, it were a great pity,\\nThat he from our lasses should wander awa\\nFor he s bonnic and braw, weel favour d with\u00c2\u00bb\\nAnd his hair has a natural buckle and a\\nHis coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue\\nHis fecket^ is white as the new-driven snaw;\\nHis hose they are blae, and hii: shoon like the slae,\\nAnd his clear siller bucklec they dazzle us a\\nHis coat is the hue, :c.\\nFor beauty and fortune the laddie s been courtin;\\nWeel-f eatur d, weel-tocher d, weel-mounted and braw\\\\\\nBut chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her,\\nThe pennie s the jewel that beautifies a\\nThere s Meg wi the mailin, that fain wa I a haen him,\\nAnd Susy whase daddy was Laird o the ha\\nThere s lang-tocher d Xancy maist fetters his fancy,\\nBut the laddie s dear sel he lo es dearest of a\\\\\\nTHE RAXTIX DOG THE DADDIE O T.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 EAST NOOK O FIFE.\\nO WHA my babie-clouts will buy?\\nWha will tent me when I cry?\\nWha will kiss me whare I lie?\\nThe rantin dog the daddie o t.\\nWha will own he did the faut?\\nWha will buy my groania maut?\\nWha will tell me how to ca t?\\nThe rantin dog the daddie o t.\\nWhen I mount the creepie-chair,\\nWha will sit beside me there?\\nGie me Rob, I seek nae mair,\\nThe rantin dog the daddie o t.\\nWha will crack to nie my lane?\\nWha will mak me fidgin fain?\\nWha will kiss me o er again?\\nThe rantia dog the daddie o t.\\nAn under waistcoat having sleeves.\\nI composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young\\ngirl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at the time\\nunder a cloud.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. The young girl was Elizabeth Paton.\\n3 Tickled with pleasure.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0349.jp2"}, "350": {"fulltext": "^18 BURNS,\\nI DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.\\nI DO confess thou art sae fair,\\nI wad been o er the lugs^ in luve\\nHad I not found the slightest prayer,\\nThat lips could speak, thy heart could muTO.\\nI do confess thee sweet, but find\\nThou art sae thriftless o thy sweets,\\nThy favours are the silly wind\\nThat kisses ilka thing it meets.\\nSee yonder rose-bud rich in dew,\\nAmang its native briers sae coy,\\nHow soon it tines its scent and hue,\\nWhen pu d and worn a common toy!\\nSic fate ere lang shall thee betide\\nThough thou may gaily bloom awhil^\\nYet soon thou shalt be thrown aside,\\nLike ony common weed and vile.\\nYON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.\\nYon wild mossy mountains, sae lofty and wide.\\nThat nurse in their bosom the youth o the Clyde,\\nWhere the grouse lead their coveys thro the heather t\u00c2\u00ab\\nfeed,\\nAnd the shepherd tents his flocks, as he pipes on his reed.\\nWhere the grouse, c.\\nNot Gowrie s rich valley, nor Forth s sunny shores\\nTo me hae the charms o yon wild mossy moors;\\nFor there, by a lanely, sequester d, clear stream,\\nResides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.\\nAmang the wild mountains shall still be my path,\\nIlk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath\\nFor there, wi my lassie, the day lang I rove,\\nWhile o er us, unheeded, fly the swift hours o love.\\nShe is not the fairest, altho she is fair;\\nO nice education but sma is her share\\nHer parentage humble as humble can be;\\nBut I lo e the dear lassie, because she lo ea mt^\\nEars.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0350.jp2"}, "351": {"fulltext": "IVffA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR, ETC.\\nTo beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,\\nIn her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?\\nAnd when wit and refinement hae polish d her darta,\\nThey dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts.\\nBut kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e e,\\nHas lustre out-shining the diamond to me\\nAnd the heart-beating love, as I m clasp d in her armB,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nO, these are my lassie s all-conquering charms\\nWHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?\\nWha is that at my bower door?\\nO wha is it but Findlay\\nThen gae your gate, ye se nae be here\\nIndeed maun I, quo Findlay.\\nWhat mak ye sae like a thief?\\nO come and see, quo Findlay\\nBefore the morn ye ll work mischief;\\nIndeed will I, quo Findlay.\\nGif I rise and let you in\\nLet me in, quo Findlay\\nYe ll keep me waukin wi your din\\nIndeed will I, quo Findlay.\\nIn my bower if ye should stay\\nLet me stay, quo Findlay;\\nI fear ye ll bide till break o day;\\nIndeed will I, quo Findlay.\\nHere this night if ye remain\\nI ll remain, quo Findlay\\nI dread ye ll learn the gate again;\\nIndeed will I, quo Findlay.\\nWhat may pass within this bower\\nLet it pass, quo Findlay\\nYe maun conceal till your last hour;\\nIndeed will I, quo Findlay.\\nFAREWELL TO NANCY.*\\nAb fond kiss, and then we sever\\nAe f areweel, alas, for ever\\nDeep in heart-wrung tears I ll pledge theet\\nWarring sighs and groans I ll wage thee.\\nSupposed to have been addressed to Clarinda.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0351.jp2"}, "352": {"fulltext": "320 BURXS.\\nWho shall say that fortune grieves him.\\nWhile the star of hope she leaves him?\\nMe, nae cheerfu twinkle lights me;\\nDark despair around benights me.\\nI ll ne er blame my partial fancy,\\nNaething could resist my Nancy\\nBut to see her, was to love her;\\nLove but her, and love for ever.\\nHad we never lov d sae kindly,\\nHad we never loved sae blindly,\\nNever met or never parted.\\nWe had ne er been broken-hearted\\nFare thee weel, thou first and fairest I\\nFare thee weel, thou best and dearest\\nThine be ilka joy and treasure,\\nPeace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure.\\nAe fond kiss, and then w^e sever\\nAe fareweel, alas, for ever\\nDeep in heart-wrung tears 111 pledge thee,\\nWarring sighs and groans I ll wage thee.\\nTHE BONNIE BLINK 0 MARY S E E.\\nNow bank an brae are claith d in green,\\nAn scattered cowslips sweetly spring;\\nBy Girvan s fau-y-haunted stream\\nThe birdies flit on wanton wing.\\nTo Cassillis banks when e ening fa s,\\nThere ^vi my Mary let me flee,\\nThere catch her ilka glance o love.\\nThe bonnie blink o Mary s e e 1\\nThe chield wha boasts o warld s wealth,\\nIs often lau d o meikle care\\nBut Mary she is a my ain,\\nAh, fortune canna gie me mair\\nThen let me range by Cassillis banks\\nWi her the lassie dear to me,\\nAnd catch her ilka glance o love,\\nThe bonnie blink o Mary s e e I", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0352.jp2"}, "353": {"fulltext": "THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA, 321\\nOUT OYER THE FOETH.\\nOut over the Forth I look to the north,\\nBut vrhat is the north and its Highlands to me?\\nThe south nor the east gie ease to my breast,\\nThe far foreign land, or the ^vild rolling sea.\\nBut I look to the west, when I gae to rest,\\nThat happy my dreams and my slumbers may bef\\nFor far in the west lives he I lo e best,\\nThe lad that is dear to my babie and me.\\nTHE BONNIE LAD THAT S FAR AWA.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 OWRE THE HILLS AND FAR AWA.\\nHOW can I be blithe and glad.\\nOr how can I gang brisk and braw,\\nWhen the bonnie lad that I lo e best\\nIs o er the hills and far awa?\\nIt s no the frosty winter wind,\\nIt s no the driving drift and snaw;\\nBut ay the tear comes in my e e,\\nTo think on him that s far awa.\\nMy father pat me frae his door.\\nMy friends they hae disowned me a\\nBut I hae ane will take my part.\\nThe bonnie lad that s far awa.\\nA pail* o gloves he gae to me,\\nAnd silken snoods^ he gae me twa;\\nAnd I will wear them for his sake,\\nThe bonnie lad that s far awa.\\nThe weary winter soon will pass,\\nAnd spring will cleed the birken-shaw;\\nAnd my sweet babie will be born.\\nAnd he ll come hame that s far awa.\\nTHE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BANKS OF BANNA.\\nYestreen I had a pint o wine,\\nA place wnere body saw na\\nYestreen lay on this breast o mine\\nThe gowden locks of Anna.\\nElbands for binding the hair. Cloth\u00c2\u00ab,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0353.jp2"}, "354": {"fulltext": "8^ BURNS,\\nThe hungry Jew in wilderness,\\nRejoicing o er his manna,\\nWas naething to my hinny bliss\\nUpon the lips of Anna.\\nYe monarchs, tak the east and west,\\nFrae Indus to Savannah\\nGie me within my straining grasp\\nThe melting form of Anna.\\nThere I ll despise imperial charms,\\nAn Empress, or Sultana,\\nWhile dying raptures .n her arms,\\nI give and take with Anna 1\\nAwa, thou flaunting god o day I\\nAwa, thou pale Diana\\nHk star gae hide thy twinkling ray.\\nWhen I m to meet my Anna.\\nCome, in thy raven plumage, night,\\nSun, moon, and stars withdrawn a\\nAnd bring an angel pen to write\\nMy transports wi my Anna I\\nBANKS OF DEVON.\\nHow pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,\\nWith green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming\\nfair!\\nBut the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon,\\nWas once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.\\nMild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower.\\nIn the gay rosy mom as it bathes in the dew I\\nAnd gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,\\nThat steals on the evening each leaf to renew.\\nO, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,\\nWith chill hoary wing a\u00c2\u00ab ye usher the dawn I\\nAnd far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes\\nThe verdure and pride of the garden and lawn I\\nLet Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,\\nAnd England triumphant display her proud rose;\\nA fairer than either adorns the green valleys\\nWhere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.\\nComposed on Charlotte, a sister of the poet s friend Ga^\\nHamiltOQ.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0354.jp2"}, "355": {"fulltext": "ADOJVX fr/.\\\\v^/xc; Nrrn. 3i}3\\nADOWN WINDING NITII.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE MDCKIN O GEOKDIK S BYkE.\\nAdown winding Nitli I did wander,\\nTo mark the sweet flowers as they spring;\\nAdown winding Nith I did wander,\\nOf Phillis^ to muse and to sing.\\nCHORUS.\\nAwa wi your belles and your beauties,\\nThey never wi her can compare\\nWhaever has met wi my Phillis,\\nHas met wi the queen o the fair.\\nThe daisy amus d my fond fancy,\\nSo artless, so simple, so wild\\nThou emblem, said I, o my Phillis,\\nFor she is simplicity s child.\\nAwa, c.\\nThe rose-bud s the blush o my charmei^\\nHer sweet balmy lip when tis prest\\nHow fair and how pure is the lily,\\nBut fairer and purer her breast.\\nAwa, c.\\nYon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,\\nThey ne er wi my Phillis can vie\\nHer breath is tlie breath o the woodbine,\\nIts dew-drop o diamond, her eye.\\nAwa, c.\\nHer voice is the song of the morning\\nThat wakes through the green-spreading grove,\\nWhen Phoebus peeps over the mountains.\\nOn music, and pleasure, and love.\\nAwa, c.\\nBut beauty how frail and how fleeting,\\nWhile worth in the mind o my Phillia\\nThe bloom of a fine summer s day I\\nWill flourish without a decay.\\nAwa, c.\\nMisg PliiUis M Murdo.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0355.jp2"}, "356": {"fulltext": "324 BURN S.\\nSTREAMS THAT GLIDE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MORAG.\\nStreai is that glide in orient plains,\\nNever bound by winter s chains I\\nGloYvdng here on golden sands,\\nThere commix d with foulest stains\\nFrom tyranny s empurpled bands:\\nThese, their richly -gleaming waves,\\nI leave to tyrants and their slaves\\nGive me the stream that sweetly layea\\nThe banks by Castle Gordon.\\nSpicy forests, ever gay,\\nShading from the burning ray\\nHapless wretches 3old to toil,\\nOr the ruthless native s way.\\nBent on slaughter, blood, and spoil*.\\nWoods that ever verdant wave,\\nI leave tlie tyrant ancl the slave;\\nGive me the groves that lofty brave\\nThe storms by Castle Gordon.\\nWildly here without control,\\nNature reigns and i-ules the whole\\nIn that sober pensive mood,\\nDearest to the feeling soul,\\nShe plants the forest, pours the flood;\\nLife s poor day 111 musing rave,\\nAnd find at night a sheltering cave,\\nWhere waters flow and wild woods ware,\\nBy bonnie Castle Gordon.\\ntHE DEIL S AWA WI THE EXCISEMAN.*\\nThe Deil cam fiddling thro the town.\\nAnd danc d awa wi the Exciseman;\\nAnd ilka wife cry d, Auld Mahoun,\\nWe wisn you luck o your prize, man.\\nWe ll mak our maut, and brew our drink^\\nWe ll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;\\nAnd monie thanks to the muckle black Deil\\nThat danc d awa v^d the Exciseman.\\nA remenibraRce of Burns visit to Gordon Castle. 1787.\\nA a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns,\\noeinj^ called upon for a song, handed these verses to the president,\\nwritten on the back of a letter.- -C rowiefc.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0356.jp2"}, "357": {"fulltext": "BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL, ETC. 325\\nThere s threesome reels, and foursome reels,\\nThere s hornpijies and strathspeys, man;\\nBut the ae best dance e er cam to our Ian\\nWas The Deil s awa wi the Exciseman.\\nWe ll mak our maut, c.\\nBLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LIGGEllAM COSH.\\nBlithe hae I been on yon hill,\\nAs the lambs before me\\nCareless ilka thought and free.\\nAs the breeze flew o er me\\nNow nae langer sport and play,\\nMirth or sang can please me?\\nLeslie is sae fair and coy,\\nCare and anguish seize me.\\nHeavy, heavy is the task,\\nHopeless love declaring\\nTrembling, I do nocht but glowr,\\nSighing, dumb, despairing!\\nIf she winna ease the thraws\\nIn my bosom swelling\\nUnderneath the grass-green sod\\nSoon maun be my dwelling.\\ne WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR,\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HUGHIE GRAHAM.\\nO WERE my love yon lilac fair,\\nWi purple blossoms to the spring\\nAnd I a bird to shelter there,\\nWhen wearied on my little wing\\nHow I wad mourn, when it was torn\\nBy autumn wild, and winter rude\\nBut I wad sing on wanton wing,\\nWhen youthfu May its bloom renew d.\\nO gin my love were yon red rose\\nThat grows upon the castle wa\\nAnd I mysel a drap o dew,\\nInto her bonnie breast to fa I", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0357.jp2"}, "358": {"fulltext": "%2j6 SURNS.\\nOh there beyond expression blest,\\nI d feast on beauty a the night\\nSeal d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,\\nTill fley d awa by Phoebus light.*\\nCOME, LET ME TAKE THEE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CAULD KAIL.\\nCome, let me take thee to my breast,\\nAnd pledge we ne er shall sunder:\\nAnd I shall spurn as vilest dust\\nThe world s wealth and grandeur;\\nAnd do I hear my Jeanie own\\nThat equal transports move her?\\nI ask for dearest life alone\\nThat I may live to love her.\\nThus in my arms, wi all thy charma,\\nI clasp my countless treasure\\nI ll seek nae mair o heaven to share,\\nThan sic a moment s pleasure\\nAnd by thy een, sae bonnie blue,\\nI swear I m thine for ever!\\nAnd on thy lips I seal my vow,\\nAnd break it shall I never.\\nWHERE ARE THE JOYS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 saw YEaiY FATHER?\\nWhere are the joys I have met in the morning.\\nThat danc d to the lark s early song?\\nWhere is the peace that awaited my wand ring,\\nAt evening the wild woods among?\\nNo more a-winding the course of yon river,\\nAnd marking sweet flow rets so fair:\\nNo more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,\\nBut sorrow and sad sighing care.\\nIs it tliat summer s forsaken our valleys.\\nAnd grim, surly winter is near?\\nNo, no the bees humming round the gay roses,\\nProclaim it the pride of the year.\\nThe third and fourth verses are copied from Withei*spoon i\\nCollection of Scotch Songs.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0358.jp2"}, "359": {"fulltext": "O SAW YE MY DEAR, ETC. 327\\nFain would I hide what I fear to discover,\\nYet long, long too well have I known\\nAll that has caus d this wreck in my bosom,\\nIs JennVj fair Jenny alone.\\nTime cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,\\nNot hope dare a comfort bestow\\nCome, then, enamour d and fond of my anguish\\nEnjoyment 111 seek in my woe.\\nO SAW YE ]MY DEAR.\\nTUXE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WHEN SHE Ci.M BEN SHB BOBBIT.\\nO SAW ye my dear, my Phely?\\nO saw ye my dear, my Phely?\\nShe s down i the grove, she s wi a new love,\\nShe winna come hame to her Willy.\\nWhat says she, my dearest, my Phely?\\nWhat says she, my dearest, my Phely?\\nShe lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,\\nAnd for ever disowns thee, her Willy.\\nO had I ne er seen thee, my Phely\\nO had I ne er seen thee, my Phely 1\\nAs light as the air, and fause as thou s fair,\\nThou st broken the heart o thy Willy.\\nTHOU HAST LEFT IVIE E^T:R, JAMIE.*\\nTUXK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 FEE HIM, FATHER.\\nThou hast left me ever, Jamie,\\nThou hast left me ever;\\nThou hast left me ever, Jamie,\\nThou hast left me ever.\\nAften has thou vow d that death\\nOnly should us sever;\\nNow thou st left thy lass for aye\\nI maun see thee never, Jamie,\\nI ll see thee never I\\nThis song was written, as the author t^lls us, by the lee side of\\ntb bowl of punch, vrhich had already conquered every othcT guesU", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0359.jp2"}, "360": {"fulltext": "328 BUR.VS.\\nThou hast me forsaken, Jamie,\\nThou hast me forsaken\\nThou hast me forsaken, Jamie,\\nThou hast me forsaken.\\nThou canst love anither jo,\\nWhile my heart is breaking;\\n8oon my weary een I ll close\\nNever mair to waken, Jamie,\\nNe er mair to waken 1\\nMY CHLORIS.\\nTCWE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MY LOD DsG 18 ON THE COLD GROUND.\\nMy Chloris, mark how green the groves,*\\nThe primrose banks how fair:\\nThe balmy gales awake the flowers,\\nAnd wave thy flaxen hair.\\nThe lav rock shuns the palace gay,\\nAnd o er the cottage sings\\nFor nature smiles as sweet, I ween,\\nTo shepherd s, as to kings.\\nLet minstrels sweep the skilfu string\\nIn lordly lighted ha\\nThe shepherd stops his simple reed,\\nBlithe in the birken shaw.\\nThe princely revel may survey\\nOur rustic dance wi scorn\\nBut are their hearts as light as ours\\nBeneath the milk-white thorn?\\nThe shepherd, in the flowery glen,\\nIn shepherd s phrase will woo\\nThe courtier tells a finer tale\\nBut is his heart as true\\nThese wild-wood flowers I ve pu d, to deck\\nThat spotless breast of thine:\\nThe courtiers gems may witness love\\nBut tis na love like mine.\\nOn ray visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetif\\nname of ti.e lovely goddess of my in?\u00c2\u00ab;pi ration she suggested an idea.\\nwhich I. on my return from the visit, wrought into the toilowiag\\nBong. To Mr. ThomsGU, Nov., 1794.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0360.jp2"}, "361": {"fulltext": "LET XOT WOMAN E ER COMPLAIN, 329\\nCHARMING MONTH OF MAY.\\nTQNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DAINTY DAVIE.\\nIt was the charming month of May,\\nWhen all the flowers were fresh and gay,\\nOne morning, by the break of day.\\nThe youthful, channing Chloe;\\nFrom peaceful slumber she arose,\\nGirt on her mantle and her hose.\\nAnd o er the flowery mead she goes,\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe.\\nCHOKUS.\\nLovely was she by the dawn.\\nYouthful Chloe, channing Chloey\\nTripping o er the pearly lawn.\\nThe youthful, charming Chloe.\\nThe feathered people you might see\\nPerch d all around on every tree.\\nIn notes of sweetest melody\\nThey hail the charming Chloe\\nTill, painting gay the eastern skies,\\nThe glorious sun began to rise,\\nOut-rivall d by the radiant eyes\\nOf youthful, charming Chloe.\\nLovely was she, c.\\nLET NOT WOjMAN E ER COMPLAIN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DUNCAN GRAY.\\nLet not woman e er complain\\nOf inconstancy in love\\nLet not woman e er complain.\\nFickle mail is apt to rove\\nLook abroad through Nature s range,\\nNature s mighty law is change\\nLadies, would it not be strange,\\nMan should then a monster prove?\\nCiit down. to adopt tlie phrase of Burus, from a song ia\\nKaaisaj^ b Teii-Tabii* Misceilanv.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0361.jp2"}, "362": {"fulltext": "330 BURNS.\\nMark the winds, and mark the skies;\\nOcean s ebb, and ocean s flow\\nSun and moon but set to rise\\nRound and round the seasons go.\\nWhy then ask of siily man,\\nTo oppose great Nature s plan?\\nWe ll be constant while we can\\nYou can be no more, you know.\\nO PHILLY.*\\nTDNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE SOW S TAIL.\\nHE.\\nO Philly, happy be that day\\nWhen, roving through the gather d hay,\\nMy youthfu heart was stov/n away,\\nAnd by thy charms, my Philly.\\nSHE.\\nO Willy, aye I bless the grove\\nWhere first I own d my maiden love,\\nWhilst thou didst pledge the Powers above\\nTo be my ain dear Willy.\\nHE.\\nAs songsters of the early year\\nAre ilka diiy mair sweet to hear,\\nSo ilka day to me mair dear\\nAnd charming is my Philly.\\nSHE.\\nAs on the brier the budding rose\\nStill richer breathes and fairer blows,\\nSo in my tender bosom grows\\nThe love I bear my Willy.\\nHE.\\nThe milder sun and bluer sky.\\nThat crown my harvest cares wi joy,\\nWere ne er sae welcome to ray eye,\\nAs is a sight o Pliilly.\\n5 These verses were composed in a morning walk, through\\nkeen-blowing fro t,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0362.jp2"}, "363": {"fulltext": "JOHN BARLE YCORN. 331\\nSHE.\\nThe little swallow s wanton wing,\\nTho wafting o er the flowery spring,\\nDid ne er to me sic tidings bring,\\nAs meeting o my Willy\\nThe bee that thro the sunny hour\\nSips ntctar in the opening flower,\\nCompared wi my delight is poor,\\nUpon the lips o Philly.\\n8HE.\\nThe woodbine in the dewy weet,\\nWhen evening shades in silence meet,\\nIs nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet\\nAs is a kiss o Willy.\\nHE.\\nLet fortune s wheel at random rin,\\nAnd fools may tyne, and knaves may wiiv\\nMy thoughts are a bound up in ane,\\nAnd that s my ain dear Philly.\\nSHE.\\nWhat s a the joys that gowd can gie!\\nI care na wealth a single flie\\nThe lad I love s the lad for me,\\nAnd that s my ain dear Willy.\\nJOHN BARLEYCORN.\\nA BALLAD.\\nTbxbb were three Kings into the east,\\nThree Kings both great and high;\\nAn they hae sworn a solemn oath\\nJohn Barleycorn should die.\\nThey took a plough and plough d him dowa^\\nPut clods upon his head\\nAnd they hae sworn a solemn oath\\nJ#hn Barleycorn was dead.\\nBut the cheerful Spring came kindly on,\\nAnd showers began to fall\\nJohn Barleycorn got up again,\\nAnd sore surpris d ^^hem aU.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0363.jp2"}, "364": {"fulltext": "a32 BURNS.\\nThe sultry suns of Summer came,\\nAnd he grew thick and strong,\\nHis head weel arm d wi pointed spears,\\nThat no one should him wrong.\\nThe sober Autumn enter d mild,\\nWhen he grew wan and pale\\nHis bending joints and drooping head\\nShow^ d he began to fail.\\nHis colour sicken d more and more,\\nHe faded mto age\\nAnd then his enemies began\\nTo show their deadly rage.\\nThey ve ta en a weapon, long and sharp,\\nAnd cut him by the knee\\nThen tied him fast upon a cart,\\nLike a rogue for forgerie.\\nThey laid him down upon his back,\\nAnd cudgel d him full sore\\nThey hung him up before the storm,\\nAnd turn d him o er and o er.\\nThey filled up a darksome pit\\nWith water to the brim,\\nThey heaved in John Barleycorn,\\nThere let him sink or swim.\\nThey laid him out upon the floor.\\nTo work him farther woe\\nAnd still, as signs of life appeared,\\nThey toss d him to and fro.\\nThey wasted, o er a scorching flame,\\nThe marrow of his bones\\nBut a miller us d him worst of all,\\nFor he cnish d him tween two stones.\\nAnd they hae ta en his very heart s blood,\\nAnd drank it round and round\\nAnd still the more and more they drank.\\nTheir joy did more abound,\\nJohn Barleycorn was a hero bold,\\nOf noble enterprise\\nFor if you do but taste his blood,\\nTwill make your courage rise;", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0364.jp2"}, "365": {"fulltext": "CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, ETC. 333\\nTwill make a man forget his woe\\nTwill heighten all his joy:\\nTwill make the widow s heart to sing,\\nTho the tear were in her eye.\\nThen let us toast John Barleycorn,\\nEach man a glass in hand\\nAnd may his great posterity\\nNe er fail in old Scotland\\nCANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ROY S WIFE.\\nCHORUS.\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katy?\\nCanst thou leave me thus, my Katy\\nWell thou know st my aching heart,\\nAnd canst thou leave me thus for pity?\\nIs this thy plighted, fond regard,\\nThus cruelly to part, my Katy?\\nIs this thy faithful swain s reward\\nAn aching, broken heart, my Katy?\\nCanst thou, c.\\nFarewell and ne er such sorrows tear\\nThat fickle heart of thine, my Katy 1\\nThou may st find those will love thee deaf^\u00c2\u00bb\\nBut not a love like mine, my Katy.\\nCanst thou, c.\\nON CHLORIS BEING ILL.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ay WAUKIN O.\\nCHORUS.\\nLong, long the night,\\nHeavy comes the morrow,\\nWhile my soul s delight\\nIs on her bed of sorrow.\\nCan I cease to care?\\nCan I cease to languish,\\nWhile my darling fair\\nIs on the couch of anguish?\\nLong, c.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0365.jp2"}, "366": {"fulltext": "334 BURNS.\\nEvery hope is fled,\\nEvery fear is terror;\\nSlumber even I dread,\\nEvery dream is horror.\\nLong, c.\\nHear me, Powers divine I\\nOh in pity hear me\\nTake aught else of mine,\\nBut my Chloris spare me\\nLong, c.\\nTHE RIGS O BARLEY.\\nTCNE~ COKN RIGS ARE BONNIE.\\nIt was upon a Lammas night.\\nWhen corn rigs are bonnie.\\nBeneath tlie moon s unclouded lightj\\nI held awa to Annie\\nThe time llcw by, wi tentless heed,\\nTill tween the late and early,\\nWi sma persuasion she agreed\\nTo see me thro the barley.\\nThe sky was bhie, the wind was still,\\nThe moon was shining clearly;\\nI set her down, wi right good will,\\nAmaug the rigs o barley\\nI ken t her heart was a my ain\\nI lov d her most sincerely;\\n1 kiss d her owre and owre again\\nAmang the rigs o barley.\\nI lock d her in my fond embrace;\\nHer heart was beating rarely;\\nMy blessing on that happy place,.\\nAmang the rigs o barley\\nBut by the moon and stars so bright^\\nThat shone that hour so clearly!\\nShe aye shall bless that happy night\\nAmang the rigs o barley.\\nI hae been blythe wi comrades dear\\nI hae been merry drinkin\\nI hae been joyfu gath rin gear;\\nI hae been happy thinking", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0366.jp2"}, "367": {"fulltext": "FAREWELL TO ELIZA, ETC. 330\\nBut a the pleasures e er I saw,\\nTho three times doubl d fairly,\\nThat happy night was worth them a\\nAmaug the rigs o barley.\\nCHORUS.\\nCorn rigs, an barley rigs.\\nAn corn ligs are bonnie\\nI ll ne er forget that happy night,\\nAmang the rigs wi Annie.\\nFAREWELL TO ELIZA/\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GILDE UO Y.\\nFrom thee, Eliza, I must go,\\nAnd from my native shore\\nThe cruel fates between us throw\\nA boundless ocean s roar\\nBut boundless oceans, roaring wide,\\nBetween my Love and me,\\nThey never, never can divide\\nMy heart and soul from thee.\\nFarewell, farewell, Eliza dear,\\nThe maid that I adore\\nA boding voice is in mine ear,\\nWe part to meet no more\\nBut the last throb that leaves my heart,\\nWhile death stands victor by,\\nThat throb, Eliza, is thy part,\\nAnd thine that latest sigh 1\\nMY NANNIE, O.\\nBehind yon hills where Lugar flowa,\\nMang moors an mosses many, O,\\nThe wintry sun the day has clos d.\\nAnd I ll awa to Nannie, O.\\nThe westlin wind blaws loud an shrill:-\\nThe night s baith mirk and rainy, O\\nBut I ll get my plaid, an out I ll steal.\\nAn owre the hill to Nannie, O.\\n1 The editors of Burns have discovered two Elizas\u00e2\u0080\u0094 and perhaps a\\nfwture inquirer may enlarge the number.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0367.jp2"}, "368": {"fulltext": "336 BURNS.\\nMy Nannie s charming, sweet, au young;\\nNae artf u wiles to win ye, O\\nMay ill befa the flattering tongue\\nThat wad beguile my Nannie, 0.\\nHer face is fair, her heart is true,\\nAs spotless as she s bonnie, O\\nThe op ning gowan, wat wV dew,\\nNae purer i\u00c2\u00a3 than Nannie, O.\\nA country lad is my degree.\\nAn few there be that ken me, O\\nBut what care I how few^ they be?\\nI m welcome aye to Nannie, O.\\nMy riches a s ray penny-fee,\\nAn I maun guide it cannie, O\\nBut warl s gear ne er troubles me,\\nMy thoughts are a my Nannie, O.\\nOur auld Guidman delights to view\\nHis sheep an kye thrive bonnie, O;\\nBut I m as blythe that bauds Ms pleugb\\nAn has nae care but Nannie, O.\\nCome weal, come woe, I care na by,\\nI ll tak what Heaven will sen me, 0{\\nNae ither care in life have I,\\nBut live, an love my Nannie, O.\\nGREEN GROW THE RASHES.*\\nA FRAGMENT.\\nCHORUS.\\nGreek grow the rashes, O\\nGreen grow the rashes, O\\nThe sweetest hours that e er I spent,\\nWere spent amang the lasses, O\\nOn this song Burns indites the following note: I do not s\u00c2\u00a90\\nthat the turn of mind and pursuits of guch a one aa the above\\nverses describe\u00e2\u0080\u0094 one who spends the hours and thoughts which the\\nvocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thomson,\\nShenstone. Sterne, c., are in the least more inimical to the sacred\\ninterests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and\\nfitraining after the world s riches and honours.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0368.jp2"}, "369": {"fulltext": "NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 337\\nThere s nought but care on ev ry han\\nIn ev ry hour that passes, O;\\nWhat signifies the life o man.\\nAn twere na for the lasses, O.\\nGreen grow, e.\\nThe warly race may riches chase,\\nAn riches still may fly them, O\\nAn tho at last they catch them fast,\\nTheir hearts can ne er enjoy them, O.\\nGreen grow, c.\\nBut gie me a canny hour at e en,\\nMy arms about my dearie,\\nAn warly cares, an warly men,\\nMay a gae tapsalteerie, O\\nGreen grow, c.\\nFor you sae douse, ye sneer at this,\\nYe re nought but senseless asses, O:\\nThe wisest man the warP e er saw,\\nHe dearly lov d the lasses, 0.\\nGreen grow, c.\\nAuld Nature swears, the lovely dean\\nHer noblest work she classes, O\\nHer prentice han she tried on man,\\nAn then she made the lasses, O.\\nGreen grow, c.\\nNOW WESTLIN WINDS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I HAD A HORSE, I HAD NAE MAIB.\\nKow westlin winds and slaught ring guns\\nBring autumn s pleasant weather\\nThe moorcock springs, on whirring wings,\\nAmang the blooming heather\\nNow waving grain, vfide o er the plain,\\nDelights the weary f aiTaer\\n4nd the moon shines bright, when I rove at night\u00c2\u00bb\\nTo muse upon my charmer.\\nQ", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0369.jp2"}, "370": {"fulltext": "338 BURNS.\\nThe partridge loves the fruitful fells;\\nThe plover loves the mountains\\nThe woodcoclv haunts the lonely dells,*\\nThe soaring hern the fountains\\nThro lofty groves the cushat roves,\\nThe path of man to shun it\\nThe hazel bush o erhangs the thrush,\\nThe spreading thorn the linnet.\\nThus ev ry kind their pleasure find,\\nThe savage and the tender;\\nSome social join, and leagues combine;\\nSome solitary wander;\\nAvaunt, away the cruel sway,\\nTyrannic man s dominion\\nThe sportsman s joy, the murd ring cry,\\nThe iiutt ring gory pinion\\nBut, Peggy dear, the ev ning s clear,\\nThick flies the skimming swallow;\\nThe sky is blue, the fields in view,\\nAll fading -green and yellow\\nCome, let us stray our gladsome way,\\nAnd view the charms of nature\\nTlie rustling corn, the fruited thorn,\\nAnd ev ry happy creature.\\nWe ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,\\nTill the silent moon shine clearly;\\nI ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,\\nSwear how I love thee dearly\\nNot vernal show rs to budding flow rs,\\nNot autumn to the farmer.\\nSo dear can be, as thou to me,\\nMy fair, my lovely charmer\\nTHE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 prepare, MY DEAR BRETHREN, TO THE TAVERN LET 8 n#T.*\\nNo churchman am I for to rail and to write,\\nNo statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight.\\nNo sly man of business contriving a snare,\\nFor a big-bellied bottle s the whole of my care.\\nThe peer I don t envy, I give him his bow\\nI scorn not the peasant, tho ever so low", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0370.jp2"}, "371": {"fulltext": "THE AUTHOR S FAREWELL. 339\\nBut a club of good fellows, like those that are here,\\nAnd a bottle like this, are my glor^- and care.\\nHere passes the squire on his brother his horse\\nThere centum per centum, the cit with his purse;\\nBut see you the Crown how it waves in the air?\\nThere a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.\\nThe wife of my bosom, alas she did die\\nFor sweet consolation to church I did fly\\nI found that old Solomon proved it fair,\\nThat the big-bellied bottle s a cure for all care.\\nI once w^as persuaded a venture to make\\nA letter inform d me that all was to wreck;\\nBut the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,\\nWith a glorious bottle that ended my cares.\\nLife s cares they are comforts, a maxim laid down\\nBy the bard, what d ye call him, that wore the black\\ngown\\nAnd, faith, I agree with th old prig to a hair,\\nFor a big-bellied bottle s a heav n of care.\\nA STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.\\nThen fill up a bumper, and make it o erflow,\\nAnd honoirrs masonic prepare for to throw\\nMay ev ry true brother of the compass and square\\nHave a big-bellied bottle when harass d with care.\\nTHE AUTHOR S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE\\nCOUNTRY.^\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R06LIN CASTLE.\\nThe gloomy night is gath ring fast,\\nLoud roars the wild inconstant blast,\\nYon murky cloud is foul with rain,\\nI see it driving o er the plain\\nThe hunter now has left the moor.\\nThe scatter d coveys meet secure.\\nWhile here I wander, prest with care,\\nAlong the lonely banks of Ajrr.\\n1 Young s Night Thoughts.\\n5* BUfDB had been visiting the minister of Loudon, and his home-\\nward path led him over solitary moors in a dark and indy evening\\nof autumn. For some days, in his own words, he had been skulk-\\nhig from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail and expect-\\ning almost immediately to embark for Jamaica, he designed these\\nlines as a fare.vell dh ge to his native land.^", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0371.jp2"}, "372": {"fulltext": "340 BL J^XS,\\nThe Autumn mourns her rip ning corn\\nBy early Winter s ravage torn\\nAcross her placid, azure sky,\\nShe sees the scowling tempest fly\\nChill runs my blood to hear it rave,\\nI think upon the stormy wave,\\nWhere many a danger I must dare,\\nFar from the bonnie banks of Ayr.\\nTis not the surging billow s roar,\\nTis not that fatal, deadly shore;\\nTho deatli in ev ry shape appear,\\nThe wretched have no more to fear:\\nBut round my heart the ties are bound.\\nThat heart transpierc d with many a wound\\nThese bleed afresh, those ties I tear,\\nTo leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.\\nFarewell, old Coila s hills and dales,\\nHer heathy moors and winding vales\\nThe scenes where wretched fancy roves.\\nPursuing past, unhappy loves\\nFarewell, my friends Farewell, my foes\\nMy peace with these, my love with those\\nThe bursting tears my heart declare\\nFarewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr 1\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\ni3\\nTO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES S LODGE, TARBGLTOH\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GUID NIGHT, AND JOY BS Wl YOU aM\\nAdieu a heart- warm, fond adieu\\nDear brothers of the mystic tie\\nYe favoured, ye enlighten d few.\\nCompanions of my social joy\\nTho I to foreign lands must hie,\\nPursuing Fortune s slidd ry ba\\nWith melting heart, and brimful eye,\\nI ll mind you still, tho far awa\\nOft have I met your social band.\\nAnd spent the cheerful, festive night;\\nOft, honour d with supreme command,\\nPresided o er the sons of liofht", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0372.jp2"}, "373": {"fulltext": "AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT. 341\\nAnd by that hieroglyphic bright,\\nWhich none but craftsmen ever saw I\\nStrong mem ry on my heart shall write\\nThose happy scenes when far awa I\\nMay freedom, harmony, and love,\\nUnite you in the grand design,\\nBeneath the Omniscient eye above,\\nThe glorious Architect Divine\\nThat you may keep th unerring line,\\nStill rising by the plummet s law,\\nTill Order bright completely shine,\\nShall be my pray r when far awa\\nAnd You, farewell whose merits claim,\\nJustly, that highest badge to wear\\nHeav n bless your honoured, noble name,\\nTo Masonry and Scotia dear\\nA last request permit me here.\\nWhen yearly ye assemble a\\nOne round I ask it with a tear.\\nTo him, the Bard that s far awa\\n4ND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE^ DOAT.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 jockey s GREY BRKEKS.\\nAgain rejoicing Nature sees\\nHer robe assume its vernal hues.\\nHer leafy locks wave in the breeze,\\nAll freshly steep d in morning dews.\\nCHORUS.\\nAnd maun I still on Menie doat,\\nAnd bear the scorn that s in her e e?\\nFor it s jet, jet black, an it s like a hawk.\\nAn it winna let a body be\\nIn vain to me the cowslips blaw,\\nIn vain to me the vi lets spring\\nIn vain to me, in glen or shaw.\\nThe mavis and the lintwhite sing.\\nAnd maun I still, c.\\n1 Sir John Whiteford, the Grand Master.\\nMenie Is the common abbreviation of Marianne. R. B.\\nThis chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in EdhF\\nburgh, a particular friend of the author.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0373.jp2"}, "374": {"fulltext": "342 BURNS,\\nThe merry plougliboy cheers his team,\\nWr joy the tentie seedsman stalks,\\nBut life to me s a weary dream,\\nA dream of ane that never wauks.\\nAnd maun I still, c.\\nThe wanton coot^ the water skims,\\nAmang the reeds the ducklings cry.\\nThe stately swan majestic swims,\\nAnd everything is blest but I.\\nAnd maun I still, c.\\nThe sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,*\\nAnd owre the moorland whistles shrill\\nWi wild, unequal, wandering step\\nI meet him on the dewy hill.\\nAnd maun I still, c.\\nAnd when the lark, tween light and dark,\\nBlythe waukens by the daisy s side,\\nAnd mounts and sings on flittering wings,\\nA woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.\\nAnd maun I still, c.\\nCome Winter, with thine angry howl,\\nAnd raging bend the naked tree\\nThy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul.\\nWhen Nature all is sad like me\\nAnd maun I still on Menie doat.\\nAnd bear the scorn that s in her e e?\\nFor it s jet, jet black, an it s like a hawk.\\nAn it winna let a body be.\\nHIGHLAND MARY.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 KATHARINE OGIE.\\nYe banks, and braes, and streams around\\nThe castle o Montgomery,\\nGreen be your woods, and fair your flowers,\\nYour waters never drumlie!^\\nWacer-fowl. 2 shuts the gate of the fold. Trembling.\\n^The foregoing song pleases myself I think it is in my happiest\\nmanner. You will see at first glance that it suits the air. The sub-\\nject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youth-\\nful days and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses\\nset to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, tis\\nthe still growitg prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed\\nlustre over the merits of the composition.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\nMuddy.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0374.jp2"}, "375": {"fulltext": "AULD LANG SYNE. 343\\nThere simmer first unfald her robes,\\nAnd there the langest tarry\\nFor there I took the last fareweel\\nO my sweet Highland Mary.\\nHow sweetly bloom d the gay green birk,\\nHow rich the hawthorn s blossom,\\nAs underneath their fragrant shade,\\nI clasp d her to ray bosom\\nThe golden hom-s, on angel wings,\\nFlew o er me and my dearie\\nFor dear to me, as light and life.\\nWas my sweet Highland Mary.\\nWi monie a vow, and lock d embrace,\\nOur parting was fu tender\\nAnd, pledging aft to meet again,\\nWe tore oursels asunder\\nBut oh fell death s untimely frost.\\nThat nipt my flower sae early\\nNow green s the sod, and cauld s the clay,\\nThat wraps my Highland Mary\\nO pale, pale now, those rosy lips,\\nI aft hae kiss d sae fondly\\nAnd closed for aye the sparkling glance,\\nThat dwelt on me sae kindly\\nAnd mould ring now in silent dust.\\nThat heart that lo ed me dearly!\\nBut still within my bosom s core\\nShall live my Highland Mary.\\nAULD LANG SYNE.^\\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\\nAnd never brought to min\\nShould auld acquaintance be forgot,\\nAnd days o lang syne?\\nCHORUS.\\nFor auld lang syne, my dear.\\nFor auld lang syne.\\nWe ll tak a cup o kindness yet,\\nFor auld lang syne.\\nAn old song into which Burns threw seme of his own flr#.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0375.jp2"}, "376": {"fulltext": "344 BURNS,\\nWe twa liae run about the braeSj\\nAnd pu d the go wans fine\\nBut we ve wandered mony a weary foot\\nSin auld lang syne.\\nFor auld, c.\\nWe twa hae paidl t i the burn,\\nFrom mornin sun till dine\\nBut seas between us braid hae roared\\nSin auld lang syne.\\nFor auld, c.\\nAnd here s a hand, my trusty fiere,^\\nAnd gie s a hand o thine\\nAnd we ll tak a right guid willie-waught,\\nFor auld lang syne.\\nFor auld, c.\\nAnd surely ye ll be your pint-stowp,\\nAnd surely I ll be mine\\nAnd we ll tak a cup o kindness yet,\\nFor auld lang syne.\\nFor auld, c.*\\nBANNOCKBURN.*\\nROBERT BRUCE S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HEY TUTTIE, TAITIE.\\nScots, wha hae wi Wallace bled,\\nScots, wham Bruce has aften led;\\nWelcome to your gory bed.\\nOr to glorious victorie.\\n1 Friend. Draught.\\nYour meeting-, which you so well describe, with your old school\\nfellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon tha ways of the\\nworld! They spoil these social offsprings of the heaj-r Two\\nveterans of the men of the world would have met with little\\nmore heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on the road.\\nApropos, is not the Scotch phrase, Auld lang syne, exceedingly\\nexpressive? There is an old song and tune y/hicli has often thrilled\\nthrough mysnui; I shall give you the verses in the oiher sheet.\\nLight be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who com-\\nposed this glorious fragment!\u00e2\u0080\u0094 To Mrs. Dunlop, De\\\\ 17, 1788; and to\\nMr. Thomson, September, 1793:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 The air is but mediocre, but the fol-\\nlowing song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never\\nbeen in print, nor even in manuscript, until 1 took it down from\\nan old man s singing, is enough to recommend any air.\\nA friend had got a grey Highland shelty for Burns, and h\u00c2\u00a9\\nmade a httle excui*sion on it into Galloway. He was particularly\\nstruck with the scenery round Kenmore. From that place he and\\nhis companion took the Moor-road to Gatehouse, the dreary country", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0376.jp2"}, "377": {"fulltext": "THE GALLANT WEA VER, 34o\\nNow s the day, and now s the hour\\nSee the front o battle lour\\nSee approach proud Edward s pow*r\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nEdward chains and slaverie\\nWha will be a traitor knave?\\nWha can fill a coward s grave?\\nWha sae base as be a slave?\\nTraitor! coward! turn and flee?\\nWha for Scotland s King and law\\nFreedom s sword will strongly draw,\\nFree-man stand, or free-man fa\\nCaledonian on wi me\\nBy Oppression s woes and pains I\\nBy your sons in servile chains,\\nWe will drain our dearest veins,\\nBut they shall they shall be free!\\nLay the proud usurpers low\\nTyrants fall in every foe\\nLiberty s in every blow\\nForward let us do, or die\\nTHE GALLANT WEAVER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE AULD WTFE AYONT THE PIBE.\\nWhere Cart rins rowin^ to the sea,\\nBy monie a flow r and spreading tree,\\nThere lives a lad, the lad for me.\\nHe is a gallant weaver.\\nbeing lighted up by frequent gleams of a thunderstorm, whicli\\nsoon poured down a flood of rain. Burns spoke not a word. Whal\\ndo you think he was about? asked his fellow-traveller, relating the\\nadventure. He was charging the English army alone with Bruce\\nat Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride\\nhome from St. Mary s Isle. 1 did not disturb him. Next day he pro-\\nduced the following address of Bruce to his troops. Mr. Symb,\\n^footed by Currie, i. 211.\\nIndependent of my enthusiasm as a Scotchman, I have rarelj\\nmet with anything in history which interests my feelings as a man\\nequal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel but\\nable usurper leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the\\nlast spark of freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured\\npeople; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation,\\ndevoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or to perish\\nwith her.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Burns to Earl of Buchan, Jan. 12, 1794.\\na RolUng.\\nO*", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0377.jp2"}, "378": {"fulltext": "346 BURNS.\\nOh, I had wooers aught or nine,\\nThey gied me rings and ribbons fine\\nAnd I was fear d my heart would tine,\\nAnd I gied it to the weaver.\\nMy daddie sign d my tocher-band,\\nTo gie the lad that has the land,\\nBut to my heart I ll add my hand.\\nAnd gie it to the weaver.\\nWhile birds rejoice in leafy bowers\\nWhile bees rejoice in opening flowers\\nWhile corn grows green in simmer showera,\\nI ll love my gallant weaver.\\nSONG.\\nAnna, thy charms my bosom fire,\\nAnd waste my soul with care\\nBut ah how bootless to admire.\\nWhen fated to despair!\\nYet in thy presence, lovely fair.\\nTo hope may be forgiven\\nFor, sure, twere impious to despair\\nSo much in sight of heaven.\\nFOR A THAT AND A THAT.\\nIs there, for honest poverty.\\nThat hangs his head, and a that?\\nThe coward -slave, we pass him by,\\nWe dare be poor for a that\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nOur toils obscure, and a that;\\nThe rank is but the guinea stamp\\nThe man s the gowd for a that.\\nWhat tho on hamely fare we dine.\\nWear hodden-grey,^ and a that;\\nGie fools their silks, and knaves their wine^\\nA. man s a man, for a that.\\nMarriage bond, Coarse woollen cloth.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0378.jp2"}, "379": {"fulltext": "TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 347\\nFor a that, and a that,\\nTheir tinsel show, and a that\\nThe honest man, tho e er sae poor,\\nIs King o- men for a that.\\nYe see yon birkie, ca d a lord,\\nWha struts, and stares, and a that;\\nTho hundreds worship at his word,\\nHe s but a cooP for a that\\nFor a that, and a that,\\nHis riband, star, and a that,\\nThe man, of independent mind,\\nHe looks and laughs at a that.\\nA prince can mak a belted knight,\\nA marquis, duke, and a that\\nBut an honest man s aboon his might,\\nGuid faith, he mauna fa that\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nTheir dignities, and a that,\\nThe pith o sense, and pride o worth,\\nAre higher ranks than a that.\\nThen let us pray that come it may.\\nAs come it will for a that\\nThat sense and worth, o er a the earth,\\nMay bear the gree,* and a that;\\nFor a that, and a that.\\nIt s coming yet, for a that;\\nThat man to man, the warld o er,\\nShall brothers be for a that.\\nTO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\\nTUNE THE HOPELESS LOVER.\\nNow spring has clad the groves in green,\\nAnd strew d the lea wi flowers;\\nThe fun ow d, waving corn is seen\\nRejoice in fostering showers;\\nWhile ilka thing in nature join\\nTheir sorrows to forego,\\nO why thus all alone are mine\\nThe weary steps of woe\\nConceited fellow. Blockhead, Try.\\nMaj- be conquerors,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0379.jp2"}, "380": {"fulltext": "348 BURNS.\\nThe trout within yon wimpling bum\\nGlides swift, a silver dart,\\nAnd safe beneath the shady thorn\\nDefies the angler s art\\nMy life was once that careless stream;\\nThat wanton trout was I\\nBut love, wi unrelenting beam,\\nHas scorch d my fountain dry.\\nThe little flow ret s peaceful lot,\\nIn yonder cliff that grows.\\nWhich, save the linnet s flight, I wot,\\nNae ruder visit knows.\\nWas mine till love has o er me past,\\nAnd blighted a my bloom.\\nAnd now beneath the withering blast.\\nMy youth and joy consume.\\nThe w^aken d lav rock warbling springs,\\nAnd climbs the early sky.\\nWinnowing blithe her dewy wings\\nIn morning s rosy eye\\nAs little reckt I sorrow s power,\\nUntil the flowery snare\\nC witching love, in luckless hour,\\nMade me the thrall o care.\\nO had my fate been Greenland snows,\\nOr xifric s burning zone,\\nWi man and nature leagu d my foes,\\nSo Peggy ne er I d known\\nThe wretch whase doom is, Hope nae mairP\\nWhat tongue his woes can tell?\\nWithin whose bosom, save despair,\\nNae kinder spirits dwell.\\nCLARINDA.\\nClarinda, mistress of my soul.\\nThe measur d time is run\\nThe wretch beneath the dreary pol\u00c2\u00a9\\nSo marks his latest sun.\\nTo what dark cave of frozen night\\nShall poor Sylvander hie\\nDepriv d of thee, his life and light.\\nThe sun of all his joy?", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0380.jp2"}, "381": {"fulltext": "PVHV, WHY TELL THY LOVER, ETC, 34D\\nWe part but by these precious drops\\nThat fill thy lovely eyes\\nNo other ligiit shall guide my steps,\\nTill thy bright beams arise.\\nShe, the fair sun of all her sex,\\nHas blest my glorious day\\nAnd shall a glimmering planet fix\\nMy worship to its ray?\\nWHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE CALEDONIAN HUNT S DELIGHT.\\nWhy, why tell thy lover,\\nBliss he never must enjoy?\\nWhy, why undeceive him,\\nAnd give all his hopes the lie?\\nO why, while fancy, raptur d, slumbers,\\nChloris, Chloris, all the theme\\nWhy, why would st thou, cruel,\\nWake thy lover from his dream?\\nCALEDONIA.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE CALEDONIAN HUNT S DELIGHT.\\nThere was once a day, but old Time then was you^g,\\nThat brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,\\nFrom some of your northern deities sprung\\n(Who knows not that brave Caledonia s divine?)\\nFrom Tweed to the Orcades was her domain.\\nTo hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would\\nHer heavenly relations there fixed her reign,\\nAnd pledg d her their godheads to warrant it good.\\nA lambkin in peace, but a lion in war.\\nThe pride of her kindred the heroine grew;\\nHer grandsire, old Odin, trii;mp ianrly swore,\\nWhoe er shall provoke tliee, th encounter shall rue!\\nWith tillage, or pasture, at times she would sport,\\nTo feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;\\nBut chiefly the woods were her fav rite resort.\\nHer darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0381.jp2"}, "382": {"fulltext": "350 BURNS,\\nLong quiet she reign d till thitherward steers\\nA flight of bold eagles from Adria s^ strand;\\nRepeated, suecessive, for many long years,\\nThey darken d the air, and they plundered the land:\\nTheir pounces were murder, and terror their cry,\\nThey d conquer d and ruin d a world beside\\nShe took to her hills, and her arrows let fly\\nThe daring invaders they fled or they died.\\nThe fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north.\\nThe scourge of the seas and the dread of the shore;\\nThe wild Scandinavian boar issued forth\\nTo wanton in carnage and wallow in gore\\nO er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail d,\\nNo arts could appease them, no arms could repel;\\nBut brave Caledonia in vain they assail d.\\nAs Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.\\nThe Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose,\\nWith tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;\\nProvok d beyond bearing, at last she arose,\\nAnd robb d him at once of his hopes and his life:\\nThe Anglian lion, the terror of France,\\nOft prowling, ensanguin d the Tweed s silver flood;\\nBut, taught by the bright Caledonian lance.\\nHe learned to fear in his own native wood.\\nThus bold, independent, unconquer d, and free,\\nHer bright course of glory for ever shall run:\\nFor brave Caledonia immoiial must be\\nI ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun\\nRectangle-triangle, the figure we ll choose,\\nThe upright is Cliance, and old Time is the base;\\nBut brave Caledonia s the hypothenuse;\\nThen, ergo^ she ll match them, and match them always.*\\n1 The Romans. The Saxons and Danes.\\n3 Two famous battles in which the Dau.-.s or Norwegians were de-\\nfeated. Currie.\\nThis sin^lar figure of poetry refers to the 47th proposition of\\nEuclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypothenm\u00c2\u00ab\u00c2\u00ab\\nii alwa^** *^ual to the square of the two other p* ^es.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Curri\u00c2\u00ab,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0382.jp2"}, "383": {"fulltext": "ON THE BA TTLE OF SlIERIFE-MUIR. 351\\nON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BETWEEN\\nTHE DUKE OF AllGYLE AND THE EARL OF\\nMAR/\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE CAMKRONIAN RA.NT.\\nO CAM ye here the fight to shun?\\nOr herd the sheej) wi me, man?\\nOr were you at the Sherra-muir,\\nAnd did the battle see, man?\\nI saw the battle sah and tough,\\nAnd reeking-red ran monie a sheugh,\\nMy heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,\\nTo hear the thuds, and see the cluds,\\nO clans f rae woods, in tartan duds,\\nWha glaum d at Kingdoms three, man.\\nThe red-coat lads, wi black cockades,\\nTo meet them were na slaw, man\\nThey rush d and push d, and blude outgush d,\\nAnd monie a bouk did fa man\\nThe great Argyle led on his files,\\nI wat they glanced twenty miles\\nTbey hack d and hash d, while broad-sworda\\nclash d.\\nAnd thro they dash d, and hew d and smash d,\\nTill fey^ men died awa, man.\\nBut had you seen the philibegs.\\nAnd skyrin tartan trews,\u00c2\u00ae man,\\nWhen in llic teeth they dar d our Whigs,\\nAnd covenant true blues, man\\nIn lines extended lang and large,\\nWhen bayonets opposed the targe.\\nAnd thousands hasten d to the charge,\\nWi Highland wrath they f rae the sheath\\nDrew blades o death, till, out o breath,\\nThey fled like frighted doos,^^ man.\\n0 how deil. Tarn, can that be true?\\nThe chase gaed frae the north, man:\\nI saw mysel, they did pursue\\nThe horsemen back to Forth, man\\nThis poem, I am pretty well convinced, is not my brother s, but\\nmore ancient than his birth.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G. B.\\nDitch. 3 Noises. Clouds. aothes.\\nSnatched at. Body. Marked for death.\\nTrousers. J)oves.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0383.jp2"}, "384": {"fulltext": "352 BURNS.\\nAnd at Dumblane, in my ain sight,\\nThey took the brig^ wi a their might,\\nAnd straught to Stirling winged their flight;\\nBut, cursed lot the gates were shut,\\nAnd monie a huntit, poor red -coat,\\nFor fear amaist did swarf, man.\\nMy sister Kate cam up the gate\\nWi crowdie unto me, man\\nShe swore she saw some rebels run\\nFrae Perth unto Dundee, man\\nTheir left-hand general had nae skill.\\nThe Angus lads had nae guid-will\\nThat day their neebors blood to spill;\\nFor fear, by foes, that they should lose\\nTheir cogs o brose, they scar d at blow%\\nAnd so it goes, you see, man.\\nThey ve lost some gallant gentlemen\\nAmang the Highland clans, man\\nI fear my Lord Panmure is slain,\\nOr fallen in enemies hands, man\\nNow wad ye sing this double fight.\\nSome fell for wrang, and some for right\\nBut monie bade the world guid-night\\nThen ye may tell, how pell and mell,\\nBy red claymores, and muskets knell,\\nWi dying yell, the Tories fell,\\nAnd Whigs to hell did flee, man.\\nTHE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 push about THE JORUM.\\nApril, 1794\\nDoes haughty Gaul invasion threat?\\nThen let the louns beware, Sir.\\nThere s wooden walls upon our sea8,\\nAnd volunteers on shore, Sir.\\nThe Nith shall run to Corsincon,*\\nAnd Criffel* sink to Solway,\\nEre we permit a foreign foe\\nOn British ground to rally\\nFal de ral, c.\\nBridge. Swoon. A high hill at the source of the Nith.\\nA mountain at the mouth of the same rirer.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0384.jp2"}, "385": {"fulltext": "(9, WHA IS SHE THA T LO ES ME. 353\\nO let us not like snarling tykes*\\nIn wrangling be divided\\nTill slap come in an unco loon\\nAnd with a rung^ decide it.\\nBe Britain still to Britain true,\\nAmang oursels united\\nFor never but by British hands\\nMaun British wrangs be righted I\\nFal de ral, c.\\nThe kettle o the kirk and state,\\nPerhaps a claut may fail in t\\nBut deil a foreign tinkler loon\\nShall ever ca a nail in t\\nOur fathers bluid the kettle bought,\\nAnd wha wad dare to spoil it\\nBy heaven, the sacrilegious dog\\nShall fuel be to boil it.\\nFal de ral, fca\\nThe wretch that wad a tyrant own,\\nAnd the wretch, his true-born brother.\\nWho would set the mob aboon the throne,\\nMay they be d d together\\nWho will not sing, God save the King,\\nShall hang as high s the steeple\\nBut while we sing, Grod save the King,\\nWe ll ne er forget the People.\\nO, WHA IS SHE THAT LO ES ME.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MORAG.\\nO WHA is she that lo es me.\\nAnd has my heart a-keeping?\\nO sweet is she that lo es me,\\nAs dews o simmer weeping.\\nIn tears the rose-buds steeping.\\nCHORUS.\\nO that s the lassie o my heart.\\nMy lassie, ever dearer\\nO that s the queen o womankind,\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her.\\n1 Dogs. Ragamuffln. Cudgel. Drire.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0385.jp2"}, "386": {"fulltext": "354 BURNS,\\nIf thou shalt meet a lassie,\\nIn grace and beauty charming,\\nThat e en thy chosen lassie,\\nErewhile thy breast sae warming,\\nHad ne er sic powers alarming\\nO that s, c.\\nIf thou hadst heard her talking,\\nAnd thy attentions plighted,\\nThat ilka body talking,\\nBut her, by thee is slighted,\\nAnd thou art all delighted\\nO that s, c.\\nIf thou hast met this fair one;\\nWhen frae her thou hast parted,\\nIf every other fair one,\\nBut her, thou hast deserted,\\nAnd thou art broken-hearted;\\nO that s the lassie o my heart,\\nMy lassie, ever dearer\\nO that s the queen o womankind^\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her.\\nCAPTAIN GROSE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SIR JOHN MALCOLM.\\nKen ye ought o Captain Gro\u00c2\u00abe?\\nIgo and ago.\\nIf he s amang his friends or foes?\\nTram, coram, dago.\\nIs he South, or is he North?\\nIgo and ago,\\nOr drowned in the river Forth?\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nIs he slain by Highland bodies?\\nIgo and ago.\\nAnd eaten like a wether-haggis?\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nIs he to Abram s bosom gane?\\nIgo and ago,\\nOr haudin Sarah by the wame?\\nIram, coram, dago.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0386.jp2"}, "387": {"fulltext": "WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O T. 355\\nWhere er he be, the Lord be near him\\nIgo and ago\\nAs for the deil, he daur na steer^ him.\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nBut please transmit th enclosed letter,\\nIgo and ago,\\nWhich will oblige your humble debtor,\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nSo may ye hae auld stanes in store,\\nIgo and ago,\\nThe very stanes that Adam bore,\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nSo may ye get in glad possession,\\nIgo and ago.\\nThe coins o Satan s coronation 1\\nIram, coram, dago.\\nWHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O T.\\nFirst when Maggy was my care,\\nHeaven, I thought, was in her air;\\nNow we re married spier nae mair*\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWhistle owre the lave o t.\\nMeg was meek, and Meg was mild,\\nBonnie Meg was nature s child\\nWiser men than me s beguil d\\nWhistle owre the lave o t.\\nHow we live, my Meg and me,\\nHow we love and how we gree,\\nI care na by how few may see\\nWhistle owre the lave o t.\\nWha I wish were maggots meat,\\nDish d up in her winding sheet.\\nI could write but Meg maun see t^\\nWhistle owre the lave o t.\\nM olMt. Inquire no more* The r\u00c2\u00abit of it^", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0387.jp2"}, "388": {"fulltext": "356 BURNS.\\nO, ONCE I LOV D A BONNIE LASS.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I AM A MAN UNMARRIED.\\nO, ONCE I lov d a bonnie lass,\\nAy, and I love her still\\nAnd whilst that virtue warms my breast\\nI ll love my handsome Nell.\\nFal lal de ral, c.\\nAs bonnie lassies I hae seen,\\nAnd monie full as braw,\\nBut for a modest gracefu mien\\nThe like I never saw.\\nA bonnie lass, I will confess,\\nIs pleasant to the e e,\\nBut without some better qualities\\nShe s no a lass for me.\\nBut Nelly s looks are blithe and sweet,\\nAnd what is best of a\\nHer reputation is complete,\\nAnd fair without a flaw.\\nBhe dresses aye sae clean and neat.\\nBoth decent and genteel\\nAnd then there s something in her gait,\\nGars onie dress look weel.^\\nA gaudy dress and gentle air\\nMay slightly touch the heart,\\n3ut it s innocence and modesty\\nThat polishes the dart.\\nFor tL V ^wn part, I never had the least thought or inclination of\\nturning p. wi till I .^ot once heartily in love, and then rhyme and\\nsong were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart.\\nThe following composition was the first of my performances, and\\ndone at an early period of my life, when my heart glowed with honest\\nwarm simplicity; unacquainted and un corrupted with the ways of\\nwicked world The performance is, indeed, very puerile and silly;\\nbut I am always pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy\\ndays when my heart was yet honest and my tongue was sincere.\\nThe subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises\\nI have bestowed oa her.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. She was the poet s companion in th\u00c2\u00ab\\nharvest-field.\\n2 Makes.\\ns The thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favourite\\nidea\u00e2\u0080\u0094 a sweet sonsie lass,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0388.jp2"}, "389": {"fulltext": "YOUNG JOCKEY, ETC. 357\\nTis this in Nelly pleases me,\\nTis tliis enchants my soul\\nFor absolutely in my breast\\nShe reigns without control.\\nFal lal de ral, c.\\nYOUNG JOCKEY.\\nYoung Jockey was the blithest lad\\nIn a our town or here awa;\\nFu blithe he whistled at the gaud,*\\nFu lightly danc d he in the ha\\nHe roos u my een sae bonnie blue,\\nHe roos d my waist sae genty sma\\nAn aye my heart came to my mou,\\nWhen ne er a body heard or saw.\\nMy Jockey toils upon the plain,\\nThro wind and weet, thro frost and snaw;\\nAnd o er the lea I look fu fain\\nWhen Jockey s owsen* hameward ca\\nAn aye the night comes round again.\\nWhen in his arms he taks me a\\nAn aye he vows he ll be my ain\\nAs lang s he has a breath to draw.\\nMTHERSON S^ FAREWELL.\\nFarewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,\\nThe wretch s destinie\\nMTherson s time will not be long\\nOn yonder gallows tree.\\nCHORUS.\\nSae rantingly, sae wantonly,\\nSae dauntingly gaed he\\nHe play d a spring and danc d it round,\\nBelow the gallows tree.\\n3 The seventh stanza has several minute faults; but I rememl \u00c2\u00abc\\nI composed it in a wiH enthusiasm of passion.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.\\n2 The plough. a Praised. Oxen.\\nA noted Highland robber, whose daring is portrayed In tht\\nTersdS. He broke his violia at the foot of the gallows.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0389.jp2"}, "390": {"fulltext": "358 BURNS.\\nOh, what is death but parting breath!\\nOn monie a bloody plain\\nI ve dar d his face, and in this place\\nI scorn him yet again\\nSae rantingly, c.\\nUntie these bands from off my hands,\\nAnd bring to me my sword\\nAnd there s no a man in all Scotland,\\nBut I ll brave him at a word.\\nSae rantingly, c.\\nI ve liv d a life of sturt* and strife\\nI die by treachery\\nIt burns my heart I musr depart\\nAnd not avenged be.\\nSae rantingly, c.\\nNow farewell light, thou sunshine bright^\\nAnd all beneath the sky\\nMay coward shame di stain his name,\\nThe wretch that dare not die I\\nSae rantingly, c.\\nTHE DEAN OF FACtJLTY.\\nA NFW BALLAD.\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE DRAGON OP WANTLKT.\\nDire was the hate at old Harlaw\\nThat Scot to Scot did carry;\\nAnd dire the discord Langside saw\\nFor beauteous, hapless Mary\\nBut Scot with Scot ne er met so hot,\\nOr were more in fury seen. Sir,\\nThan twixt Hal and Bob^ for the famous Job-\u00c2\u00ab\\nWho should be Faculty s Dean, Sir.\\nThis Hal, for genius, wit and lore,\\nAmong the first was number d\\nBut pious Bob, mid learning s store.\\nCommandment tenth remember d.\\nYet simple Bob the victory got,\\nAnd won his heart s desire\\nWhich shows that heaven can boil the pot\\nThough the devil in the fire.\\nTrouble. Henry Erskine and Robert Dund\u00c2\u00bb\u00c2\u00bb.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0390.jp2"}, "391": {"fulltext": "FLL A YE CA IN BY YON TOWN. 351\\nSquire Hal, besides, had, in this case,\\nPretensions rather brassy,\\nFor talents to deserve a place\\nAre qualifications saucy;\\nSo their worships of the Faculty,\\nQuite sick of merit s rudeness.\\nChose one who should owe it all, d ye see,\\nTo their gratis grace and goodness.\\nAs once on Pisgah purg d was the sight\\nOf a son of Circumcision,\\nSo may be, on this Pisgah height,\\nBob s purblind, mental vision\\nNay, Bobby s mouth may be open d yet,\\nTill for eloquence you hail him,\\nAnd swear he has the Angel met\\nThat met the ass of Balaam.\\nIn your heretic sins may ye live and die,\\nYe heretic eight and thirty 1\\nBut accept, ye sublime Majority,\\nMy congratulations hearty.\\nWith your Honours and a certain King,\\nIn your servants this is striking\\nThe more incapacity they bring,\\nThe more they re to your liking.\\nDLL AYE CA IN BY YON TOWN.\\nPll aye ca in by yon town,\\nAnd by yon garden green again;\\nI ll aye ca in by yon town,\\nAnd see my bonnie Jean again.\\nThere s nane sail ken, there s nane sail guess.\\nWhat brings me back the gate again,\\nBut she, my fairest faithfu lass.\\nAnd stownlins* we sail meet again.\\nShe ll wander by the aiken tree,\\nWhen trystin-time draws near again;\\nAnd when her lovely form I see,\\nO haith, she s doubly dear again I\\nBy stealth.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0391.jp2"}, "392": {"fulltext": "SCO BURNS,\\nA BOTTLE AND FRIEND,\\nThere s nane that s blest of human kind.\\nBut the cheerful and the gay, man.\\nFal, lal, Ac.\\nHere s a bottle and an honest friend!\\nWhat wad ye wish for mair, man?\\nWha kens, before his life may end,\\nWhat his share may be o care, man?\\nThen catch the moments as they fly,\\nAnd use them as ye ought, man\\nBelieve me, happiness is shy.\\nAnd comes not aye when sought, man.\\nI LL KISS THEE YET.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE BRAES O BALQUIDDER.*\\nCHORUS.\\nI ll kiss thee yet, yet.\\nAnd I ll kiss thee o er again,\\nAn I ll kiss thee yet, yet,\\nMy bonnie Peggy Alison!\\nHk care and fear, when thou art near,\\nI ever mair defy them, O\\nYoung Kings upon their hanseP thron\u00c2\u00a9\\nAre no sae blest as I am, 1\\nI ll kiss thee, c.\\nWhen in my arms, wi a* thy charms,\\nI clasp my countless treasure, O;\\nI seek nae mair o Heaven to share,\\nThan sic a moment s pleasure, O!\\nI ll kiss thee, c.\\nAnd by thy een sae bonnie blu\u00c2\u00ab,\\nI swear I m thine for ever, O\\nAnd on thy lips I seal my vow,\\nAnd break it shall I never, O!\\nI ll kiss thee, c.\\nThrone first occupied.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0392.jp2"}, "393": {"fulltext": "ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 361\\nON CESSNOCK BANKS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 IF HE BE A BUTCHER NEAT AND TRIM.**\\nOn Cessnock banks a lassie^ dwells\\nCould I describe her shape and mien;\\nOur lasses a she far excels,\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nShe s sweeter than the morning dawn,\\nWhen rising Phoebus first is seen,\\nAnd dew-drops twinkle o er the lawn;\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nShe s stately like yon youthful ash\\nThat grows the cowslip braes between,\\nAnd drinks the stream with vigour fresh;\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nShe s spo^ Jess like the flow ring thorn,\\nWith flow rs so white, and leaves so green,\\nWhen purest in the dewy morn\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer looks are like the vernal May,\\nWhen ev ning Phoebus shines serene,\\nWhile birds rejoice on every spray\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer hair is like the curling mist\\nThat climbs the mountain-sides at e en.\\nWhen flow^ r-reviving rains are past\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer forehead s like the show ry bow.\\nWhen gleaming sunbeams intervene.\\nAnd gild the distant mountain s brow\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer cheeks are like yon crimson gem,\\nThe pride of all the flowery scene,\\nJust opening on its thorny stem\\nAn- she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nThis song was an aarly production. It v/as recovered by the\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2ditor /rom the oral c inmunication of a lady residing at Glasgow,\\nwhom the bard in early life affectionately admired.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Cromefc.\\n2 The lassie was Ellison Begbie, a farmer s daughter, but then\\nthe servant of a tamily living about two miles from Bums.\\nP", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0393.jp2"}, "394": {"fulltext": "362 BURNS,\\nHer teeth are like the nightly snow\\nWhen pale the morning rises keen,\\nWhile hid the murmuring streamlets flow;\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer lips are like yon cherries ripe.\\nThat sunny walls from Boreas screen,\\nThey tempt the taste and charm the sight;\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer breath is like the fragrant breeze,\\nThat gently stirs the blossom d bean,\\nWhen Phoebus sinks behind the seas\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nHer voice is like the ev ning thrush\\nThat sings on Cessnock banks unseen,\\nWhile his mate sits nestling in the bush;\\nAn she s twa sparkling, roguish een.\\nBut it s not her air, her form, her face,\\nTho matching beauty s fabled queen,\\n^Tis the mind that shines in ev ry grace,\\nAn chiefly in her roguish een.\\nPRAYER FOR MARY.*\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 blue B0NNET8.\\nPowers celestial, whose protection\\nEver guards the virtuous fair.\\nWhile in distant climes I wander,\\nLet my Mary be your care\\nLet her form sae fair and faultless,\\nFair and faultless as your own,\\nLet my Mary s kindred spirit\\nDraw your choicest influence down.\\nMake the gales you waft around her\\nSoft and peaceful as her breast\\nBreathing in the breeze that fans her.\\nSoothe her bosom into rest\\nProbably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the Poet s dOc\\nparture to the West Indies. Cromek.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0394.jp2"}, "395": {"fulltext": "YOUNG PEGGf. S63\\nGuardian angels, O protect her^\\nWhen in distant lands I roam\\nTo realms unknown while fate exiles mt.\\nMake her bosom still my home.\\nYOUNG PEGGY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LAST TIME I CAM O ER THE MDIR.\\nYoung Peggy blooms our bonniest lasi.\\nHer blush is like the morning,\\nThe rosy dawn, the springing grass,\\nWith early gems adorning\\nHer eyes outshine the radiant beams\\nThat gild the passing shower,\\nAnd glitter o er the crystal streams,\\nAnd cheer each freshening flower.\\nHer lips more than the cherries bright,\\nA richer dye has graced them,\\nThey charm th admiring gazer s sight,\\nAnd sweetly tempt to taste them r\\nHer smile is as the ev ning mild,\\nWhen feather d pairs are courting,\\nAnd little lambkins wanton wild,\\nIn playful bands disporting.\\nWere Fortune lovely Peggy s foe,\\nSuch sweetness would relent her,\\nAs blooming Spring unbends the brow\\nOf sm-ly savage Winter.\\nDetraction s eye no aim can gain\\nHer winning powers to lessen\\nAnd fretful envy grins in vain,\\nThe poison d tooth to fasten.\\nYe Pow rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,\\nFrom ev iy ill defend her\\nInspire the highly favour d youth\\nThe destinies intend her\\nStill fan the sweet connubial flame\\nResponsive in each bosom\\nAnd bless the dear parental name\\nWith many a filial blossom.\\nThis was one of the poet s earliest compositiona.\u00e2\u0080\u0094OomdIk", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0395.jp2"}, "396": {"fulltext": "364 BURNS.\\nTHERE LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE\\nCOMES HAME.\\nA SONG.\\nBy yon castle Vv^a at the close of the day,\\nI heard a man sing, tho his head it was grey\\nAnd as he was singing, the tears fast down carae\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nThere ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.\\nThe church is in ruins, the state is in jars,\\nDelusions, oppressions, and murderous wars\\nWe dare na weel say t, but we ken wha s to blame\\nThere ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.\\nMy seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,\\nAnd now I greet round their green beds in the yard;\\nIt brak the sweet heart o my faithfu auld dame\\nThere ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.\\nNow life is a burden that bows me down,\\nSin I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown\\nBut till my last moment my words are the same\\nThere ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.\\nTHERE WAS A LAD.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 *DAINTIB DAVIE.\\nThere was a lad was born at Kyle,*\\nBut what n a day o what n a style\\nI doubt it s hardly worth the while\\nTo be sae nice wi Robin.\\nRobin was a rovin Boy,\\nRantin rovin rantin rovin\\nRobin was a rovin Boy,\\nRantin rovin Robin.\\nOur monarch s hindmost year but ane\\nWas five-and-twenty days begun,\\nTwas then a blast o Janwar win\\nBlew hansel in on Robin.\\nThe gossip keekit in his loof,\\nQuo she wha lives will see the proof,\\nThis waly boy will be nae coof,\\nI think we ll ca him Robin.\\nJ Kj le, a district of Ayrshire,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0396.jp2"}, "397": {"fulltext": "TO MARY, 365\\n3e ll hae misfortunes great and sma\\nBut aye a heart aboon them a\\nHe ll be a credit till us a\\nWe^U a* br proud o Hobin.\\nBut, sure as three times three mak nine,\\nI see, by ilka score and line,\\nThis chap will dearly like our kin\\nSo leeze me on thee, Robin.\\nGuid faith, quo she, I doubt ye, gar,\\nYe gar the lasses lie aspar,\\nBut twenty fauts ye may hae waur,\\nSo blessins on thee, Eobin\\nRobin was a rovin Boy,\\nRantin rovin\\nRobin was a rovin Boy,\\nRantin rovin Robin,\\nTO MARY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 EWE-BUGHT8, MARION.\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary,\\nAnd leave auld Scotia s shore?\\nWill ye go to the Indies, my Mary,\\nAcross the Atlantic s roar?\\nsweet grows the lime and the orange,\\nAnd the apple on the pine\\nBut a the charms o the Indies\\nCan never equal thine.\\n1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,\\nI hae sworn to the Heavens to be true\\nAnd sae may the Heavens forget me,\\nWhen I forget my vow\\nO plight me your faith, my Mary,\\nAnd plight me your lily-white hand;\\nO plight me your faith, my Mary,\\nBefore I leave Scotia s strand.\\nMary Campbell. In my very early years, when I was thinking of\\ngoing to the West Indies, 1 took the following farewell of a dear\\n|irl.-R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0397.jp2"}, "398": {"fulltext": "366 BUI^iVS.\\nWe hae plighted our troth, my Mary,\\nIn mutual affection to join.\\nAnd curst be the cause that shall part us I\\nThe hour and the moment o time.\\nMARY MORISON.\\nTUNE-\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BIDE YR YET.\\nMaky, at thy window be,\\nIt is the wish d, the trysted hour!\\nThose smiles and glances let me see.\\nThat make the miser s treasure poor;\\nHow blithely wad I bide the stoure,*\\nA weary slave frae sun to sun\\nCould I the rich reward secure,\\nThe lovely Mary Morison.\\nYestreen, when to the trembling string\\nThe dance gaed thro the lighted ha\\nTo thee my fancy took its wing,\\nI sat, but neither heard nor saw:\\nTho this was fair, and that was braw,\\nAnd yon the toast of a the town,\\n1 sigh d, and said amang them a\\nYe are na Mary Morison.\\nO Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,\\nWha for thy sake wad gladly die?\\nOr canst thou break that heart of hisj\\nWhase only faut is loving thee?\\nIf love for love thou wilt na gie,\\nAt least be pity to me shown I\\nA thought ungentle canna be\\nThe thought o Mary Morison.\\nTHE SODGER S RETURN.\\nAIR\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE MILL, MILL, O.\\nWhen wild war s deadly blast was blawn.\\nAnd gentle peace returning,\\nWi mony a sweet babe fatherless,\\nAnd mony a widow mourning\\n1 Dust.\\nA soldier, passing by the window of an inn, suggested these\\ntouching lines. The Poet called him in, and asked him to relate hia\\nadventures.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0398.jp2"}, "399": {"fulltext": "THE SODGER S RETURN ZS2\\nI left the lines and tented field,\\nWhere lang I d been a lodger,\\nMy humble knapsack a my wealth,\\nA poor and honest sodger.\\nA leal, light heart was in my breast,\\nMy hand unstain d wi plunder;\\nAnd for fair Scotia, hame again,\\nI cheery on did wander.\\nI thought upon the banks o Coil,\\nI thought upon my Nancy,\\nI thought upon the witching smile\\nThat caught my youthful fancy.\\nAt length I reached the bonnie glen.\\nWhere early life I sported\\nI pass d the mill, and trysting thorn.\\nWhere Nancy aft I courted\\nWha spied I but my ain dear maid,\\nDown by her mother s dwelling\\nAnd turn d me round to hide the flood\\nThat in my een was swelling.\\nWi alter d voice, quoth I, sweet lass,\\nSweet as yon hawthorn blossom,\\nO happy, happy may he be.\\nThat s dearest to thy bosom\\nMy purse is light, I ve far to gang,\\nAnd fain w^ad be thy lodger\\nI ve serv d my King and Country lang\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nTake pity on a sodger\\nSae wistfully she gaz d on me,\\nAnd lovelier was than ever:\\nQuo she, a sodger ance I lo ed,\\nForget him shall I never\\nOur humble cot, and hamely fare.\\nYe freely shall partake it.\\nThat gallant badge, the dear cockadt,\\nYe re welcome for the sake o t.\\nShe gaz d she redden d like a rose-\\nSyne^ pale like onie lily\\nShe sank within my arms and cried,\\nArt thou my ain dear Willie?\\niThen.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0399.jp2"}, "400": {"fulltext": "368 BURNS.\\nBy Him who made yon sun and skj\\nBy whom true love s regarded,\\nlam the man; and thus may still\\nTrue lovers be rewarded\\n*^The wars are o er, and Pm come hamo\\nAnd find thee still true-hearted\\nTho poor in gear, we re rich in love,\\nAnd mair we se ne er be parted;\\nQuo she, my grandsire left me gowd,\\nA mailen^ plenish d fairly\\nAnd come, my faithful sodger lad,\\nThou rt welcome to it dearly\\nFor gold the merchant ploughs the main,\\nThe farmer ploughs the manor\\nBut glory is the sodger s prize\\nThe sodger s wealth is honour\\nThe brave poor sodger ne er despise,\\nNor count him as a stranger,\\nRemember he s his country s stay\\nIn day and hour o danger.\\nMY FATHER WAS A FARMER.\\nTUNR\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O.\\nMy Father was a Farmer, upon the Carrick border, 0,\\nAnd carefully he bred me in decency and order, O\\nHe bade me act a manly part, though I had ne er\\nfarthing, O\\nFor without an honest manly heart, no man was worth\\nregarding, O.\\nThen out into the world my course I did determine, O;\\nTho to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was\\ncharming, O:\\nMy talents they were not the worst nor yet my educa-\\ntion, 0;\\nResolv d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.\\nFarm.\\nThe following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in\\nversification; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my\\nheart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it\\nover.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B. Mr. Cunningham found traces of the poet s early hia^\\ntory in these lines.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0400.jp2"}, "401": {"fulltext": "MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 353\\nIn many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune s\\nfavour, O;\\nSome cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each\\nendeavour, O:\\nSometimes by foes I was o erpower d sometimes by frienda\\nforsaken, O;\\nA.nd when my iiope was at the top, I still was worst mis-\\ntaken, O.\\nThen, sore harassed, and tir d at last, with Foilune s vain\\ndelusion, O;\\nI dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this\\nconclusion, O:\\nThe past was bad, and the future hid its good or ill un-\\ntried, O;\\nBut the present hour was in my pow r, and so I would en-\\njoy it, 0.\\nNo help, nor hope, nor view had I nor person to befriend\\nme, O;\\nBo I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain\\nme, O.\\nTo plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me\\nearly, O;\\nFor one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune,\\nfairly, O.\\nThus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro life I m doom d\\nto wander, O\\nTill down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O\\nNo view nor care, but shun whatever might breed me pain\\nor sorrow, O\\nI live to-day as well s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.\\nBut cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O\\nTho Fortune s frown still hunts me down, with ail her\\nwonted malice, O;\\nI make indeed my daily bread, but ne er can make it far-\\nther, O;\\nBut, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard\\nher, O.\\nWhen sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,\\nSome unforeseen misfortune comes gen rally upon me, O\\nMischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur d\\nfolly, O;\\nBut come what will, I ve sworn it, still, I ll ne er be melan-\\ncholy, O.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0401.jp2"}, "402": {"fulltext": "370 BURNS,\\nAH you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting\\nardour, O,\\nThe more la this you look for bliss, you leave your view\\nthe farther, O;\\nHad you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore\\nyou, O,\\nA cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer befoie\\nyou, O.\\nA MOTHER S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER\\nSON.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 PINLAYSTON HOUSE.\\nFate gave the world, the arrow sped\\nAnd pierc d my darling s heart\\nAnd with him all the joys are fled\\nLife can to me impart\\nBy cruel hands the sapling drops,\\nIn dust dishonour d laid:\\nSo fell the pride of all my hopes,\\nMy age s future shade.\\nThe mother-linnet in the brake\\nBewails herravish d young;\\nSo I, for my lost darling s sake,\\nLament the live-day long.\\nDeath, oft I ve fear d thy fatal blow,\\nNow, fond, I bare my breast\\nO, do thou kindly lay me low\\nWith him I love, at rest 1\\nBONNIE LESLEY.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE COLLIER S BONNIE DOCHTIE.\\nO SAW ye bonnie Lesley,\\nAs she gaed o er the border?\\nShe s gane, like Alexander,\\nTo spread her conquests farther.\\nTo see her is to love her,\\nAnd love but her for ever\\nFor Nature made her what she is,\\nAnd ne er made sic anither 1\\ni Miss Lesley Baillie. The ballad was composed by Bums aft\u00c2\u00abp\\nl| \u00c2\u00a9nding a day with the lady s family, then on their way to England.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0402.jp2"}, "403": {"fulltext": "AMA.VG THE TREES, 371\\nThou art a queen, Fair Lesley,\\nThy subjects we, before thee:\\nThou art divine. Fair Lesley,\\nThe hearts o men adore thee.\\nThe Deil he could na scaith thee,\\nOr aught that wad belang thee\\nHe d look into thy bonnie face,\\nAnd say, I canna wrang thee.\\ni\\nThe Powers aboon will tent thee\\nMisfortune sha na steer* thee\\nThou rt like themselves, sae lovely,\\nThat ill they ll ne er let near thee.\\nReturn again, Fair Lesley,\\nReturn to Caledonie\\nThat we may brag, we hae a lass\\nThere s nane again sae bonnie.\\nAMANG THE TREES.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the king OF FRANCE, HE BAD A RACB.**\\nAmang the trees, where humming bees\\nAt buds and flowers were hinging, O,\\nAuld Caledon drew out her drone,\\nAnd to her pipe was singing,\\nTwas Pibroch,^ Sang, Strathspey, or Reels,\\nShe dirl d them aff fu clearly, O,\\nWhen there cam a yell o foreign squeels,\\nThat dang her tapsalteerie, O.\\nTheir capon craws and queer ha, ha s,\\nThey made our lugs grow eerie, O\\nThe hungi-y bike did scrape and pike\\nTill we were wae and weary,\\nBut a royal ghaist wha ance was cas d\\nA prisoner aughteen year awa,\\nHe fir d a fiddler in the north\\nThat dang them tapsalteerie, O.\\nHurt.\\nA Highland warsong adapted to the bagpipe.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0403.jp2"}, "404": {"fulltext": "372 BURNS.\\nWHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 I HAD A HOSBB AND I HAD NAE BfAlR.\\nWhen first I came to Stewart Kyle,\\nMy mind it was na steady,\\nWhere er I gaed, where er I rade,\\nA mistress still I had aye\\nBut when I came roun by Mauchline town,\\nNot dreadin onie body,\\nMy heart was caught before I thought.\\nAnd by a Mauchline lady.\\n41\\nON SENSIBILITY.\\nTO MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED FRIBIH), MRS. DtW\\nLOP, OF DUNLOP.\\nAIR~ SENSIBILITY.\\nSensibility, how charming,\\nThou, my friend, canst truly tell;\\nBut distress, with horrors arming,\\nThou hast also known too well.\\nFairest flower, behold the lily.\\nBlooming in the sunny ray\\nLet the blast sweep o er the valley,\\nSee it prostrate on the clay.\\nHear the wood-lark charm the forest,\\nTelling o er his little joys;\\nHapless bird a prey the surest\\nTo each pirate of the skies.\\nDearly bought, the hidden treasure\\nFiner feelings can bestow\\nChords, tliat vibrate sweetest pleasure,\\nThrill the deepest notes of woe.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0404.jp2"}, "405": {"fulltext": "ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 373\\nMONTGOMERIE S PEGGY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GALLA WATER.\\nAltho my bed were in yon muir,\\nAmang the heather, in my plaidie,\\nYet happy, happy would I be,\\nHad I my dear Montgomerie s Peggy.\\nWhen o er the hill beat surly storms,\\nAnd winter nights were dark and rainy,\\nI d seek some dell, and in my arms\\nI d shelter dear Montgomerie s Peggy.\\nWere I a Baron proud and high.\\nAnd horse and servants waiting ready,\\nThen a twad gie o joy to me,\\nThe sharin t wi Montgomerie s Peggy.\\nON A BANK OF FLOWERS.\\nOn a bank of flowers, in a summer day,\\nFor summer lightly drest,\\nThe youthful blooming Nelly lay,\\nWith love and sleep opprest;\\nWhen Willie, wand ring thro the wood.\\nWho for her favour oft had sued.\\nHe gaz d, he wish d, he fear d, he blush d^\\nAnd trembled where he stood.\\nHer closed eyes, like weapons sheath d,\\nWere seal d in soft repose\\nHer lips, still as she fragrant breath d,\\nIt richer dy d the rose.\\nThe springing lilies sweetly prest,\\nWild, wanton kiss d her rival breast\\nHe gaz d, he wish d, he fear d, he blush d,\\nHis bosom ill at rest.\\nMy Montgomerie s Peggy was my deity for six or eight months.\\nI have tried to imitate, in this extempore thing, that iiregularity in\\nthe rhyme which, when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on\\nthe ear.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 R. B.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0405.jp2"}, "406": {"fulltext": "374 BURNS.\\nHer robes, light waving in the breeze,\\nHer tender limbs embrace\\nHer lovely form, her native ease,\\nAll harmony and grace\\nTumultuous tides his pulses roll,\\nA faltering ardent kiss he stole\\nHe gaz d, he wished, he fear d, he blush d,\\nAnd sigh d his very soul.\\nAs flies the partridge from the brake,\\nOn fear-inspired wings\\nSo Nelly, starting, half awake.\\nAway affrighted springs\\nBut Willie followed as he should,\\nHe overtook her in the wood\\nHe vow d, he pray d, he found the maid\\nForgiving all, and good.\\nO RAGING FORTUNE S WITHERING BLAST.\\nO RAGING Fortune s withering blast\\nHas laid my leaf full low, O\\nO raging Fortune s withering blast\\nHas laid my leaf full low,\\nMy stem was fair, my bud was green.\\nMy blossom sweet did blow, O I\\nThe dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild.\\nAnd made my branches grow, O.\\nBut luckless Fortune s northern storms\\nLaid a my blossoms low, O\\nBut luckless Fortune s northern storms\\nLaid a my blossoms low, 1\\nEVAN BANKS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 8AV0URNA DELI8H.\\nSlow spreads the gloom my soul desires\\nThe sun from India s shore retires\\nTo Evan Banks with temp rate ray,\\nHome of my youth, he leads the day.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0406.jp2"}, "407": {"fulltext": "WOMEN S MINDS, JtS\\nOh Banks to me for ever dear\\nOh! stream, whose murmurs still I heart\\nAll, all my hopes of bliss reside\\nWhere Evan mingles with the Clyde.\\nAnd she, in simple beauty drest,\\nWhose image lives within thy breast\\nWho trembling heard my parting sigh,\\nAnd long pursued me with her eye\\nDoes she, with heart unchang d as mine,\\nOft in the vocal bowers recline?\\nOr, where yon grot o erliangs the tide,\\nMuse while the Evan seeks the Clyde?\\nYe lofty Banks that Evan bound,\\nYe lavish woods that wave around,\\nAnd o er the stream your shaaows throw,\\nWhich sweetly winds so far below\\nWhat secret charm to mem iy brings,\\nAU that on Evan s border springs\\nSweet Banks ye bloom by Mary s side\\nBlest stream she views thee haste to Clyd\u00c2\u00ab\u00c2\u00ab\\nCan all the wealth of India s coast\\nAtone for years in absent lost!\\nReturn, ye moments of c^ light,\\nWith richer treasui^es bless my sight I\\nSwift from this desert let me part,\\nAnd fly to meet a kindred heart\\nNor more may aught my steps divide\\nFrom that dear stream which flows to Clyde.\\nWOMEN S MINDS.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 FOR A* THAT.\\nTho women s minds, like winter windf,\\nMay shift and turn, and a that.\\nThe noblest breast adores them maist,\\nA consequence I draw that.\\nFor a that, and a that,\\nAnd twice as meikle s a that,\\nThe bonnie lass that I lo e best,\\nShe ll be my ain for a that.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0407.jp2"}, "408": {"fulltext": "376 BURNS.\\nBut there is ane aboon the lave,\\nHas wit, and sense, and a that;\\nA bonnie lass, I like her best.\\nAnd wha a crime dare ca that?\\nFor a that, c.\\nTO MARY IN HEAVEN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MISS FORBES FAREWELL TO BANFF.\\nThou lingering star, with less ning raj,\\nThat lov st to greet the early morn,\\nAgain thou usher st in the day\\nMy Mary from my soul was torn.\\nO Mary dear departed shade\\nWhere is thy place of blissful rest?\\nSeest thou thy lover lowly laid?\\nHear st thou the groans that rend his breast?\\nThat sacred hour can I forget?\\nCan I forget the hallow d grove,\\nWhere by the winding Ayr we met,\\nTo live one day of parting love?\\nEternity will not efface\\nThose records dear of transports past\\nThy image at our last embrace\\nAh little thought we ^twas our last\\nAyr gurgling kiss d his pebbled shore,\\nO erhung with wild woods, thickening green;\\nThe fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,\\nTwin d am rous round the raptur d scene.\\nThe flowers sprang wanton to be prest,\\nThe birds sang love on ev ry spray,\\nTill too, too soon, the glowing west\\nProciaim d the speed of winged day.\\nStill o er these scenes my mem ry wakes,\\nAnd fondly broods with miser care\\nTime but th impression deeper makes.\\nAs streams their channels deeper wear.\\nMy Mary, dear departed shade\\nWhere is thy blissful place of rest?\\nSeest thou thy lever lowly laid?\\nHear st thou the groans that rend his breast?\\nThe Mary Campbell already mentioned. The stanzas were com-\\nposed while Burns lay on some sheaves in the harvest-field, with hii\\n\u00c2\u00a9yes fixed on a star of exceeding brightness.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0408.jp2"}, "409": {"fulltext": "O LEA VE NO VELS. 377\\nTO MARY.\\nCould aught of song declare my pains,\\nCould artful numbers move thee,\\nThe Muse should tell, in labour d strains,\\nO Mary, how I love thee\\nThey who but feign a wounded heart\\nMay teach the lyre to languish\\nBut what avails the pride of art,\\nWhen wastes the soul with anguish?\\nThen let the sudden bursting sigh\\nThe heart-felt pang discover\\nAnd in the keen, yet tender eye,\\nO read the imploring lover.\\nFor well I know thy gentle mind\\nDisdains art s gay disguising;\\nBeyond what fancy e er refin d,\\nThe voice of nature prizing.\\nO LEAVE NOVELS.\\nO LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles,\\nYe re safer at your spinning wheel;\\nSuch witching books are baited hooks\\nFor rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.\\nYour fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,\\nThey make your youthful fancies reel.\\nThey heat your brains, and fire your veinS|\\nAnd then you re prey for Rob Mossgiel.\\nBeware a tongue that s smoothly hung;\\nA heart that warmly seems to feel\\nThat feeling heart but acts a part,\\nTis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.\\nThe frank address, the soft caress.\\nAre worse than poison d darts of steel;\\nThe frank address, and politesse.\\nAre all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0409.jp2"}, "410": {"fulltext": "7d ^URN3.\\nADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER\\nA PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.*\\nYou re welcome to despots, Dumourier;\\nYou re welcome to despots, Dumourier;\\nHow does Dampiere do?\\nAye, and Bournonville too?\\nWhy did they not come along with you, Dumourier?\\nI will fight France with you, Dumourier\\nI will fight France with you, Dumourier;\\nI will fight France with you\\nI will take my chance with you\\nBy my soul I ll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.\\nThen let us fight about, Dumourier;\\nThen let us fight about, Dumourier;\\nThen let us fight about,\\nTill freedom s spark is out.\\nThen we ll be d d, no doubt, Dumourier.\\nSWEETEST MAY.\\nSweetest May, let love inspire thee;\\nTake a heart which he designs thee;\\nAs thy constant slave regard it\\nFor its faith and truth reward it.\\nProof o shot to birth or money,\\nNot the wealthy, but the bonnie;\\nNot high-born, but noble-minded,\\nIn love s silken band can bind it I\\nONE NIGHT AS I DID WANDER.\\nTUNE J0H2? AM ERSON, MY JO.\\nOne night as I did wander,\\nWhen corn begins to shoot,\\nI sat me down to ponder.\\nUpon an auld tree-root\\nJ Robin Adair begins, You re welcome to Paxton, Boblii\\nAdair.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0410.jp2"}, "411": {"fulltext": "THE WINTER IT IS PAST, ETC. 379\\nAuld Ayre ran by before me,\\nAnd bicker d to the seas;\\nA cushat crowded o er me,\\nThat echoed thro the braes.\\nTHE WmTER IT IS PAST.*\\nA FRAGMENT.\\nThe winter it is past, and the simmer s come at last,\\nAnd the little birds sing on every tree\\nNow everything is glad, while I am very sad,\\nSince my true love is parted from me.\\nThe rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear,\\nMay have charms for the linnet or the bee\\nTheir little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest^\\nBut my true love is parted from me.\\nFRAGMENT.\\nHer flowing locks, the raven s wing,\\nAdown her neck and bosom hing;\\nHow sweet unto that breast to cling,\\nAnd round that neck entwine her I\\nHer lips are roses wet wi dew I\\nO, what a feast her bonnie moul\\nHer cheeks a mair celestial hue,\\nA crimson still diviner 1\\nTHE CHEVALIER S LAMENT.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CAPTAIN O KEAN.\\nThe small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,\\nThe murmuring streamlet winds clear thro the vale*,\\nThe hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning.\\nAnd wild scatter d cowslips bedeck the green dale\\nGUbert Burns denied his brother s authorehip of this fragment,\\nwhich, in early boyhood, he had heard their mother sing.\\n2 These admirable stanzas are supposed to be spoken by the voung\\nPnnce Charle^Edward, when wandering in the Highlands or Scot-\\nland, after his ratal defeat at Culloden.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 27io77i\u00c2\u00abon.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0411.jp2"}, "412": {"fulltext": "380 BURNS.\\nBut what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,\\nWhile the lingering moments are numbered by care!\\nNo flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,\\nCan soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.\\nThe deed that I dar d could it merit their malice,\\nA King, or a Father, to place on his throne?\\nHis right are these hills, and his right are these valleys.\\nWhere the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.\\nBut tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn;\\nMy brave gallant friends, tis your ruin I mourn:\\nYour deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,\\nAlasl can I make you no sweeter return?\\nTHE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BONNrE DUNDEE.\\nIn Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,\\nThe pride of the place and its neighbourhood a\\nTheir carnage and dress, a stranger would guess.\\nIn Lou-on or Paris they d gotten it a\\nMiss Miller is fine, Miss Markland s divine,\\nMiss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:\\nThere s beauty and fortune to get wi Miss Morton,\\nBut Armour s the jewel for me o them a\\nHERE^S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT S AWA.\\nHebe s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s awa;\\nAnd wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,\\nMay never guid luck be their fa 1\\nIts guid to be merry and wise,\\nIt guid to be honest and true,\\nIt s guid to support Caledonia s cause,\\nAnd bide by the buff and the blue.\\nHere s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s awa;\\nHere s a health to Charlie^ the chief o the clan,\\nAltho that his band be sma\\ni Charles Fox.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0412.jp2"}, "413": {"fulltext": "DAMON AND SYLVIA, ETC.\\nMa}^ liberty meet wi success I\\nMay pi-udence protect her frae evil!\\nMay tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,\\nAnd wander their way to the Devil\\nHere s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s awa;\\nHere s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,\\nThat lives at the lug o the law\\nHere s freedom to him that wad read,\\nHere s freedom to him that wad write\\nThere s nane ever fear d that the truth should b\u00c2\u00ab\\nBut they wham the truth wad indite. [heard\\nHere s a health to them that s awa,\\nHere s a health to them that s awa;\\nHere s Chieftain M Leod,^ a chieftain worth gowd,\\nThe bred amang mountains o snaw I\\nDAMON AND SYLVIA.\\nTtJNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE TITHER MORN, AS I FORLORN.\\nYon wand ring rill, that marks the hill,\\nAnd glances o er the brae, Sir,\\nSlides by a bower where monie a flower\\nSheds fragrance on the day, Sir.\\nThere Damon lay, with Sylvia gay\\nTo love they thought nae crime. Sir;\\nThe wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,\\nWhile Damon s heart beat time, Sir.\\nMY LADY S GOWN THERE S GAIRS UPON T\\nCHORUS.\\nMy lady s gown there s gairs upon t,\\nAnd gowden flowers sae rare upon t;\\nBut Jenny s jimps and jirkinet.\\nMy lord thinks muckle mair upon t.\\nMy lord a-hunting he is gane,\\nBut hounds or hawks wi him are nane^\\nBy Colin s cottage lies his game,\\nIf Colin s Jenny be at hame.\\nMy lady s gown, c.\\nThomas Erskine. M Leod, chief of that clai", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0413.jp2"}, "414": {"fulltext": "S82 BC/y^A^S.\\nMy lady s white, ray lady s red,\\nAnd kith and kin o Cassillis blude^\\nBut her ten-pund lands o tocher guid\\nWere a the charms his lordship lo ed.\\nMy lady s gown, c.\\nOut o er yon muir, out o er yon moss,\\nWhare gor-cocks thro the heather pass,\\nThere wons auld Colin s bonnie lass,\\nA lily in the wilderness.\\nMy lady s gown, c.\\nSae sweetly move her genty limbs,\\nLike music notes o lover s hymns:\\nThe diamond dew in her een sae blue,\\nWhere laughing love sae wanton swims.\\nMy lady s gown, c.\\nMy lady s dink, my lady s drest,\\nThe flower and fancy o the west;\\nBut the lassie that a man lo es best,\\nthat s the lass to make him blest.\\nMy lady s gown, c.\\nO AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.\\nCHORUS.\\nO AYE my wife she dang me,\\nAn aft my wife she bang d me\\nIf ye gie a woman a her will,\\nGuid faith, she ll soon o ergang ye.\\nOn peace and rest my mind was bent,\\nAnd fool I was I marry d\\nBut never honest man s intent\\nAs cursedly miscarry d.\\nSome sairie^ comfort still at last,\\nWhen a thir days are done, man,\\nMy pains o hell on earth is past,\\nI m sure o bliss aboon, man\\nO aye my wife, c.\\nNeat. Sorrowful.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0414.jp2"}, "415": {"fulltext": "LAV THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS. 383\\nTHE BANKS OF NTTH-\\nA BALLAD.\\nTo thee, lov d Nith, thy gladsome plains,\\nWhere late wi careless thought I rang d,\\nThough prest wi care and sunk in woe,\\nTo thee I bring a heart unchanged.\\n1 love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,\\nTho mem ry there my bosom tear\\nFor there he rov d that brake my heart,\\nYet to that heart, ah, still how dear I\\nBONNIE PEG.\\nAs I came in by our gate end,\\nAs day was waxin weary,\\nO wha came tripping down the street,\\nBut bonnie Peg, my dearie I\\nHer air sae sweet, and shape complete,\\nWi nae proportion wanting.\\nThe Queen of Love did never move,\\nWi motion mair enchanting.\\nWi* linked hands, we took the sands\\nA-down yon winding river\\nAnd, oh that hour and broomy bower,\\nCan I forget it ever?\\nLAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS.\\nCHORUS.\\nO LAY thy loof in mine, lass,\\nIn mine, lass, in mine, lass\\nAnd swear in thy white hand, lass,\\nThat thou wilt be my ain.\\nA slave to Love s unbounded sway,\\nHe aft has wrought me meikle wae;\\nBut now he is my deadly fae,\\nUnless thou be my ain.\\nO lay thy loof, c.\\nPalm of the hand.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0415.jp2"}, "416": {"fulltext": "Sdi. BURNS,\\nThere s monie a lass has broke my rest,\\nThat for a blink I hae lo ed best\\nBut thou art Queen within my breast^\\nFor ever to remain.\\nO lay thy loof, c.\\nO GUID ALE COMES.\\nCHOKUS.\\nO GUID ale comes, and guid ale goeg,\\nGuid ale gars me sell my hose\\nSell my hose, and pawn my shoon,\\nGuid ale keeps my heart aboon.\\nI had sax owsen in a pleugh,\\nThey drew a weel eneugh,\\nI seird them a just ane by ane\\nGuid ale keeps my heart aboon.\\nGuid ale hands me bare and busy,\\nGars me moop wi the servant hizzie,\\nStand i the stool when I hae done,\\nGuid ale keeps my heart aboon.\\nO guid ale comes, c.\\nWHY THE DEUCE.\\nEXTEMPORE. APRIL, 1782.\\nWHY the deuce should I repine,\\nAnd be an ill foreboder?\\nI m twenty-three, and five feet nine\\nI ll go and be a sodger.\\n1 gat some gear wi meikle care,\\n1 held it weel thegither\\nBut now it s gane and something mair;\\nI ll go and be a sodger.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0416.jp2"}, "417": {"fulltext": "RODIN SIIURE jy IIAIRST. 385\\nPOLLY STEWART.\\nTTTNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 *^YE kE welcome, CHARLIE STEWART,\\nCHOBUS.\\nO LOVELY Polly Stewart,\\nO charming Polly Stewart,\\nThere s ne er a flower that blooms in May\\nThat s half so fair as thou art.\\nThe flower it blaws, it fades, it fa s,\\nAnd art can ne er renew it\\nBut worth and truth eternal youth\\nWill gie to Polly Stewart.\\nMay he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms^\\nPossess a leal and true heart\\nTo him be given to ken the heaven\\nHe grasps in Polly Stewart 1\\nO lovely, c.\\nROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.\\nCHORUS.\\nRobin shure in hairst,\\nI shure wi him,\\nFient a heuk had I,\\nYet I stack by him.\\nI gaed up to Dunse,\\nTo warp a wab o plaiden.\\nAt his daddie s yett,\\nWha met me but Robin.\\nWas na Robin bauld,\\nTho I was a cotter,\\nPlay d me sic a trick.\\nAnd me the eller s dochter J\\nRobin shure, c.\\nRobin promised me\\nA my winter vittle\\nFient haet he had but three\\nGoose feathers and a whittl\u00c2\u00ab,\\nRobin shure, c,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0417.jp2"}, "418": {"fulltext": "38(1 BURNS.\\nTHE FIVE CJniLINS. Aisr ELECTION BALLAD.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CHEVY CHASE.\\nThere were ^l-^^ Carlins in the south,\\nThey fell upon a scheme,\\nTo send a lad to London town\\nTo bring us tidings hame.\\nNot only bring us tidings hame,\\nBut do our errands there,\\nAnd aiblins gowd and honour baith\\nMight be that laddie s share.\\nThere was Maggie by the banks o Nith,\\nA dame wi pride enough\\nAnd Marjorie o the monie Lochs,\\nA Carlin auld an teugh.\\nAnd blinkin Bess* o Annandale,\\nThat dwells near Solway side,\\nAnd whisky Jean^ that took her gill\\nIn Galloway so wide.\\nAnd auld black Joan\u00c2\u00ae fra Creighton peel,\\nO gipsy kith an kin,\\nFive weightier Carlins were na found\\nThe south countrie within.\\nTo send a lad to Lon on town\\nThey met upon a day,\\nAnd monie a Knight, and monie a Laird,\\nThat errand fain would gae.\\nO I monie a Knight, and monie a Laird,\\nThis errand fain would gae\\nBut nae ane could their fancy please,\\nO ne er a ane but twae.\\nThe first ane was a belted Knight,*\\nBred o a border clan\\nAn he wad gae to Lon on town,\\nMight nae man him withstan\\nThe Ave boroughs of Dumfries-shire and Kirkcudbright.\\nDumfries. Lochmaben. Annan.\\nKirkcudbright. Sanquhar.\\nThe five boroughs returned one member,\\n7 Sir James Johnstone.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0418.jp2"}, "419": {"fulltext": "THE FIVE C A RUNS. 387\\nAnd he wad doe their errands weel,\\nAnd meikle he wad say,\\nAnd ilka ane at Lon on court\\nWad bid to him guid day.\\nThen neist came in a sodger youth,*\\nAnd spak wi modest grace,\\nAn he wad gae to Lon on town,\\nIf sae their pleasure was\\nHe wad nae hecht^ them courtly gift,\\nNor meikle speech pretend\\nBut he wad hecht an honest heart\\nWad ne er desert his friend\\nNow, whom to choose, and whom refusoj\\nTo strife thae Carlins fell\\nFor some had gentle folk to please,\\nAnd some wad please themsel.\\nThen out spak mim-mou d Meg o Nitl\\\\\\nAn she spak out wi pride,\\nAn she wad send the sodger youth;\\nWhatever might betide.\\nFor the auld guidman o Lon on court\\nShe dinna care a pin,\\nBut she wad send the sodger youth\\nTo greet his eldest son.\\nThen up sprang Bess o Annandale:\\nA deadly aith she s ta en,\\nThat she wad vote the border Knight,\\nTho she should vote her lane.\\nFor far-aff fowls hae feathers fair.\\nAn fools o change are fain\\nBut I hae tried this border Knight,\\nAn I ll trie him yet again.\\nSays auld black Joan frae Creighton pooi\\nA Carlin stout and grim,\\nThe auld guidman, or young guidman,\\nFor me may sink or swim\\nFor fools may prate o right and wrang.\\nWhile knaves laugh them to scorn:\\nBut the sodger s fnends hae blawn the best^\\nSae he shall bear the horn.\\nCaptain Miller. Offer.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0419.jp2"}, "420": {"fulltext": "383 BUR.VS,\\nThen whisky Jean spak owre her drink,\\nYe weel ken, kimmers a\\\\\\nThe auld guidman o Lon on court,\\nHis back s been at the wa\\nAnd monie a friend that kiss d his caup,\\nIs nov/ a f remit wight\\nBut it s ne er sae wi whisky Jean,\\nWe ll send the border Knight.\\nThen slow raise Marjorie o the Lochs,\\nAnd wrinkled was her brow\\nHer ancient weed was russet gi*ay,\\nHer auld Scots heart was true.\\nThere s some great folks set light by mt^\\nI set as light by them\\nBut I will send to Lon on town,\\nWha I lo e best at hame.\\nSo how this weighty plea will end,\\nNae mortal wight can tell\\nGod grant the King, and ilka man,\\nMay look weel to himsel 1^\\nTHE DEUKS DANG O ER MY DADDIE.\\nThe bairns gat out wi an unco shout,\\nThe deuks dang o er my daddie, O\\nThe fient ma care, quo the feirie auld wife,\\nHe was but a paidlin body, 1\\nHe paidles out, and he paidles in,\\nAn he paidles late and early, O\\nThae seven lang years I hae lien by his aide\\nAn he is but a fusionless carlie, O.\\nO haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife,\\nO haud your tongue now, Nansie, O\\nI ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,\\nYe wadna been sae donsie, O\\nI ve seen the day ye butter d my bros\u00c2\u00ab,\\nAnd cuddl d me late and earlie, O\\nBiit downa do s come o er me now.\\nAnd, oh, I feel it sairly, 1\\n1 Miller was elected.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0420.jp2"}, "421": {"fulltext": "A BARD S EPITAPH.\\nA BARD S EPITAPH.\\nIs there a whim-inspir d fool,\\nOwre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,\\nOwre blate^ to seek, ov/re proud to snool,*\\nLet him draw near;\\nAnd owre this grassy heap sing dool,\\nAnd drap a tear.\\nIs there a Bard of rustic song.\\nWho, noteless, steals the crowds among,\\nThat weekly this area throng,\\nO, pass not by\\nBut, with a f rater-feeling strong.\\nHere, heave a sigh.\\nIs there a man whose judgment clear,\\nCan others teach the coarse to steer.\\nYet runs, himself, life s mad career\\nWild as the wave\\nHere pause and, thrb the starting tear,\\nSurvey this grave.\\nThe poor Inhabitant below\\nWas quick to learn, and wise to know,\\nAnd keenly felt the friendly glow,\\nAnd softer flame\\nBut thoughtless follies laid him low,\\nAnd stain d his name 1\\nEeader, attend whether thy soul\\nSoars fancy s flights beyond the pole,\\nOr darkling grubs this earthly hole.\\nIn low pursuit\\nKnow, prudent, cautious self-cont/rol\\nIs wisdom s root.\\n1 Bashful, 2 Submit tamely.\\nBums mi^ht have remembered Goldsmith s picture or \u00c2\u00bbn\\nauthor:\u00e2\u0080\u0094 A child of the public he is in all respects; for while he is\\nso able to direct others, how incapable is he frequently found of\\nguiding himself! His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious\\napproaches of cunning; his sensibility to the slightest invasions of\\ncontempt. Though possessed of fortitude to stand unmoved the\\nexpected bursts of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely\\npoignant, as to agonize under the slightest disappointment.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 T/ie\\nrresent State of Polite Learning, chapter X.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0421.jp2"}, "422": {"fulltext": "390 BURNS.\\nM:f HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HIGHLANDEH S LAMENT.\\nMy Hari-y was a gallant gay,\\nFu stately strode he on the plain\\nBut now he s banish d far away,\\nI ll never see him back again.\\nCHORUS.\\nO for him back again,\\nO for him l)ack again,\\nI w^ad gie a Knockhaspie s land.\\nFor Highland Harry back again.\\nWhen a the lave gae to their bed,\\nI wander dowie up the glen\\nI sit me down and greet my fill,\\nAnd aye I wish him back again.\\nO for him, c.\\nO were some villains hangit high,\\nAnd ilka body had their aiu,\\nThen I might see the joyfu sight,\\nMy Highland Harry back again\\nO for him, ifcc.\\nTHE UNION.\\nTUNR\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION.*\\nFarewkel to a Scottish fame,\\nFareweel our ancient glory\\nFareweel even to the Scottish name,\\nSae fam d in martial story", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0422.jp2"}, "423": {"fulltext": "TH ,RE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 391\\nNow Sark rins o er the Solway sands,\\nAnd Tv/eed rins to the ocean,\\nTo mark ^vhere England s province stands;\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation\\nWhat guile or force could not subdue,\\nTlirough many warlike ages,\\nIs wrought now by a coward few,\\nFor hireling traitors wages.\\nThe English steel we could disdain.\\nSecure in valour s station,\\nBut English gold has been our bane:\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation 1\\nO would, or had I seen the day\\nThat Treason thus could sell us,\\nMy auld grey head had lien in clay\\nWi Bruce and loyal Wallace\\nBut pith and power, till my last hour\\nI ll mak this declaration,\\nWe re bought and sold for English gold\\nSuch a parcel of rogues in a nation\\nTHERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.\\nThere was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie lass,\\nAnd she lo ed her bonnie laddie, dear\\nTill war s loud alarms tore her laddie frae her arms,\\nWi monie a sigh and tear.\\nOver sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly roar.\\nHe still was a stranger to fear:\\nAnd nocht could him quell, or his bosom assail,\\nBut the bonnie lass he lo ed sae dear.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0423.jp2"}, "424": {"fulltext": "392 BURNS.\\nTiBBIE DUNBAR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JOHNNY M GILL,\\nO WILT thou go wi me, sweet Tibbie Diinbart\\nwilt thou go wi me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?\\nWilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car,\\nOr walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?\\n1 care na thy daddie, his lands and his money,\\nI care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly\\nBut say thou wilt hae me for better, for waur,\\nAnd come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbart\\nWEE WILLIE.\\nWee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet;\\nPeel a willow -w^and to be him boots and jacket:\\nThe rose upon the brier will be him t rouse and doublet.\\nThe X ose upon the brier will be him trouse and doubletf\\nWee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet\\nTwice a lily flower will be him sark and cravat;\\nFeathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet,\\nFeathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet.\\nTHE HERMIT.\\nWhoe er thou art, these lines now reading.\\nThink not, though from the world receding,\\nI joy my lonely days to read in\\nThis desert drear,\\nThat fell remorse, a conscience bleeding.\\nHath led me here.\\nNo thought of guilt my bosom sours\\nFree-wilPd I fled from courtly bow rs;\\nFor well I saw in halls and tow rs,\\nThat lust and pride.\\nThe arch-flend s dearest, darkest pow rs,\\nIn state preside.\\nWritten on a marble sideboard, in the Hermitage belonging ta\\nChe Duke of Athole, in the wood of Aberf eldy.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0424.jp2"}, "425": {"fulltext": "THE HERMIT. 393\\nJt saw mankind with vice encrusted\\nI saw that honour s sword was rusted;\\nThat few for aught but folly lusted;\\nThat he was still deceived, who trusted\\nTo love, or friend\\nAnd hither came, with men disgusted,\\nMy life to end.\\nIn this lone cave, in garments lowly,\\nAlike a foe to noisy folly.\\nAnd brow-brent gloomy melancholy,\\nI wear awa}^\\nMy life, and in my office holy\\nConsume the day.\\nThis rock my shield, when storms are blowing\\nThe limpid streamlet yonder flowing,\\nSupplying drink, the earth bestowing\\nMy simple food\\nBut few enjoy the calm I know in\\nThis desert wood.\\nContent and comfort bless me more in\\nThis grot, than e er I felt before in\\nA palace,\u00e2\u0080\u0094 and with thoughts still soarinff\\nTo God on high,\\nEach night and morn with voice imploring,\\nThis wish I sigh\\nLet me, O Lord, from life retire.\\nUnknown each guilty, worldly fire,\\nRemorse s throb, or loose desire\\nAnd when I die,\\nLet me in this belief expire\\nTo God I fly!\\nStranger! if full of youth and riot,\\nAnd yet no grief has marr d thy quiet,\\nThou haply throw st a scornful eye at\\nThe Hermit s prayer;\\nBut if thou hast good*^ cause to sigh at\\nThy fault or care,\\nIf thou hast known false love s vexation,\\nOr hast been exiled from thy nation,\\nOr g lilt affrights thy contemplation,\\nAnd makes thee pine\\nOh how must thou lament thy station,\\nAnd envy mine 1", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0425.jp2"}, "426": {"fulltext": "394 BURNS.\\nCRAIGIE-BURN-WOOD.\\nBeyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,\\nAnd O to be lying beyond thee\\nO sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,\\nThat s laid in the bed beyond thee.\\nSweet closes the evening on Craigie -burn -wood,\\nAnd blythely awakens the morrow\\nBut the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood\\nCan yield to me nothing but sorrow.\\nBeyond thee, c.\\nI see the spreading leaves and flowers,\\n1 hear the wild birds singing\\nBut pleasure they hae nane for me,\\nWhile care my heart is wringing.\\nBeyond thee, c.\\nI canna tell, I maun na tell,\\nI dare na for your anger;\\nBut secret love will break my heart.\\nIf I conceal it langer.\\nBeyond thee, c.\\nI see thee gracefu straight and tall,\\nI see thee sweet and bonnie.\\nBut oh, what will my torments be.\\nIf thou refuse my Johnnie\\nBeyond thee, c.\\nTo see thee in anither s arms.\\nIn love to lie and languish,\\nTwad be my dead, that will be seerij\\nMy heai-t wad burst wi anguish.\\nBeyond thee, c.\\nBut Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nSay, thou lo es nane before me;\\nAn a my days o life to come,\\nI ll gratefully adore thee.\\nBeyond thee, c,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0426.jp2"}, "427": {"fulltext": "LAD V OXiJE, 39:j\\nHERE S HIS HEALTH EST WATER.\\nTUNE the job of JOURNEY- WORK.\\nAltho my back be at the wa\\nAnd tho he be the fautor;\\nAltho ray back be at the wa\\nYet, here s his health in water I\\nwae gae by his wanton sides,\\nSae brawiie he could flatter\\nTill for his sake I m slighted sair,\\nAnd dree the kintra clatter.\\nBut the my back be at the wa\\nAnd tho he be the fautor\\nBut the my back be at the wa\\nYet, here s his health in water\\nAS DOWN THE BURN THEY TOOK THEIR WAY\\nAs down the burn they took their way,\\nAnd thi o the flowery dale\\nHis cheek to hers he aft did lay.\\nAnd love was aye the tale.\\nWith Mary, when shall we return,\\nSic pleasure to renew?\\nQuoth Mary, Love, I like the bum,\\nAnd ay shall follow you.\\nLADY ONLIE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ruffian s RANT.\\nA THE lads o Thornie-bank,\\nWhen they gae to the shore o Bucky,\\nThey ll step in an tak a pint\\nWi Lady Onlie, honest Lucky 1\\nLady Onlie, honest Lucky,\\nBre^vs guid ale at sliore o Bucky;\\nI wish her sale for her guid ale,\\nThe best on a the shore o Bucky.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0427.jp2"}, "428": {"fulltext": "396 BUJ^NS.\\nHer house sae bien, her curch sae clean,\\nI wat she is a dainty chucky\\nAnd cheerie blinks the ingle-gleed\\nOf Lady Onlie, honest Lucky\\nLady Onlie, honest Lucky,\\nBrews guid ale at shore o Bucky\\nI wish her sale for her guid ale,\\nThe best on a the shore o Bucky.\\nAS I WAS A WANDERING.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 KINN MEUDIAL MO MBEALLADH.\\nAs I was a wandering ae midsummer e enin\\nThe pipers and youngsters were makin their game;\\nAmang them I spied my faithless fause lover.\\nWhich bled a the wounds o my dolour again.\\nWeel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi him\\nI may be distressed, but I winna complain\\nI flatter my fancy I may get anither.\\nMy heart it shall never be broken for ane.\\nI could na get sleeping till dawin for greeting\\nThe tears trickled down like the hail and the rain:\\nHad I na got greetin my heart wad a broken,\\nFor, oh love forsaken s a tormenting pain.\\nAlthough he has left me for greed o the siller,\\nI dinna envy him the gains he can win\\nI rather wad bear a the lade o my soitow\\nThan ever hae acted sae faithless to him.\\nWeel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi him,\\nI may be distressed, but I winna complain\\nI flatter my fancy I may get anither.\\nMy heart it shall never be broken for ane.\\nBANNOCKS O BARLEY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE KILLOGIE.\\nBannocks o bear meal,\\nBannocks o barley;\\nHere s to the Highlandman s\\nBannocks o barley.\\nTill dawn for weeping. Barlej.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0428.jp2"}, "429": {"fulltext": "OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED, ETC, 397\\nWha in a brulzie\\nWill first cry a parley?\\nNever the lads wi\\nThe bannocks o barley.\\nBannocks o^ bear meal,\\nBannocks o barley;\\nHere s to the lads wi\\nThe bannocks o barley.\\nWha in his wae-days i\\nWere loyal to Charlie?\\nWha but the lads wi\\nThe bannocks o barley.\\nOUR THRISSLES^ FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 AW A, WHIGS, AWA.\\nCHOKUS.\\nAw A, Whigs, awa!\\nAwa, Whigs, awa!\\nYe re but a pack o traitor louna^\\nYe ll do nae good at a\\nOur thrissles flourish d fresh and fair,\\nAnd bonnie bloom d our roses\\nBut Whigs came in like frost in June,\\nAnd withered a our posies.\\nOur ancient crown s fa en in the dust\\nDeil blin them wi the stoure o t\\nAnd write their names in his black beuk,\\nWha gae the Whigs the power o t.\\nOur sad decay in Church and State\\nSurpasses my descriving\\nThe Whigs came o er us for a curse,\\nAnd we hae done wi thriving.\\nGrim vengeance lang has ta en a nap,\\nBut we may see him wauken\\nGude help the day when royal heads\\nAre hunted like a maukin.\\nAwa, Whigs, awa!\\nAwa, Whigs, awa!\\nYe re but a pack o traitor louns,\\nYe ll do nae gude at a\\n1 Thistles.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0429.jp2"}, "430": {"fulltext": "39S BURNS.\\nPEG-A-RAMSEY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 CAULD IS THE E EXIN BLAST.\\nCauld is the e cnin blast\\nO Boreas o er the pool,\\nAnd dawin it is dreary,\\nWhen birks are bare at Yule.\\nO bitter blaws the e enin blast\\nWhen bitter bites the frost,\\nAnd in the mirk and dreary drift\\nThe hills and glens are lost.\\nNe er sae murky blew the night\\nThat drifted o er the hill,\\nBut a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey\\nGat grist to her mill.\\nCOME BOAT ME O ER TO CHARLIE.\\nTUXE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 O ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.\\nCome boat me o er, come row me o er,\\nConae boat me o er to Charlie\\nI ll gie John Ross another bawbee,\\nTo boat me o er to Charlie.\\nWe ll o er the water and o er the sea,\\nWe ll o er the water to Charlie;\\nCome weal, come woe, we ll gather and go,\\nAnd live or die wi Charlie.\\nI lo e weel my Charlie s name,\\nTho some there be abhor him\\nBut O, to see auld Nick gaun hame,\\nAnd Charlie s faes before him\\nI swear and vow by moon and stars,\\nAnd sun that shines so early,\\nIf I had twenty thousand lives,\\nI d die as aft for Charlie.\\nWe ll o er the water and o er the sea,\\nWe ll o er the water to Charlie\\nCome weal, come woe, we ll gather and go,\\nAnd live or die wi Charlie\\n1 An old song, restored by Burns,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0430.jp2"}, "431": {"fulltext": "COMING rHROUGII THE RYE, 399\\nBRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GALLA water.\\nCHORUS.\\nBraw, braw lads of Galla Water\\nO braw lads of Galla Water:\\nI ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,\\nAnd follow my love through the water.\\nSae fair her hair, sae brent^ her brow,\\nSae bonny blue her een, my dearie\\nSae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou\\nThe mair I kiss she s aye my dearie.\\nO er yon bank and o er yon brae.\\nO er yon moss amang the heather;\\nI ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,\\nAnd follow my love through the w^ater.\\nDown amang the broom, the broom,\\nDown amang the broom, my dearie,\\nThe lassie lost a silken snood,\\nThat cost her mony a blirt and bleary.*\\nBraw, braw lads of Galla Water\\nO braw lads of Galla Water\\nI ll kilt my coats aboon my knee.\\nAnd follow my love through the water.\\nCOMING THROUGH THE RYE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 COMIKG THROUGH IKE RYE.\\nComing through the rye, poor body,\\nComing through the rye.\\nShe draiglet a her petticoatie,\\nComing through the rye.\\nJenny s a wat, poor body,\\nJenny s seldom dry\\nShe draiglet a her petticoatie,\\nComing through the rye.\\nGin a body meet a body\\nComing through the rye\\nGin a body kiss a body\\nNeed a body cry?\\nHigh and Bmooth. Outburst of gridf", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0431.jp2"}, "432": {"fulltext": "400 BURNS.\\nGin a body meet a body\\nComing through tfte glen,\\nGin a body kiss a body\\nNeed the world ken?\\nJenny s a wat, poor body\\nJenny s seldom dry;\\nShe draiglet a her petticoatie,\\nComing through the rye.\\nTHE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JACKY LATIN.\\nGat ye me, O gat ye me,\\nO gat ye me wi naething?\\nRock and reel, and spinnin wheel,\\nA mickle quarter basin.\\nBye attour,^ my gutcher- has\\nA hich house and a laigh ane,\\nA forbye, my bonnie sel\\nThe toss^ of Ecclefechan.\\nbaud your tongue now, Luckie Laing,\\nbaud your tongue and jauner\\n1 held the gate till you I met,\\nSyne I began to wander:\\nI tint my whistle and my sang,\\n1 tint my peace and pleasure;\\nBut your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,\\nWad airt me to mv treasui e.\\nEXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 GILLICRANKIE.\\nLORD ADVOCATE.\\nHe clench d his pamphlets in his fist,\\nHe quoted and he hinted.\\nTill in a declamation-mist,\\nHis argument he tint it\\nHe gaped for t, he graped^ for t,\\nHe f and it was av^^a, man\\nBut what his common sense came short,\\nHe eked out wi law, man.\\nMove ever. 2 Grandsire. 3 Toast. Talking.\\n5 Groped.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0432.jp2"}, "433": {"fulltext": "HAD I THE VVYTE. 40^\\nMB. ERSKENE.\\nCollected, Harry stood awee,\\nThen open d out his arm, man\\nHis lordship sat wi ruefu e e,\\nAnd ey d the gathering storm, man;\\nLike wind-driv n hail it did assail,\\nOr torrents owre a linn, man\\nThe Bench, sae wise, lift up their eyes,\\nHalf-wauken d wi the din, man.\\nHAD I THE WTTE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HAD I THB WTTB iHE Bl^fl MB.\\nHad I the wyte, had I the wyte,\\nHad I the wyte she bade me\\nShe watch d me by the hie-gate side,\\nAnd up the loan she shaw d me\\nAnd when I wadna venture in,\\nA coward loon she ca d me\\nHad kirk and state been in the gate,\\nI lighted when she bade me.\\nSae craftilie she took me ben.\\nAnd bade me make nae clatter;\\nFor our ramgunshoch, glum guidman,\\nIs out and ower the water:\\nWhae er shall say I wanted grace,\\nWhen I did kiss and dawte^ her,\\nLet him be planted in my place,\\nSyne say I was the fautor.\\nCould I for shame, could I for shame,\\nCould I for shame refuse her?\\nAnd wadna manhood been to blame.\\nHad I unkindly used her?\\nHe clawed her wi the ripplin-kame,*\\nAnd blue and bluidy bruised her;\\nWhen sic a husband was frae hame.\\nWhat wife but had excused her?\\n1 Blame. Milking-place. Fondl\u00c2\u00a9.\\nInstrument for dressing flax.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0433.jp2"}, "434": {"fulltext": "402 BURNS.\\nI dighted ay her een sae blue,\\nAnd bann d the cruel randy\\nAnd weel I wat her willing mou\\nWas e en like sugar-candy.\\nA gloamin-shot it was I trow,\\nI lighted on the Monday\\nBut I came through the Tysday s dew,\\nTo wanton Willie s brandy.\\nHEE BALOU.^\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE HIGHLAND BALOU.\\nHee balou my sweet wee Donald,\\nPicture o the great Clanronald\\nBrawl ie kens our wanton chief\\nWha got my young Highland thief.\\nLeeze me on thy bonnie craigie,^\\nAn thou live, thou ll steal a naigie\\nTravel the country thro and thro\\nAnd bring hame a Carlisle Cow.\\nThro the Lawlands, o er the border,\\nWeel, my babie, may thou f urder\\nHerry^ the louns o the laigh countrec,\\nSyne\u00c2\u00ae to the Highlands hame to me.\\nHER DADDIE FORBAD\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JUMPIN JOHN.\\nHer daddie forbad, her minnie forbad\\nForbidden she wadna be\\nShe wadna trow t^ the browst she brew d\\nWad taste sae bitterlie.\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpln John\\nBeguiled the bonnie lassie\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpin John\\nBeguiled the bonnie lassie.\\nA cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf,\\nAnd thretty gude shillins and three\\nA vera gude tocher, a cotter-man s dochter,\\nThe lass with the bonnie black e e.\\nA child s lullaby. Neck. Horse. Succeed. Plunder.\\nThen. Believe It.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0434.jp2"}, "435": {"fulltext": "HERE S TO THY HEALTH, ETC, 403\\nThe lang lad they ca Jumpin John\\nBeguiled the bonnie lassie\\nThe lang lad they ca Jnmpin John\\nBeguiled the bonnie lassie.\\nHERE^S TO THY HEALTH MY BONNIE LASS.\\nTUNE-**LAGGA1I BURN/\\nHere s to thy health, my bonnie lass,\\nGude night, and joy be wi thee\\nI ll come nae mair to thv bower door,\\nTo tell thee that I lo e thee.\\ndinna think, my pretty pink,\\nBut I can live without thee\\n1 vow and swear I dinna care\\nHow lang ye look about ye.\\nThou rt aye sae free informing me\\nThou hast nae mind to marry\\nI ll be as free informing thee\\nNae time hae I to tarry.\\nI ken thy friends try ilka means,\\nFrae wedlock to delay thee\\nDepending on some higher chance\\nBut fortune may betray thee.\\nI ken they scorn my low estate,\\nBut that does never grieve me\\nBut I m as free as any he,\\nSma siller will relieve me.\\nI count my health my greatest wealth,\\nSae lang as I ll enjoy it\\nI ll fear nae scant, I ll bode nae want,\\nAs lang s I get employment.\\nBut far-aff fowls ha\u00c2\u00ab feathers fair,\\nAnd aye until ye try them\\nTho they seem fair, still have a care.\\nThey may prove waur than I am.\\nBut at twal at night, when the moon shines bright^\\nMy dear, I ll come and see thee\\nFor the man that lo es his mistress weel,\\nNae travel makes him weary,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0435.jp2"}, "436": {"fulltext": "404 BURNS,\\nHEY, THE DUSTY MILLER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE DUSTY MILLER.\\nHey the dusty miller,\\nAnd his dusty coat\\nHe will win a shilling,\\nOr he spend a groat.\\nDusty was the coat,\\nDusty was the colour,\\nDusty was the kiss\\nThat I got frae the miller.\\nHey, the dusty miller,\\nAnd his dusty sack\\nLeeze me on the calling\\nFills the dusty peck.\\nFills the dusty peck.\\nBrings the dusty siller;\\nI wad gie my coatie\\nFor the dusty miller.\\nTHE CARDIN 0 T.\u00c2\u00bb\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SALT FiSH AND DUMPLINGS.\\nI coFT a stane o haslock woo\\nTo make a wat^ to Johnny o t\\nFor Johnny is my only jo,\\nI lo e him best of ony yet.\\nThe cardin o t, the spinnin o t,\\nThe warpin o t, the winnin o t;\\nWhen ilka ell cost me a groat,\\nThe tailor staw the lynin o t.\\nFor though his locks be lyart gray,^\\nAnd tho his brow be held aboon\\nYet I hae seen him on a day,\\nThe pride of a the parishen.\\nThe cardin o t, the spinnin o t,\\nThe warpin o t, the wianin o t;\\nWhen ilka ell cost me a groat,\\nThe tailor staw the lynin o t.\\n1 *The little of this song to which antiquity lays claim, is so tri-\\nfling that the whole may be said to be the work of Bums. The\\ntenderness of Johnnie s wife can only be fully felt by those who\\nknow that hause-lock wool is the softest and finest of the fleece,\\nand is shorn from the throats of sheep in the summer heat. 4,\\nCunningham.\\n2 An outer garment, Mingled with gray.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0436.jp2"}, "437": {"fulltext": "THENIEL MENZIE S BOyMIE MARY. 405\\nTHE JOYFUL WIDOWER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MAGGY LAUDER.\\nI MARKIED with a scolding wife\\nThe fourteenth of November\\n^he made me weary of my life,\\nBy one unruly member.\\nLong did I bear the heavy yoke,\\nAnd many griefs attended\\nBut, to my comfort be it spoke,\\nNow, now her life is ended.\\nWe lived full one-and-twenty years,\\nA man and wife together\\nAt length from me her course she steered,\\nAnd gone I know not whither:\\nWould I could guess, I do profess,\\nI speak, and do not flatter,\\nOf all the women in the world,\\nI never could come at her.\\nHer body is bestowed well,\\nA handsome grave does hide h\u00c2\u00abr;\\nBut sure her soul is not in hell,\\nThe deil would ne er abide her.\\nI rather think she is aloft.\\nAnd imitating thunder\\nFor why, methinks I hear her voice\\nTearing the clouds asimder.\\nTHENIEL MENZIE S BONNIE MARt.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 **TBtt RUFFIAN S RANT.\\nIn coming by the brig^ o Dye,\\nAt Darlet we a blink did tarry\\nAs day was dawin in the sky,\\nWe drank a health to bonnie Mary*\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary,\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary\\nCharlie Gregor tint his plaidie,\\nKissin TheniePs bonnie Mary.\\nBridge.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0437.jp2"}, "438": {"fulltext": "406 BURNS.\\nHer een sae bright, her brow sae white,\\nHer liaflet^ locks as brown s a berry,\\nAn aye they dimpled wi a smile\\nThe rosy cheeks o bonnie Mary.\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary,\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary;\\nCharlie Gregor tint his plaidie\\nKissin Theniel s bonnie Mary.\\nWe lap an danced the lee-lang day,\\nTill piper lads were wae an weary,\\nBut Charlie gat the spring to pay\\nFor kissin Theniel s bonnie Mary.\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary,\\nTheniel Menzie s bonnie Mary\\nCharlie Gregor tint his plaidie\\nKissin Theniel s bonnie Mary,\\nTHE FAREWELL.\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2njNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 IT WA8 a for our RIGHTFU KING.\\nIt was a for our rightfu King,\\nWe left fair Scotland s strand\\nIt was a for our rightfu King,\\nWe e er saw Irish land,\\nMy dear,\\nWe e er saw Irish land.\\nNow a is done that men can do,\\nAnd a is done in vain\\nMy love and native land farewell,\\nFor I maun cross the main,\\nMy dear,\\nFor I maun cross the main.\\nHe turn d him right, and round about,\\nUpon the Irish shore\\nAnd gae his bridle-reins a shake,\\nWith adieu for evermore.\\nMy dear,\\nWith adieu for evermore.\\nJ 2^^ the side of the head.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0438.jp2"}, "439": {"fulltext": "^T IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE, ETC. 407\\nThe sodger from the wars returns,\\nThe sailor frae the main\\nBut I hae parted frae my love,\\nNever to meet again,\\nMy dear,\\nNever to meet again.\\nWhen day is gane, and night is come.\\nAnd a folk bound to sleep\\nI think on him that s far awa\\nThe lee-Ian g night, and weep.\\nMy dear,\\nThe lee-lang night, and weep.\\nJT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 THE maid s COMPLAINT.\\nIt is na, Jean, thy bonnie face\\nNor shape that I admire,\\nAlthough thy beauty and thy gr^^e\\nMight weel awake desire.\\nSomething, in ilka part o thee,\\nTo praise, to love, I find\\nBut dear as is thy form to me.\\nStill dearer is thy mind.\\nNae mair ungenerous wish I hae,\\nNor stronger in my breast,\\nThan if I canna mak thee sae.\\nAt least to see the blest.\\nContent am I, if Heaven shall give\\nBut happiness to rhee\\nAnd as wi thee I d v/ish to live,\\nFor thee I d bear to die.\\nJAMIE, COME TRY ME.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 JASHE, COME TBY MK.\\nCHOKUS.\\nJamie, come try me,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf tliou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0439.jp2"}, "440": {"fulltext": "408 BURNS.\\nIf thou should ask my love,\\nCould I deny thee?\\nIf thou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me.\\nIf thou should kiss me, love,\\nWha could espy thee?\\nIf thou wad be my love,\\nJamie, come try me.\\nJamie, come try me,\\nJamie, come try me\\nIf thou would win my love,\\nJamie, come try me.\\nLANDLADY, COUNT THE LA WIN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HEY TUTTI, TAITI.\\nLandlady, count the lawin,*\\nThe day is near the dawin\\nYe re a blind drunk, boys.\\nAnd Fm but jolly fou.\\nHey tutti, taiti.\\nHow tutti, taiti\\nWha s fou now?\\nCog an ye were aye fou,\\nCog an ye were aye fou,\\nI wad sit and sing to you,\\nIf ye were aye fou.\\nWeel may ye a be\\nIll may we never see\\nGod bless tlie King, boySj\\nAnd the companie 1\\nHey tutti, taiti.\\nHow tutti, taiti\\nWha s fou now?\\n1 Reckoning.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0440.jp2"}, "441": {"fulltext": "MV HEART WAS AXCE, 409\\nMY LOYE SHE S BUT A LASSIE YET.\u00c2\u00bb\\nTUKB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LADY BADINGSCOTH S REEL.**\\nMy love she s but a lassie yet\\nMy love she s but a lassie yet\\nWe ll let her stand a year or twa,\\nShe ll no be half sae saucy yet.\\nI rue the day I sought her, O\\nI rue the day I sought her,\\nWha gets her needs na say she s woo d,\\nBut he may say he s bought her, O\\nCome, draw a drap o the best o t yet;\\nCome, draw a drap o the best o t yet;\\nGae seek for pleasure where ye will,\\nBut here I never miss d it yet.\\nWe re a dry wi drinking o t\\nWe re a dry wi drinking o t;\\nThe minister kiss d the fiddler s wife,\\nAn could na preach for thinking o t.\\nMY HEAKT WAS ANCE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 TO THE WEAVERS GIN TE GO.\\nMy heart was ance as blythe and free\\nAs simmer days were lang,\\nBut a bonnie, westlin weaver lad\\nHas gart^ me change my sang.\\nTo the weavers gin ye go, fair maids;\\nTo the weavers gin ye go\\nI rede you right, gang ne er at night,\\nTo the weavers gin ye go.\\nMy mither sent me to the town,\\nTo warp a plaiden wab\\nBut the weary, weary warpin o t\\nHas gart me sigh and sab.\\nA bonnie westlin weaver lad\\nSat working at his loom\\nHe took my heart as wi a net,\\nIn every knot and thrum.\\nThki song and the following one were only partly written by\\nBurns. 2 Made.\\nThrer.d remaining at the end of a web.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0441.jp2"}, "442": {"fulltext": "410 BURNS.\\nI sat beside my warpin wheel,\\nAnd aj e I ca d it roun\\nBut every shot and every knock,\\nMy heart it gae a stoun.\\nThe moon was sinking in the west,\\nWi visage pale and wan,\\nAs my bonnie westlin weaver lad\\nConvoy d me thro the glen.\\nBut what was said, or what was done,\\nShame fa me gin I tell;\\nBut, oh I fear the kintra soon\\nWill ken as w eel s mysel.\\nTo the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,\\nTo the weavers gin ye go\\nI rede^ you right, gang ne er at night,\\nTo the weavers gin ye go.\\nLOVELY DAVIES.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MISS MUIK.\\nO HOW shall I, unskilfu try,\\nThe poet s occupation.\\nThe tunefu powers, in happy hours,\\nThat whisper inspiration?\\nEven they maun dare an effort mair.\\nThan aught they ever gave us,\\nOr they rehearse, in equal verse,\\nThe charms o lovely Davies.\\nEach eye it cheers, when she appears,\\nLike Phoebus in the morning.\\nWhen past the sho^ er, and ev ry flower\\nThe garden is adorning.\\nAs the wretch looks o er Siberia s shore,\\nWhen winter-bound the wave is;\\nSae droops our heart when we maun part\\nFrae charming, lovely Davies.\\nHer smile s a gift, frae boon the lift,\\nThat maks us mair than princes\\nA sceptr d hand, a King s command,\\nIs in her darting glances.\\n1 Advise.\\nDeborah Davies, the yoim,j esD do.uc::hterof Mr. Davies, of Tenby,\\nSouth Wales. She was the victisn of an unrequited attachment for\\nan officer who died abroad. In a letter to this lady, Burns calls\\nwoman the blood-rojal of life.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0442.jp2"}, "443": {"fulltext": "KENMURE S ON AND AlVA. 411\\nThe man in arms, gainst female charms,\\nEven he her willing slave is\\nHe hugs his chain, and owns the reign\\nOf conqueiing, lovely Davies.\\nMy muse to dream of such a theme,\\nHer feeble powers surrenders\\nThe eagle s gaze alone surveys\\nThe sun s meridian splendours:\\nI wad in vain essay the strain,\\nThe deed too daring brave is\\nI ll drap the lyi*e, and mute admire\\nThe charms o lovely Davies.\\nKENMURE S ON AND AWA.\\nTONE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 O, KENMURE S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.\\nO, Kenmuke s on and awa, Willie\\nO, Kenmure s on and awa\\nAnd Kenmure s lord s the bravest lord\\nThat ever Galloway saw.\\nSuccess to Kenmure s band, Willie\\nSuccess to Kenmure s band\\nThere s no a heart that fears a Whig,\\nThat rides by Kenmure s hand.\\nHere s Kenmure s health in wine, Willie\\nHere s Kenmure s health in wine\\nThere ne er was a coward o Kenmure s blude,\\nNor yet o Gordon s line.\\nO, Kenmure s lads are men, Willie\\nO, Kenmure s lads are men\\nTheir hearts and swords are metal true\\nAnd that their faes shall ken.\\nThey ll live or die wi fame, Willie\\nThey ll live or die wi fame\\nBut soon wi sounding victorie,\\nMay Kenmure s lord come hame.\\nHere s him that s far awa, Willie\\nHere s him that s far awa\\nAnd here s the flower that I lo e best\\nThe rose thaf 3 like the snaw,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0443.jp2"}, "444": {"fulltext": "412 BURNS,\\nTHE CAPTAIN S LADY.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 O MOUNT AND GO.\\nCHORUS.\\nO, MOimT and go,\\nMount and make you ready;\\nO, mount and go,\\nAnd be the Captain s Lady.\\nWhen the drums do beat,\\nAnd the cannons rattle,\\nThou shalt sit in state.\\nAnd see thy love in battle.\\nWhen the vanquished foe\\nSues for peace and quiet,\\nTo the shades we ll go.\\nAnd in love enjoy it.\\nO, mount and go,\\nMount and make you ready f\\nO, mount and go.\\nAnd be the Captain s lady.\\nLADY MARY-ANN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 \u00e2\u0080\u00a2\u00e2\u0080\u00a2CUAIGTOWN S GROWING.\\nO, Lady Mary-Ann\\nLooks o er the castle wa\\nShe saw three bonnie boys\\nPlaying at the ba\\nThe youngest he was\\nThe flower an ang them a\\nMy bonnie laddie s young,\\nBut he s growing yet.\\nO father! O father!\\nAn ye think it fit,\\nWe ll send him a year\\nTo the college yet\\nWe ll sew a green ribbon\\nEound about his hat.\\nAnd that will let them ken\\nHe s to marry yet.\\nLady Mary- Ann\\nWas a flower i the dew.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0444.jp2"}, "445": {"fulltext": "THE HIGHLAND IVWOIFKS LAMENT, 413\\nSweet was its smell,\\nAnd bonnie was its hue\\nAnd the langer it blossom d\\nThe sweeter it grew\\nFor the lily in the bud\\nWill be bonnier yet.\\nYoung Charlie Cochran\\nWas the sprout of an aik\\nBonnie and bloomin\\nAnd straught was its make\\nThe sun took delight\\nTo shine for its sake,\\nAnd it will be the brag\\n0 the forest yet.\\nThe simmer is gane\\nWhen the leaves they were green,\\nAnd the days are awa\\nThat we hae seen\\nBut far better days\\nI trust will come again.\\nFor my bonnie laddie s young,\\nBut he s growin yet.\\nTHE HIGHLAND WmOW S LAMENT.^\\nOh I am come to the low countrie,\\nOch-on, och-on, och-rie!\\nWithout a penny in ray pm*se,\\nTo buy a meal to me.\\nIt was na sae in the Highland hills,\\nOch-on, och-on, och-rie!\\nNae woman in the country wide\\nSae happy was as me.\\nFor then I had a score o kye,\\nOch-on, och-on, och-rie!\\nFeeding on yon hills so high,\\nAnd giving milk to me.\\nAnd there T had three score o yowes,\\nOch-on, och-on, och-rie I\\nSkij^ping on yon bonnie kuowes,\\nAnd Casting woo to me.\\n1 T do not know on wbat authority Mr. Cunningham assigns thi\u00c2\u00bb\\nJacobite song to Burns; for I have heard cid ladies sing it who re-\\nmHiiibcr its csisteuca anterior to the poet s tixn.e.~ Moth^-icdl.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0445.jp2"}, "446": {"fulltext": "414 l tI^N3.\\nI was the happiest of a the clan,\\nSan*, sair may I repine\\nFor Donald was the brawest lad,\\nAnd Donald he was mine.\\nTill Charlie Stewart cam at last,\\nSae far to set us free\\nMy Donald s arm was wanted then,\\nFor Scotland and for me.\\nTheir waefu fate what need I tell?\\nRight to the wrang did ^deld\\nMy Donald and his country fell\\nUpon CuUoden s field.\\nOh I am come to the low countrie,\\nOch-on, och-on, och-rie!\\nNae woman in the warld wide\\nSae wretched now as me.\\nMERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN A HECKLE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 LORD BBEADALBANE S MARCH.\\nO MERRY hae I been teethin a heckle,\\nAnd merry liae I been shapin a spoon\\nO meiTy hae I been cloutin- a kettle,\\nAnd kissiu my Katie when a was done.\\nO a the lang day I ca at my hammer,\\nAn a the lang day I whistle and sing,\\nAn a the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,\\nAn a the lang night am as happy s a king.\\nBitter in dool I lickit my winnins,\\nO marrying Bess, to gie her a slave\\nBlest be the hour she cool d in her linnens,\\nAnd blythe be the bird that sings on her grare.\\nCome to my arms, my Katie, my Katie\\nAn come to my arms, and kiss me again!\\nDrunken or sober, here s to thee, Katie\\nAn blest be the day I did it again.\\nA board with sharp steel prongs for dressing hemp. Repalriag.\\n8 Young girl.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0446.jp2"}, "447": {"fulltext": "O MALL 1 S MEEK, MALL V^ S SWEET. 415\\nRATTLIN ROARIN WILLE3.\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 RATTL1N\\\\ ROARIN WILUE.\\nO RATTLIN roarin* Willie,\\nO he held to the fair,\\nAn for to sell his fiddle.\\nAn buy some other ware\\nBut parting wi his fiddle.\\nThe saut tear blin t his e e\\nAnd rattlin roarin Willie,\\nYe rc welcome hame to me\\nO Willie, come sell your fiddle,\\nsell your fiddle sae fine\\nO Willie, come sell your fiddle,\\nAnd buy a pint o wine\\nIf I should sell my fidle,\\nThe warP would think I was mad;\\nFor mony a rantin day\\nMy fiddle and I hae had.\\nAs I cam by Grochallan,\\n1 cannily keekit ben\\nRattlin roarin Willie\\nWas sitting at yon board en\\nSitting at yon board enV\\nAnd amang guid companie\\nRattlin roaring Willie,\\nYe er welcome hame to me\\nO MALLY S MEEK, MALLY S SWEET.\\nAs I was walking up the street,\\nA barefit maid I chanc d to meet\\nBut O the road was very hard\\nFor that fair maiden s tender feet.\\nO Mally s meek, Mally s sweet,\\nMally s modest and discreet,\\nMally s rare, Mally s fair,\\nMally s every way complete.\\nIt were more meet that those fine feet\\nWere weel laced up in silken shoon,\\nAnd twere mare fit that she should sit\\nWithin yon chariot gilt aboon.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0447.jp2"}, "448": {"fulltext": "416 BURNS.\\nHer yellow hair, beyond compare,\\nComes trinkling^ down her swan-white neck|\\nAnd her two eyes, like stars in skies,\\nWould keep a sinking ship frae wreck.\\nO Mally s meek, Mally s sweet,\\nMally s modest and discreet,\\nMally s rare, Mally s fair,\\nMally s every way complete.\\nSAE FAR AWA.\\nTUKE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DALKEITH MAn)EN BRmaE.**\\nO, SAD and heavy should I part,\\nBut for her sake sae far awa\\nUnknowing what my way may thwart^\\nMy native land sae far awa.\\nThou that of a things Maker art,\\nThat form d this Fair sae far awa,\\nGie body strength, then I ll ne er start\\nAt this my way sae far awa.\\nHow true is love to pure desert,\\nSo love to her, sae far awa\\nAnd nocht can heal my bosom s smart.\\nWhile, oh she is sae far awa.\\nNane other love, nane other dart,\\nI feel but hers, sae far awa;\\nBut fairer never touch d a heart\\nThan hers, the Fair sae far awa.\\nO, STEER HER UP.\\nTOTW\u00e2\u0080\u0094 0 BTKEB HER UP, AND HAUD HER GAUW.\\nO, steer her up, and baud her gaun-\\nHer mother s at the mill, jo\\nAnd gin she winna take a man,\\nE n let her take her will, jo\\nFirst shore her wi a kindly kiss,\\nAnd ca another gill, jo.\\nAnd gin she take the thing amiss,\\nE en let her flyte her fill, jo.\\nTrickling. 2 Stir.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0448.jp2"}, "449": {"fulltext": "O, WHARE DID YE GET, ETC. 417\\nO st^er her up, and be na blate,\\nAn gin she take it ill, jo,\\nThen lea e the lassie till her fate,\\nAnd time nae longer spill, jo\\nNe er break your heart for ae rebute,\\nBut think upon it still, jo\\nThen gin the lassie winna do t,\\nYe U fin anither will, jo.\\nO, WHARE DID YE GET.\\nTUNl\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BONMB DC:NT)EE.\\nO, WHABE did ye get that hauver-meaP bannock t\\nO silly blind body, dinna ye see?\\nI gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie.\\nBetween Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.\\nO gin I saw the laddie that gae me t\\nAft has he doodled me up on his knee;\\nMay Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,\\nAnd send him safe hame to his babie and me!\\nMy blessin s upon thy sweet wee lippie,\\nMy blessin s upon thy bonnie e e brie\\nThy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,\\nThou s ay be dearer and dearer to me\\nBut I ll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,\\nWhere Tay rins wimplin by sae clear\\nAnd I ll deed- thee in the tartan sae fine,\\nAnd mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.\\nTHE F^TE CHAJyiPETKE.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 KTLLIEC RAXKIE.\\nO WHA will to Saint Stephen s house,\\nTo do our errands there, man?\\nO wha will to Saint Stephen s house,\\nO th merry lads of Ayr, man?\\nOr will we send a man-o -law?\\nOr will we send a sodger?\\nOr him wha led o er Scotland a\\nThe meikle Ursa- Major?\\n1 Oatme\u00c2\u00abL Clotht.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0449.jp2"}, "450": {"fulltext": "418 BURNS.\\nCome, will ye court a noble lord,\\nOr buy a score o lairds, man?\\nFor worth and honoiu* pawn their word,\\nTheir vote shall be Glencaird s, man?\\nAne gies them coin, ane gies them wine,\\nAnither gies them clatter\\nAnbank, wha guess d the ladies taste,\\nHe gies a Fete Champetre.\\nWhen Love and Beauty heard the news\\nThe gay green-woods amang, man\\nWhere gathering flowers and busking bowers,\\nThey heard the blackbird s sang, man\\nA vow, they seal d it with a kiss,\\nSir Politics to fetter\\nAs theirs alone, the patent-bliss,\\nTo hold a Fete Champetre.\\nThen mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing\\nO er hill and dale she flew, man\\nHk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,\\nIlk glen and shaw she knew^, man\\nShe summcn d every social sprite,\\nThat sports by wood or water.\\nOn th bonny banks of Ayr to meet,\\nAnd keep this Fete Champetre.\\nCauld Boreas, wi his boisterous crew.\\nWere bound to stakes like kye, man;\\nAnd Cynthia s car, o silver fu\\nClamb up the starry sky, man\\nReflected beams dwell in the streams,\\nOr down the current shatter\\nThe western breeze steals through the trees,\\nTo view this Fete Champetre.\\nHow many a robe sae gaily floats\\nWhat sparkliug jewels glance, man!\\nTo Harmony s enchanting notes.\\nAs moves the mazy dance, man.\\nThe echoing wood, the winding flood.\\nLike Paradise did glitter,\\nWhen angels met, at Adam s yett,*\\nTo hold their Fete Champetre.\\nA place belonging to Mr. Cunningham, and which, after thf\\nScottish custom, bestows a name on the Laird.\\na Gate.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0450.jp2"}, "451": {"fulltext": "SIMMER S A PLEASANT TIME, ETC, m\\nWhen Politics came there, to mix\\nAnd make his ether-stane, man\\nHe circled round the magic ground,\\nBut entrance found he nane, man\\nHe blush d for shame, he quat^ his name,\\nForeswore it, every letter,\\nWi humble prayer to join and share\\nThis festive Fete Champetre.\\nSIMMER S A PLEASANT TIME.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 ay WAUKIN O.\\nSimmer s a pleasant time,\\nFlow rs of ev ry colour\\nThe water rins o er the heugh,\\nAnd I lang for my true lover.\\nAy waukin O,\\nWaukin still and wearie\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinking on my dearie.\\nWhen I sleep I dream,\\nWhen I wauk I m eerie\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinking on my dearie.\\nLanely night comes on,\\nA the lave are sleeping;\\nI think on my bonnie lad,\\nAnd I bleer my een with greetin.\\nAy waukin O,\\nWaukin still and wearie\\nSleep I can get nane\\nFor thinking on my dearie.\\nITHE BLUDE-RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 to DAUNTON ME.\\nThe blude red rose at Yule may blaw,\\nThe Simmer lilies bloom in snaw.\\nThe frost may freeze the deepest sea;\\nBut an auld man shall never daunton me.\\nAdder-stone. Quit. Crag.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0451.jp2"}, "452": {"fulltext": "420 BURNS.\\nTo daunton me, and me sae young,\\nWi his fause heart and flattering tongue,\\nThat is the thing you ne er shall see\\nFor an auld man shall never daunton me.\\nFor a his meal and a his maut,\\nFor a his fresh beef and his saut,\\nFor a his gold and white monie,\\nAn auld man shall never daunton me.\\nHis gear may buy him kye and yowes,\\nHis gear may buy him glens and knowes\\nBut me he shall not buy nor fee,\\nFor an auld man shall never daunton me.\\nHe hirples twa-fauld as he dow,\\nWi his teethless gab and his auld beld pow,\\nAnd the rain rains down frae his red bleer d e e-\\nThat auld man shall never daunton me.\\nTo daunton me, and me sae young,\\nWi his fause lieart and flatt ring tongue,\\nThat is the thing you ne er shall see\\nFor an auld man shall never daunton me.\\nTHE HIGHLAND LADDIE.\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 -IP THOU LT play MR FA.1R PLAT.\\nThe bonniest lad tliat e er I saw,\\nBonnie laddie, Highland laddie,\\nWore a plaid and was fu braw,\\nBonnie Highland laddie.\\nOn his head a bonnet blue,\\nBonnie laddie, Highland laddie,\\nHis loyal heart vras firm and true,\\nBonnie Highland laddie.\\nTrumpets sound and cannons roar,\\nBonnie lassie, Lawltind lassie.\\nAnd a the hills wi echoes roar,\\nBonnie Lawland lassie.\\nGlory, Honour, now invite,\\nBonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,\\nFor freedom and my King to fight,\\nBonnie Lawland lassie.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0452.jp2"}, "453": {"fulltext": "THE COOPER O CUDDIE, ETC. 4^\\nThe sun a backward course shall take,\\nBonnie laddie, Highland laddie,\\nEre aught thy manly courage shake\\nBonnie Highland laddie.\\nGo, for yoursel procure renown,\\nBonnie laddie, Highland laddie,\\nAnd for your lawful King his crown;\\nBonnie Highland laddie I\\nTHE COOPER O CUDDIE.\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 BOB AT THE BOWSTKR.\\nThe cooper o Cuddie cam here awa,\\nAnd ca d the girrs out owre us a*\\nAnd our gude-wiie has gotten a ca\\nThat anger d the silly guid-man, O.\\nWe ll hide the cooper behind the door,\\nBehind the door, behind the door\\nWe ll hide the cooper behind the door,\\nAnd cover him under a mawn,* O.\\nHe sought them out, he sought them in,\\nWi Deil hae her and, Deil hae him\\nBut the body was sae doited and blin^\\nHe wist na where he was gaun, O.\\nThey cooper d at e en, they cooper d at morilj\\nTill our guid-man has gotten the scorn\\nOn ilka brow she s planted a horn,\\nAnd swears that they shall ^tan O.\\nWe ll hide the cooper behind the door,\\nBehind the door, behind the door;\\nWe ll hide the cooper behind the door,\\nAnd cover him under a mawn, O,\\nNITHSDALE S WELCOME HAME.\\nThe noble Maxwells and their powers\\nAre coTnincf o er the border.\\nAnd they ll gae biffi^^ Terreagie s towers,\\nAn set them a iu order.\\n1 Basket. stupifled and blind. Build.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0453.jp2"}, "454": {"fulltext": "BURNS.\\nAnd they deolare Ten-eagle s fair,\\nFor their abode they choose it;\\nThere s no a heart in a the land,\\nBut s lighter at the news o t.\\nTho stars in skies may disappear,\\nAnd angry tempests gather\\nThe happy hour may soon be near\\nThat brings us pleasant weather:\\nThe weary night o care and grief\\nMay hae a joyful morrow\\nSo dawning day has brought relief-\\nFareweel our night o sorrow 1\\nTHE TAILOR.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 the tailor FELL THRO THE B.^.D, THIMBLES AN A.\\nThe Tailor fell thro the bed, thimbles an a\\nThe Tailor fell thro the bed, thmibles an a\\nThe blankets were thin, and the sheeta they were sma)\\nThe Tailor fell thro the bed, thimbles an a\\nThe sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill,\\nThe sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;\\nThe weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,\\nShe thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.\\nGie me the gToat again, canny young man;\\nGie me the groat again, canny young man\\nThe day it is short, and the night it is lang,\\nThe dearest siller that ever I wan\\nThere s somebody weaiy wi lying her lane\\nThere s somebody weary wi lying her lane\\nThere s some that are dowie,^ I trow wad be faii^\\nTo see the bit tailor come skippin again.\\nTHE TITHER MORN.\\nThe tither morn,\\nWhen I forlorn,\\nAneath an aik sat moaning,\\nI did na trow,\\nI d see my jo,\\nBeside me, gain the gloaming.\\nWoru x\\\\itli grief.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0454.jp2"}, "455": {"fulltext": "THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 423\\nBut he sae trig\\nLap o er the rig,\\nAnd dawtingly did cheer me,\\nWhen I, Yrhat reck,\\nDid least expec\\nTo see mv lad so near me.\\nHis bonnet he,\\nA thought ajee,\\nCock d sprush when first he clasp d me:\\nAnd I, I wat,\\nWi fainness grat,\\nWhile in his grips he press d me\\nDeil tak the war\\nI, late and air,\\nHae wish d since Jock departed;\\nBut now as glad\\nI m wi my lad,\\nAs short syne broken-hearted.\\nFu aft at e en\\nWr dancing keen,\\nWhen a were blythe and merry,\\nI car d na by,\\nSae sad was I\\nIn absence o my dearie.\\nBut, praise be blest,\\nMy mind s at rest,\\nI m happy wi my Johnny:\\nAt Mrk and fair,\\nI se ay be there.\\nAnd be as canty s ony.\\nTHE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAE8.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 KELLYBURN BRAES.\\nThere lived a carle on Kellyburn braes,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonuie wi thyme),\\nAnd he had a wife was the plague o his days;\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nAe day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bomiie wi thyme),\\nHe met wi the Devil says, How do you fen?\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0455.jp2"}, "456": {"fulltext": "424 BURNS.\\n**rve got a bad wife, sir; that s a my complaint,\\n(Hey, and the nie grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nFor, saving your presence, to her ye re a saint;\\nAnd the thyme it is withered, and me is in prime.\\n**It 8 neither your stot* nor your staig- I shall crave,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nBut gie me your wdf e, man, for her I must have\\nAnd the thyme it is vdther d, and rue is in prime.\\n**0 welcome, most kindly, the blythe carle said,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme),\\nBut if ye can match her, ye re waur nor ye re ca d;*\\nAnd the thyme it is withered, and rue is in prime.\\nThe Devil has got the auld wife on his back,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nAnd, like a poor pedler, he s carried his pack;\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nHe s carried her hame to his ain hallan-door,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nSyne bade her gae in, for a b and a w\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prim\u00c2\u00ab\\nThen straight he makes fifty, the pick o his band,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme).\\nTurn out on her guard in the clap of a hand\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nThe carlin gaed thro them like ony wud bear,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bounie wi thyme),\\nWhae or she gat hands on came near her nae mair;\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prima.\\nA reeklt^ wee Devil looks over the wa\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\n^*0, help, master, help, or she ruin us a\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nThe Devil he swore by the edge o his knife,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme).\\nHe pitied the man that was tied to a wife;\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nOx. 2 Two-year old horse. Wild, Smoking.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0456.jp2"}, "457": {"fulltext": "THERE WAS A LASS. 42S\\nThe Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nHe was not in wedlock, thank heav n, but in hell\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nThen Satan has travelled again wi his pack,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nAnd to her auld husband he s carried her back\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime,\\nI hae been a Devil the feck o my life,\\n(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme),\\nBut ne er was in hell, till I met wi a wife\\nAnd the thyme it is wither d, and rue is in prime.\\nTHERE WAS A LASS.\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DUNCAN DAVISON.\\nThere was a lass, they ca d her Meg,\\nAnd she held o er the moors to spin;\\nThere was a lad that follow d her.\\nThey ca d him Duncan Davison.\\nThe moor was dreigh,^ and Meg was skeigK\\nHer favour Duncan could na win\\nFor wi the roke she wad him knock.\\nAnd ay she shook the temper-pin.\\nAs o er the moor they lightly foor,\\nA burn was clear, a glen was green,\\nUpon the banks they eased their shanks,\\nAnd ay she set the wheel between\\nBut Duncan swore a haily aith.\\nThat Meg should be a bride the morn;\\nThen Meg took up her spinnin graith,*\\nAnd flung them a out o er the bum.\\nWe ll big a house a wee, wee house.\\nAnd we will live like King and Queen,\\nSae blythe and merry we will be\\nWhen ye set by the wheel at e en.\\nA man may drink and no be drunk\\nA man may fight and no be slain\\nA man may kiss a bonnie lass,\\nAnd aye be welcome back again.\\nTedious. 3 Proud. Gear.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0457.jp2"}, "458": {"fulltext": "426 BURNS.\\nTHE PLOUGHMAN.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 up WI the ploughman.\\nThe ploughman he s a bonnie lad,\\nHis mind is ever true, jo,\\nHis garters knit below his knee,\\nHis bonnet it is blue, jo.\\nCHORUS.\\nThen up wi t a my ploughman lad,\\nAnd hey, my merry ploughman\\nOf a the trades that I do ken,\\nCommend me to the ploughman.\\nMy ploughman he comes hame at e en,\\nHe s aften wat and weary\\nCast off the wat, put on the dry,\\nAnd gae to bed, my Dearie I\\nUp wi t a c.\\nI will wash my ploughman s hose,\\nAnd I will dress his o erlay;^\\nI will mak my ploughman s bed,\\nAnd cheer him late and early.\\nUp wi t a c.\\nI hae been east, I hae been west,\\nI hae been at Saint Johnston,\\nThe bonniest sight that e er I saw\\nWas th ploughman laddie dancin%\\nUp wi t a c.\\nBnaw-white stockins on his legs,\\nAnd siller buckles glancin\\nA guid blue bannet on his head,\\nAnd O, but he was handsome.\\nUp wi t a c.\\nCommend me to the barn yard.\\nAnd the corn-mou, man\\nI never gat my coggie fou\\nTill I met wi the ploughman.\\nUp wi t a c.\\nCravat.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0458.jp2"}, "459": {"fulltext": "WEARY KV yOl\\\\ DUXCAN GRAY. 427\\nTHE CARLES OF DYSART.\\nTONE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 HEY, CA THR0\\\\\\nUp wi the carles o Dysart,\\nAnd the lads o Buckhaven,\\nAnd the kimmers* o Largo,\\nAnd the lasses o Leven.\\nHey, ca thro\\\\ ca thro\\\\\\nFor we hae mickle ado;\\nHey, ca thro*, ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado.\\nWe hae tales to tell.\\nAnd we hae sangs to sing;\\nWe hae pennies to spend,\\nAnd we hae pints to bring.\\nWe ll live a our days.\\nAnd them that come behin*.\\nLet them do the like.\\nAnd spend the gear they win.\\nHey, ca thro ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado;\\nHey, ca thro ca thro\\nFor we hae mickle ado.\\nWEARY PA YOU, DUNCAN GRAY\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 DUNCAN GRAY.\\nWeary fa you, Duncan Gray\\nHa, ha, the girdin o t\\nWae gae by you, Duncan Gray\\nHa, ha, the girdin o t 1\\nWhen a the lave gae to their play,\\nThen I maun sit the lee-lang day,\\nAnd jog the cradle wi my tae,\\nAnd a for the girdin o t.\\nBonnie was the Lammas moon-*\\nHa, ha, the girdin o tl\\nGlowrin a the hills aboon\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHa, ha, the girdin o t!\\nGossips,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0459.jp2"}, "460": {"fulltext": "428 BURNS.\\nThe girdin brak, the beast cam dowa,\\nI tint my curch, and baith my shoon;\\nAh! Dnneanj ye re an unco loon\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nWae on the bad girdin o t\\nBat, Duncan, gin ye ll keep your aith\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHa, ha, the girdin o t\\nIse bless you wi my hindmost breath\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHa, ha, the girdin o t\\nDuncan, gin ye ll keep your aith,\\nThe beast again can bear us baith.\\nAnd auld Mess John will mend the skaitb|^\\nAnd clout the bad girdin o t,\\nMY HOGGIE.\u00c2\u00bb\\nTUNB\u00e2\u0080\u0094 WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGTE DIE.\\nWhat will I do gin my Hoggie die?\\nMy joy, my pride, my Hoggie I\\nMy only beast, I had nae mae,\\nAnd vow but I was vogie\\nThe lee-lang night we watched the fauld^\\nMe and my faithfu doggie;\\nWe heard nought but the roaring linn,\\nAmang th*^ braes sae scroggie\\nBut the houlet cry d frae the castle wa*\\nThe blitter frae the boggle,\\nThe tod* reply d upon the hill,\\nI trembled for my Hoggie.\\nWhen day did daw, and cocks did craw.\\nThe morning it was foggie;\\nAn unco tyke lap o er the dyke,\\nAnd maist has kill d my Hoggie.\\nWHERE HAS YE BEEN.\\nTUNE- KILLIECRANKIE.\\nWhare hae ye been sae braw, lad?\\nWhare hae ye been sae brankie,* O?\\nO, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad?\\nCam ye by Killiecrankie, O?\\nLost the covering for the head. Damage,\\n3 The hoggie, alias pet ewe, wds Margaret Brodie, of Coxton, In\\nBaiiiTshire. The son^ was taken do-vvn by Burns from the sinking\\nof an old woman in Uddesdale.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 6iic7ia?t.\\nVain. Bushy, Fox, Dog. Gaudy,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0460.jp2"}, "461": {"fulltext": "COCK UP YOUR BEAVER, ETC. 45M\\nAn ye had been whare I hae been,\\nYe wad na been so cantie, O\\nAn ye had seen what I hae seen,\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O.\\nI fought at land, I fought at sea;\\nAt hame I fought my auntie, O;\\nBut I met the Devil an Dundee,\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O.\\nThe bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,^\\nAn Clavers got a clankie, O\\nOr I had fed an Athole gled,^\\nOn the braes o Killiecrankie, O.\\nCOCK UP YOUR BEAVER.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 COCK UP YOUB BEAVER.\\nWhen first my brave Johnnie lad\\nCame to this town,\\nHe had a blue bonnet\\nThat wanted the crown;\\nBut now he has gotten\\nA hat and a feather,\\nHey, brave Johnnie lad.\\nCock up your beaver\\nCock up your beaver,\\nAnd cock it f u sprush,\\nWe ll over the border\\nAnd gie them a brush\\nThere s somebody there\\nWe ll teach better behaviour\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHey, brave Johnnie lad,\\nCock up your beaver I\\nTHE HERON BALLADS.*\\nFIRST BALLAD.\\nWhom will you send to London town,\\nTo Parliament and a that?\\nOr wha in a the country round\\nThe best deserves to fa that?\\n1 Furrow. 2 Hawk.\\nThis is the first of several ballads which Burns wrote to serve\\nPatrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections, in which he was\\nopposed, first by Gordon, of Balmaghie, and secondly by the Hoij.\\nMont^mery Stewart.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 -4itow. Cunningham,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0461.jp2"}, "462": {"fulltext": "430 BURNS.\\nFor a that, an a that,\\nThro Galloway and a that,\\nWhere is the laird, or belted knight,\\nThat best deserves to fa that?\\nWha sees Kerroughtree s open yett,\\nAnd wha is t never saw that?\\nWha ever wi Kerronghtree met,\\nAnd has a doubt of a that\\nFor a that, an that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that;\\nThe independent patriot.\\nThe honest man, an a that.\\nTho* wit an worth in either sex,\\nSt. Mary s Isle can shaw that\\nWi dukes an lords let Selkirk mix,\\nAnd weel does Selkirk fa that.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nHere s a Heron yet for a thatl\\nThe independent commoner\\nShall be the man for a that.\\nBut why should we to nobles jouk?\\nAnd it s against the law that\\nFor why, a lord may be a gouk,\\nWi ribbon, star, an a that.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that!\\nA lord may be a lousy loun,\\nWi ribbon, star, an a that.\\nA beardless boy comes o er the hills,\\nWi uncle s purse an a that\\nBut we ll hae ane frae mang oursels,\\nA man we ken, an a that.\\nFor a that, an a that\\nHere s Heron yet for a that\\nFor we re not to be bought an sold\\nLike naigs, an nowt, an a that.\\nThen let us drink the Stewartry,\\nKerroughtree s laird, an a that,\\nOur representative to be.\\nFor weel he s worthy a that.\\nFor a that, an a that.\\nHere s Heron yet for a that 1\\nA House of Commons such as he,\\nThey would be blest that saw that.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0462.jp2"}, "463": {"fulltext": "THE ELECTION. 431\\nTHE ELECTION.\\nSECOND BALLAD.\\nPy, let us a to Kirkcudbright,\\nFor there will be bickerin there\\nFor Murray s light-horse are to muster,\\nAnd O, how the heroes will swear\\nAn there will be Murray commander,\\nAnd Gordon the battle to win\\nLike brothers they ll stand by each other,\\nSae knit in alliance an kin.\\nAn there will be black-lippit Johnnie,\\nThe tongue o the trump to them a\\nAn he gat na hell for his haddin\\nThe Deil gets na justice ava\\nAn there will be Kempleton s bu-kie,\\nA boy no sae black at the bane,\\nBut, as for his fine nabob fortune.\\nWe ll e en let the subject alane.\\nAn there will be Wigton s new sheriff,\\nDame Justice fu brawlie has sped,\\nShe s gotten the heart of a Bushby,\\nBut, Lord, what s become o the head?\\nAn there will be Cardoness, Esquire,\\nSae mighty in Cardoness eyes\\nA wight that will weather damnation,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nFor the Devil the prey will despise.\\nAn there will be Douglasses doughty,\\nNew christ ning towns far and nearl\\nAbjuring their democrat doings.\\nBy kissing the o a peer\\nAn there will be Kenmure sae gen rous,\\nWhose honour is proof to the storm;\u00e2\u0080\u0094*\\nTo save them from stark reprobation,\\nHe lent them his name to the firm.\\nBut we wdnna mention Redcastle,\\nThe body, e en let him escape\\nHe d venture the gallows for siller,\\nAn twere na the cost o the rape.\\nAnd where is om* King s lord lieutenant,\\nSae fam d for his gratefu return?\\nThe billie is gettin his questions.\\nTo say in St. Stephen s the morn.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0463.jp2"}, "464": {"fulltext": "432 BURNS.\\nAn there will be lads o the gospel,\\nMuirhead, wha s as gude as he s true\\nAn there will be Buittle s apostle,\\nWha s more o the black than the blue v\\nAn there will be folk from St. Mary s,\\nA house o great merit and note,\\nThe Deil ane but honours them highly,\\nThe Deil ane will give them his vote\\nAn there will be wealthy young Richard,\\nDame Fortune should hing by the neck;\\nFor prodigal, thriftless, bestowing.\\nHis merit had won him respec\\nAn there will be rich brother nabobs,\\nThough nabobs, yet men of the first,\\nAn there will be Collieston s whiskers,\\nAn Quintin, o lads not the worst.\\nAn there will be stamp-office Johnnie,\\nTak tent how ye purchase a dram;\\nAn there will be gay Cassencarrie,\\nAn there will be gleg Colonel Tam;\\nAn there will be trusty Kerroughtree,\\nWhose honour was ever his law\\nIf the virtues were pack d in a parcel,\\nHis worth might be sample for a\\\\\\nAn can we forget the auld major,\\nWha ll ne er be forgot in the Greys\\nOur flatt ry we ll keep for some other,\\nHim only tis justice to praise.\\nAn there will be maiden Kilkerran,\\nAnd also Barskimming s gude knight.\\nAn there will be roarin Birtwhistle,\\nWha, luckily, roars in the right.\\nAn there, frae the Mddesdale s border,\\nWill mingle the Maxwells in droves\\nTeugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an Walio,\\nThat griens^ for the fishes an loaves;\\nAn there will be Logan Mac Douall,\\nSculdudd ry an he will be there,\\nAn also the wild Scot o Galloway,\\nSodgerin gunpowder Blair.\\nThen hey the chaste interest o Broughtoik,\\nAn hey for the blessings twill bring!\\nIt may send Balmaghie to the Commons,\\nIn Sodom twould make hin^ a King;\\n1 Longs.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0464.jp2"}, "465": {"fulltext": "AN EXCELLENT NEW SQNG. 433\\nAn hey for the sanctified Murray,\\nOur land who wi chapels has stor d;\\nHe founder d his horse among harlots,\\nBut gied the auld ualg to the Lord,\\nAN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.\\nTHIRD BALLAD.\\nWha will buy my troggin,*\\nPine election ware\\nBroken trade o Broughtoa,\\nA* in high repair?\\nBuy braw troggin,\\nFrae the banks o Dee;\\nWha wants troggin\\nLet him come to me.\\nThere^s a noble Earl s\\nFame and high renown,\\nPer an auld sang\\nIt s thought the gudes were stoww\\nBuy braw troggin, c.\\nHere^s the worth o* Brcughton\\nIn a needle s e e\\nHere s a reputation\\nTint by Balmaghie.\\nBuy braw troggin, c.\\nHere s an honest conscience\\nMight a prince adorn\\nFrae the downs o Tinwald\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nSae was never worn.\\nBuy braw troggin, c.\\nHere s the stuff and lining,\\nO Cardoness head;\\nFine for a sodger,\\nA the wale o lead.\\nBuy braw troggin, c.\\n^Vxv^ h is the merchaiiiclise of a traTelliug hawlcatv", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0465.jp2"}, "466": {"fulltext": "434 BURIES.\\nHere s a little wadset,\\nBuittle s scrap o truth,\\nPawn d in a gin-shop,\\nQuenching holy drouth.\\nBuy braw troggin, fea.\\nHere s armorial bearings\\nFrae the manse o Urr;\\nThe crest, an auld crab-apple\\nRotten at the core.\\nBuy braw troggin, c*\\nHere is Satan^s picture,\\nLike a bizzard gled,\\nPouncing poor Redcastle\\nSprawlin as a taed.\\nBuy braw troggin, 0.\\nHere s the worth and wisdom\\nCoUieston can boast;\\nBy a thievish midge\\nThey had been nearly lost.\\nBuy braw troggin, a\\nHere is Murray s fragments\\nO the ten commands;\\nGifted by black Jock\\nTo get them aff his hands.\\nBuy braw troggin, c*\\nSaw ye e er sic troggin?\\nIf to buy ye re slack,\\nHornie s turuin chapman,\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nHe ll buy a the pack.\\nBuy braw troggin, Ac\\nYE SONS OF OLD KILLEB.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094 SHAWNBOY.\\nYe sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,\\nTo follow the noble vocation\\nTour tiirif ty old mother has scarce such another\\nTo sit in that honoured station.\\nThe aUusion is to Di^. Muirtiead, Minister of Urr. Hawk", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0466.jp2"}, "467": {"fulltext": "YE J A CO BITES B Y NAME. 43S\\nPre little to say, but only co pray,\\nAs praying s the ton of your fashion;\\nA prayer from the Muse 3 ou may well excuse,\\nTis seldom her favourite passion.\\nYe powers who preside o^er the wind and the tide,\\nWlio marked each element s border\\nWho formed this frame with beneficent aim,\\nWhose sovereign statute is order\\nWithin this dear mansion may wayward contentiOD\\nOr withered envy ne er enter;\\nMay secrecy round be the mystical bound,\\nAnd brotherly love be the centre I\\nYE JACOBITES BY NAME.*\\nTUNB-- YE JACOBITES BY NAME.\\nTb Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear;\\nYe Jacobites by name, give an ear;\\nYe Jacobites by name.\\nYour fautes I will proclaim,\\nYour doctrines I maun blame\\nYou shall hear.\\nWhat is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the lawl\\nWhat is right and what is wrang by the law?\\nWhat is right and what is wrang?\\nA short sword and a lang,\\nA weak arm, and a Strang\\nFor to draw.\\nWhat makes heroic strife, fam d afar, fam d afar?\\nWhat makes heroic strife fam d afar?\\nWhat makes heroic strife?\\nTo whet th assassin s knife,\\nOr hunt a parent s life\\nWi bluidie war.\\nBurns founded this son^ on some old verses^ in which it was intl*\\nmated that the extinction of the House of Stuart was sought for by\\nother weapons than the sword. It cannot be denied that if the\\nHouse of Hanover had the affection of the people and the la^v of the\\nland on their side, the exiled princes had the best poetry. This may\\nbe accounted for. The romantic adventures and daring exploits\\nand deep suSei-ings of Prince Charles enUsted sympathy on his side*\\nand the minstrels, regarding his fate and that of his brave com-\\npanions as furnishing matter for poetry only, sung with a pathos\\n\u00c2\u00bbiidfo:ce which will likely be long remembered.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 -A, C.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0467.jp2"}, "468": {"fulltext": "im BURNS.\\nThen let your schemes alone, in the state, in the sttto;\\nThen let your schemes alone in the state\\nThen let vour schemes alone,\\nAdore the rising sun,\\nAnd leave a man undone\\nTo his fate.\\nSONG-^AH, CHL0RI8.\\nTUNE\u00e2\u0080\u0094** MAJOR GRAHAM.*^\\nAh, Chloris, since it ma na be,\\nThat thou of love wilt hear;\\nIf from the lover thou maun flec^\\nYet let the friend be dear.\\nAltho I love my Chloris mair\\nThan ever tongue could tell;\\nMy passion I will ne er declare,\\nI ll say I ll wish thee well:\\nTlio a my daily care thou art,\\nAnd a my nightly dream,\\nI ll hide the struojgle in my hearty\\nAnd say it is esteem.\\nEXTEMPORE ANSWER TO AN INVITATION.\\nThe King s most humble servant I,\\nCan scarcely spare a minute\\nBut ril be wi ye by an bye\\nOr else the DeiPs be in it.\\nMy bottle is my holy pool,\\nThat heals the woimds o care an dool;\\nAnd pleasure is a wanton trout,\\nAn ye drink it, ye ll find him out.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0468.jp2"}, "469": {"fulltext": "THE COLLIER LADDIE. 437\\nKATHARINE JAFFRAY.\\nThere liv d a lass in yonder dale.\\nAnd down in yonder glen, O,\\nAnd Katharine Jaffray was her name,\\nWeel known to many men, O.\\nOut came the lord of Lauderdale,\\nOut frae the south countrie, O,\\nAD for to court this pretty maid.\\nHer bridegroom for to be, O.\\nHe s tell d her father and mother baith,\\nAs I hear sin dry say, O,\\nBut he has na tell d the lass hersel,\\nTill on her wedding day, O.\\nThen cam the Laird o Lochinton,\\nOut frae the English border,\\nAll for to court this pretty maid,\\nAll mounted in good order.\\nTHE COLLIER LADDIE.\\nO WHARE live ye, my bonnie lass,\\nAnd tell me how they ca ye?\\nMy name she says, is Mistress Jean,\\nAnd I follow my Collier laddie.\\nsee ye not yon hills and dales,\\nThe sun shines on sae brawlie\\nThey a are mine, and they shall be thiuQ\u00c2\u00ab\\nGin yell leave yoiu- Collier laddie.\\nAnd ye shall gang in rich attire,\\nWeel buskit up fu gaudy\\nAnd ane to wait at every hand,\\nGin ye ll leave your Collier laddie.\\nTMo ye had a the sun shines on,\\nAnd the earth conceals sae lowly;\\n1 would turn my back on you and it a\\\\\\nAnd embrace my Collier laddie.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0469.jp2"}, "470": {"fulltext": "438 BUKiVS,\\n1 cap win my five pennies in a day,\\nAnd spend it at night fu bra w lie;\\nI can mak my bed in the Collier s neuk,\\nAnd lie down wi my Collier laddie.\\nLuve for liive is the bargain for me,\\nTho the wee cot-house should haud me 5\\nAnd the warld before me to win my bread.\\nAnd fare fa ray Collier laddie.\\nWHEN I THINK ON THOSE HAPPY DAYS.\\nWhen I think on the happy days\\nI spent wi you, my dearie;\\nAnd now what lands between us lie,\\nHow can I be but eerie\\nHow slow ye move, ye heavy hours,\\nAs ye were wae and weary 1\\nIt was na sae ye glinted by,\\nWhen I was wi my dearie.\\nEPPIE M^NAB.\\nSAW ye my dearie; my Eppie M*Nab?\\nO saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M Nab?\\nShe s down in the yard, slie s kissin the laird\\nBhe winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab.\\nO come thy ways to me, my Eppie M Nab!\\nO come thy ways to me, my Eppie M Nab I\\nWhatever thou hast done, be it late, be it soon\\nThou s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab\\nWhat says she, my dearie, my Eppie M^Nab?\\nWhat says she, my dearie, my Eppie M*Nai 9\\nShe lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot,\\nAnd forever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab.\\nO had I ne er seen thee, my Eppie M*Nab!\\nO had I ne er seen thee, my Eppie M Nab 1\\nAs light as the air, and fause as thou s fair.\\nTliou s broken the heart o thy ain Jock Rab.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0470.jp2"}, "471": {"fulltext": "AN 0/ MY EPPIE, 439\\nTO CHLORIS.*\\nBehold, my love, how green the groT6%\\nThe primrose banks how fair;\\nThe balmy gales awake the flow rs,\\nAnd wave thy flaxen hair.\\nThe lav rock shuns the palace gay,\\nAnd o er the cottage sings\\nFor Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,\\nTo shepherds as to Kings.\\nLet minstrels sweep the skilfu string,\\nIn lordly lighted ha\\nThe shepherd stops his simple reed\\nBlythe in the birken shaw.\\nThe princely revel may survey\\nOur rustic dance wi scorn\\nBut are their hearts as light as ours,\\nBeneath the milk white thorn?\\nThe shepherd, in the flowery glen,\\nIn shepherd s phrase will woo\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2Rie courtier tells a finer tale,\\nBut is his heart as true?\\nThese wild wood flow rs I ve pu d to deck\\nThat spotless breast o thine\\nThe courtier s gems may witness love.\\nBut tis na love like mine.\\nAN O! MY EPPIB.\\nAn O my Eppie,\\nMy jewel, my Eppie I\\nWha wadna be happy\\nWi Eppie Adair?\\nBy love, and by beauty,\\nBy law, and by duty,\\nI swear to be true to\\nMy Eppie Adair I\\nOn my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, she suggested an\\nklea which I, on my return from my visit, wrought into the following:\\n\u00e2\u0096\u00a0ong. How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of thit\\npastoral R. B., xVm-., 1794.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0471.jp2"}, "472": {"fulltext": "44fi\u00c2\u00bb BURNS.\\nAn O my Eppie,\\nMy jewel, my Eppie I\\nWha wadna be happy\\nWi Eppie Adair?\\nA pleasure exile me,\\nDishonour defile me,\\nIf e er I beguile thee,\\nMy Eppie Adair 1\\nGUDE EN TO YOU, KIMMEa\\nGude en to you, Kiramer,\\nAnd how d ye do?\\nHiccup, quo Kimmer,\\nThe better that I m fou.\\nWe re a noddin, nid, ni(% noddin,\\nWe re a noddin at our hoii-^e at hamii\\nKate sits i the neuk,\\nSuppin hen broo;\\nDeil tak Kate\\nAn she be na noddin too!\\nWe re a noddin, c.\\nHow s a wi you, Kimmer,\\nAnd how do ye fare?\\nA pint o the best o t,\\nAnd twa pints mair.\\nWe re a noddin, c.\\nHow s a wi you, Kimmer,\\nAnd how do ye thrive\\nHow mony bairns hae ye?\\nQuo Kimmer, I hae five.\\nWe re a noddin, c.\\nAre they a Johnny s?\\nEh atweel na\\nTwM o them were gotten\\nWhen Johnny was awa.\\nWe re a noddin, c.\\nCats like milk,\\nAnd dogs like broo;\\nLads like lasses weel,\\nAnd lasses lads too.\\nWe re a noddin, fcc\\n1 Broth", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0472.jp2"}, "473": {"fulltext": "O THAT I HAD NE ER BEEN- MARRIED. 4\\nO WAT YE WHA THAT LO*EB ME.\\nTUNK\u00e2\u0080\u0094 MORAG.\\nWAT ye wha that lo es me,\\nAnd has my heart a-keeping?\\nsweet is she that lo es me,\\nAs dews o smnmer weeping,\\nIn tears the rose-buds steeping:\\nO that s the lassie o my heart,\\nMy lassie, ever dearer;\\nO that s the queen o woman-kind.\\nAnd ne er a ane to peer her.\\nK thou shalt meet a lassie,\\nIn grace and beauty charming;\\nThat e en thy chosen lassie,\\nErewhile thy breast sae warming^\\nHad ne er sic powers alarming:\\nO that s the lassie, c.\\nIf thou hast heard her talking,\\nAnd thy attention s plighted,\\nThat ilka body talking,\\nBut her, by thee is slighted.\\nAnd thou art all delighted:\\nO that s the lassie, c.\\nIf thou hast met this fair one,\\nV/hen frae her tliou hast parted,\\nIf every other fair one,\\nBut her, thou hast deserted,\\nAnd thou art broken-hearted;\\nO that s the lassie, c.\\nO THAT I HAD NE ER BEEN l^IARRIED.\\nO THAT I had ne er been married,\\nI wad never had nae care\\nNow I ve gotten wife and bairns,\\nAn they cry crowdie^ ever mair.\\nAnce crow die, twice crowdie,\\nThree times crowdie in a day;\\nGin ye crowdie ony mair,\\nYe ll crowdie a my meal awaj,\\nOatmeal, water, and butter.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0473.jp2"}, "474": {"fulltext": "442 BURNS,\\nWaefu want and hunger fley* me,\\nGlowerin by the hallo n en\\nSair I fechf^ them at the door,\\nBut ay I m eerie they come ben.\\nAnce crowdie, c.\\nTHERE S NEWS, LASSES.\\nThere s news, lasses, news,\\nGude news I have to tell.\\nThere s a boat fu o lads\\nCome to our town to sell.\\nThe wean wants a cradle,\\nAnd the cradle wants a cod,^\\nAn I ll no gang to my bed\\nUntil I get a nod.\\nFather, quo she, Mither, quo she,\\nDo what you can,\\nI ll nae gang to my bed\\nTill I get a man.\\nThe wean, c.\\nI hae as gude a craft rig\\nAs made o yird and stane;\\nAnd waly fa the ley-crap.\\nFor I maun till t again.\\nThe wean, c.\\nSCROGGAM.\\nThere was a wife wonn d in Coekpen^\\nScroggam\\nShe brew d guid ale for gentlemen,\\nSing auld Cowl, iay you down by me,\\nScroggam, my dearie, ruffum.\\nThe gudewife s dochter fell in a fever,\\nScroggam\\nThe p. lest o the parish fell in anither;\\nSing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,\\nScroggam, my dearie, ruffum.\\nScare. 2 Fought. s Pillow.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0474.jp2"}, "475": {"fulltext": "FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE, ETC. 443\\nThey laid the twa i the bed thegither,\\nScroggam\\nThat the heat o the tane might cool the tither;\\nSing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,\\nScroggam, my dearie, niffum.\\nFRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVB.*\\nFrae the friends and land I love.\\nDriven by Fortune s felly spite,\\nFrae my best belov d I rove,\\nNever mair to taste delight\\nNever mair maun hope to find\\nEase frae toil, relief frae care\\nWhen remembrance wracks the mind,\\nPleasures but unveil despair.\\nBrightest climes shall mirk appear,\\nDesert ilka blooming shore.\\nTill the Fates, nae mair severe.\\nFriendship, love, and peace restore\\nTill Revenge, wi laureled head\\nBring our banished hame again\\nAnd ilk loyal, bonnie lad\\nCross the sea^ and win his ain.\\nTHE TEARS I SHED.\\nThe tears I shed must ever fall\\nI mourn not for an absent swain,\\nFor thought may past delights recall,\\nAnd parted lovers meet again.\\nI weep not for the silent dead,\\nTheir toils are pass d, their sorrows o er,\\nAnd those they lov d their steps shall tread,\\nAnd death shall join to part no more.\\nBums, in his notes on the Musical Museum, says of this song.\\n*I added the last four lines by way of giving a turn to the theme oi\\nthe poem, such as it is. It has been suggested by his editors, that\\nBums mended his song as the Highlander mended his gun, by giv-\\ning to it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel.\\nRelentless.\\nThe first four lines of the last stanza were added by Bums; the\\niong being the composition of Miss Cranstoun, aftervvards the wif\u00c2\u00bb\\nof 0ugald Stewart.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0475.jp2"}, "476": {"fulltext": "444 BURNS.\\nTho boundless oceans roll d between,\\nIf certain that his heart is near,\\nA conscious transport glads each scene,\\nSoft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.\\nE en when by Death s cold hand removed,\\nWe moiu n the tenant of the tomb,\\nTo think that even in death he lov d.\\nCan gild the horrors of the gloom.\\nBut bitter, bitter are the tears\\nOf her who slighted love bewails;\\nNo hope her dreary prospect cheers.\\nNo pleasing melancholy hails.\\nHers are the pangs of wounded pride,\\nOf blasted hope, of withered joy:\\nThe prop, she iean d on, pierc d her side\\nThe flame, she fed, burns to destroy.\\nIn vain does memory renew,\\nThe hours once ting d in transport s dye;\\nThe sad reverse soon starts to view,\\nAnd turns the thought to agony.\\nEven conscious virtue cannot cure\\nThe pangs to every feeling due\\nUngenerous youth thy boast how poor,\\nTo steal a heart, and break it too 1\\nNo cold approach, no alter d mien,\\nJust what would make suspicion start;\\nNo pause the dire extremes between.\\nHe made me blest and broke my heart I\\nFrom hope, the wretched s anchor, torn,\\nNeglected, and neglecting all.\\nFriendless, forsaken, and forlorn.\\nThe tears I shed must ever fall,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0476.jp2"}, "477": {"fulltext": "THE TWA HERDS 4l6\\nTHE TWA HERDS.\\nBlockheads with reason wicked wits abhor.\\nBut Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 Powi*\\nO a ye pious godly flocks,\\nWeel fed in pastures orthodox,\\nWha now will keep you frae Iphe fox,\\nOr worrying tykes\\nOr wha will tent the waifs and crocka,*\\nAbout the dykes?\\nThe twa best herds in a the wast.\\nThat e er gae gospel horn a blast,\\nThese five and twenty simmers past,\\nO, dool to tell!\\nHae had a bitter black out-cast\\nAtween themsel.\\nO, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,\\nHow could you raise so vile a bustle,\\nYe ll see how New-light herds will whistle^\\nAnd think it fine\\nThe Lord s cause ne er gat sic a twistle,\\nSin I ha e min\\nO, Sirs I whae er wad hae expeckit,\\nYour duty ye wad sae negleckit,\\nYe wha were ne er by lairds respeckit,\\nTo wear the plaid,\\nBut by the brutes themselves eleckit\\nTo be their guide.\\nWhat flock wi Hoodie s flock could rank,\\nSae hale and hearty every shank,\\nNae poison d sour Arminian stank\\nHe let them taste\\nFrae Calvin s well, aye clear, they drank,\\n0 sic a feast\\nTh\u00c2\u00a9 Twa Herds were the minister of Riccartoii, and the\\nMsistant-minister of Kilmarnock, whose controversial afiimosity\\nburst out in blows during: a walk home after a Sacrament sermoo.\\nBums recorded the feat of arms in a burlesque lanaentation,\\nwhich, as he informs us, with a certain description of the clergy, aa\\nwell as laity, met with a roar of applause. Burns gave a copy to a\\nfriend, and professed ignorance of the writer.\\nDogs. Stray sheep and old ewes.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0477.jp2"}, "478": {"fulltext": "146 BURIyTS.\\nThe thiimmart, wil -cat, brock, and tod,*\\nWeel kend his voice thro a the wood,\\nHe smelPd their ilka hole and road,\\nBaith out and in,\\nAnd weel he lik d to shed their bluid,\\nAnd sell their skin.\\nWhat herd like Russell tell d his tale,\\nHis voice was heard thro muir and dait^\\nHe kend the Lord s sheep, ilka tail.\\nO er a the height.\\nAnd saw gin they were sick or halo,\\nAt the first sight.\\nHe fine a mangy sheep could scrub,\\nOr nobly fling the gospel club.\\nAnd New-light herds, could nicely drub,\\nOr pay their skin;\\nCould shake them owre the burning dub,*\\nOr heave them in.\\nSic twa O do I live to see t,\\nSic famous twa should disagreet.\\nAn names, like villain, hypocrite,^\\nIlk ither gi en,\\nWhile New-light herds wi laughin spitt^\\nSay neither s lienP\\nA ye wha tent the gospel fauld,\\nThere s Duncan deep, and Peebles shaul,*\\nBut chiefly thou, apostle Auld,\\nWe trust in thee,\\nThat thou wilt work them, het and cauld^\\nTill they agree.\\nConsider, Sirs, how we re beset\\nThere s scarce a new herd that we get,\\nBut comes frae mang that cursed seu\\nI winna name\\nI hope frae Heaven to see them yet\\nIn fiery flame.\\nFK^a-cat Badger aud fox. Pond. Shallow.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0478.jp2"}, "479": {"fulltext": "THE TWA HERDS. 44t\\nDalrymple has been lang our fae,\\nM Gill nas wrought us meikle wae,\\nA.nd that curs d rascal ca d M^Quhae,\\nAnd baith the Shaws,\\nThat aft hae made us black and blae,\\nWi vengefu paws.\\nAuld Wodrow lang has hatched mischief,\\nWe thought aye death wad bring relief,\\nBut he has gotten, to our grief,\\nAne to succeed him,\\nk. chiel wha ll soundly buff our beef;\\nI meikle dread him.\\nAind monie a ane that I could tell,\\nVV ha fain wad openly rebel,\\nPorbye turn-coats amang oursel,\\nThere s Smith for ane,\\nt doubt he s but a grey-nick quill,*\\nAnd that ye ll fin\\\\\\nO a ye flocks, ower a ye hills,\\nBy mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,\\nCome join your coimsels and your skills,\\nTo cowe the lairds,\\nAnd get the brutes the power themsels\\nTo choose their herds.\\nThen Orthodoxy yet may prance,\\nAnd Learning in a woody dance.\\nAnd that fell cur ca d Common Sense,\\nThat bites sae sair.\\nBe banish d owre the seas to France;\\nLet him bark there.\\nThen Shaw s and D rymple s eloquence,\\nM^Gill s close nervous excellence,\\nM^Quhae s pathetic manly sense.\\nAnd guid M*Math,\\nWi* Smith, wha thro* the heart can glance,\\nMay a pack aff.\\nGiv\u00c2\u00ab US a severe beAtinic Unfit for a p\u00c2\u00abii.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0479.jp2"}, "480": {"fulltext": "448 BURNS,\\nHOLY WILLIE S PRAYER.*\\nThou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,\\nWha, as it pleases best thyseP,\\nSends ane to Heaven, and ten to Hell,\\nA for thy glory,\\nAnd no for onie guid or ill\\nThey ve done efore thee.\\n1 bless and praise thy matchless might,\\nWhan thousands thou hast left in night,\\nThat I am here afore thy sight,\\nFor gifts an grace,\\nA burning an a shining light,\\nTo a this place.\\nWhat was I, or my generation,\\nThat I should get such exaltation?\\nI, wha deserve such just damnation,\\nFor broken laws,\\nFive thousand years fore my creation,\\nThro Adam s cause.\\nWhen frae my mither s womb I fell,\\nThou might hae plung d me into Hell,\\nTo gnash my gums, to weep and wail,\\nIn burnin lake,\\nWhere damned Devils roar and yell,\\nChain d to a stake.\\nYet I am here a chosen sample,\\nTo show thy grace is great and ample\\nI m here a pillar in thy temple.\\nStrong as a rock,\\nA guide, a buckler, an example\\nTo a thy flock.\\nO L d, thou kens what zeal I bear.\\nWhen drinkers drink, and swearers swear,\\nSir Walter Scott regarded Holy Willie s Prayer as a piece of\\nsatire more exquisitely severe than any which Bums afterwards\\nwrote. The Poet assures us that it alarmed the Kirk-Session so\\nmuch, that they had several meetings to look over their spiritual\\nartillery. The hero of the poem v. as a farmer, William Fisher,\\nnear Mauchline, said to be very phansaic \u00c2\u00ab,nd hypocritical; one of\\nthat class of professors whom Sterue described as making every\\nstride look hke a check on their desires. Fisher was an elder in the\\nkirk, and had offended Burns by his persecution of Mr. Hamilton,\\nwho thoughtlessly set a beggar to work in his garden on a Sunday\\nmorning, and was excommunicated m. consequence.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0480.jp2"}, "481": {"fulltext": "HOLY WILLIE S PRAYER. 449\\nAnd singin there, and dancing here,\\nWi great an sma\\nFor I am keepit by thy fear,\\nFree frae them a\\nBut yet, O L d confess I must,\\nAt times I m fash d wi fleshly lust,\\nAn sometimes, too, wi warldly trust,\\nVile self gets in\\nBut thou remembers we are dust,\\nDefil d in sin.\\nO L d yestreen, thou kens, wi Meg\\nThy pardon I sincerely beg,\\nO may it ne er be a livin plague\\nTo my dishonour\\nAn I ll ne er lift a lawless leg.\\nAgain upon her.\\nEfesides I farther maun allow,\\nWi Lizzie s lass, three times I trow\\nBut, L d, that Friday I was fou,\\nWhen I came near her,\\nOr else thou kens thy servant true\\nWad ne er hae steer d her.\\nMay be thou lets this fleshly thorn\\nBeset thy servant e en and morn.\\nLest he owre high and proud should tum^\\nCause he s sae gifted;\\nK sae, thy hand maun e en be borne,\\nUntil thou lift it.\\nL d, bless thy chosen in this place.\\nFor here thou hast a chosen race;\\nBut G d confound their stubborn fact,\\nAnd blast their name,\\nWha bring thy elders to disgrace.\\nAn public shame.\\nL\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d, mind Gawn Hamilton s deserts,\\nHe drinks, an swears, an plays at carter,\\nYet has sae monie takin arts,\\nWi great an sma\\nFrae God s ain priests the people s hearti\\nHe steals awa", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0481.jp2"}, "482": {"fulltext": "450 BURNS.\\nAn whan we chasten d him therefore,\\nThou kens how he bred sic a splore,*\\nAs set the warld in a roar\\nO laughin at us;\\nCurse thou his basket and his store,\\nKail and potatoes.\\nL\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d, hear my earnest cry an pray r,\\nAgainst that presbyt ry o Ayr\\nThy strong right hand, L\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d, make it bare,\\nUpo their heads\\nL\u00e2\u0080\u0094 d, weigh it down, and dinna spare.\\nFor then- misdeeds.\\nO L d my G d, that glib-tongu d Aiken,\\nMy very heart and saul are quakin,\\nTo think how we stood sweatin, shakin,\\nAn swat wi dread,\\nWhile he wi hingin lips gaed snakin,\\nAnd hid his head.\\nL d, in the day of vengeance try him:\\nL d, visit them wha did employ him,\\nAnd pass not in thy mercy by em,\\nNor hear their pray r\\nBut, for thy people s sake, destroy em,\\nAnd dinna spare.\\nBut, L d, remember me and mine\\nWi mercies temp ral and divine,\\nThat I for gear and grace may shine,\\nExcell d by nane,\\nAn a the glory shall be thine,\\nAmen, Amen.\\nEPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.\\nHebe Holy Willie s sair worn clay\\nTaks up its last abode\\nHis saul has taen some other way,\\nI fear the left-hand road.\\nRiot.\\nAgainst some passages it has been objected that the/ breathe\\nspirit of irreligion. But if we consider the ignorance ana fanatioism\\nor the lower class of people when these poems were written, a fanat-\\nicism of that pernicious sort which sets faith in opposition to\\ngood works, the fallacy and danger of which a mind so enlightened\\nas our poet s could not but perceive, we shall not look upon l]di\\nlig:hter Muse as the enemv of religion, though she has sometimes\\nbeen a httle unguarded in her ridicule of hypocrisy.\u00e2\u0080\u0094 if. Mackenwi^\\n\u00e2\u0080\u0094(The Lounger, No. 97.)", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0482.jp2"}, "483": {"fulltext": "ON SCARING SOME WA TER FOWL. 451\\nStop I there he is, as sure s a gun,\\nPoor silly body, see him\\nNae wonder he s as black s the gnin.\\nObserve wha s standing wi him.\\nYour brunstane devilship, I see,\\nHas got him there before ye\\nBut haud your nine-tail cat a-wee,\\nTill ance you ve heard my story.\\nYour pity I will not implore,\\nFor pity ye hae nane\\nJustice, alas has gien him o er,\\nAnd mercy s day is gane.\\nBut hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,\\nLook something to your credit;\\nA coof like him wad stain your name,\\nIf it were kent ye did it.\\nON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL IN LOCa\\nTURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG TKB HILLb\\nOF OCHTERTYRE.\\nWhy, ye tenants of the lake,\\nFor me your wat ry haunt forsake?\\nTell me, fellow-creatures, why\\nAt my presence thus you fly?\\nWhy disturb your social joys,\\nParent, filial, kindred ties?\\nConmion friend to you and me,\\nNature s gifts to all are free\\nPeaceful keep your dimpling wave,\\nBusy feed, or wanton lave\\nOr, beneath the sheltering rock.\\nBide the surging billow s shock.\\nConscious, blushing for our race,\\nSoon, too soon, your fears I trace\\nMan, your proud, usurping foe,\\nWould be lord of all below\\nPlumes himself in Freedom s prid^\\nTyrant stern to all beside.\\nThe eagle, from the cliffy brow,\\nMarking you his prey below,\\nIn his breast no pity dwells,\\nStrong Necessity compels.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0483.jp2"}, "484": {"fulltext": "452 BURNS.\\nBut Man, to whom alone is giv n\\nA ray direct from pitying Heav n,\\nGlories in his heart humane\\nAnd creatures for his pleasure slain.\\nIn these savage, liquid plains,\\nOnly known to wandering swains,\\nWhere the mossy riv let strays,\\nFar from human haunts and ways,\\nAll on Nature you depend,\\nAnd life s poor season peaceful spend\\nOr, if man s superior might\\nDare invade your native right.\\nOn the lofty ether borne,\\nMan with all his pow rs you scorn;\\nSwiftly seek, on clanging wings,\\nOther lakes and other springs;\\nAnd the foe you cannot brave,\\nScorn at least to be his slave.\\nLINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY S\\nPOCKET-BOOK.\\nGrant me, ind\u00c2\u00ablgent Heav n, that I may live,\\nTo see the miscreants feel the pains they give;\\nDeal Freedom s sacred treasures free as air,\\nTill slave and despot be but things which were.\\nEPIGRAM.\\nOne Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,\\nWhen depriv d of her husband she loved so well,\\nIn respect for the love and affection he d shown her,\\nShe reduc d him to dust, and she drank up the powder\\nBut Queen Netherplace, of a diff rent complexion,\\nWhen call d on to order the fun ral direction,\\nWould have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,\\nNot to shoY7 her respect, but to save the expense.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0484.jp2"}, "485": {"fulltext": "A TOAST, ETC, 453\\nANOTHER/\\nWhoe er he be that sojourns here,\\nI pity much his case,\\nUnless he come to wait upon\\nThe Lord their God, his Grace.\\nThere s naething here but Highland pride,\\nAnd Highland scab and hunger\\nIf Providence has sent me here,\\nTwas surely in an anger.\\nA TOAST.\\nInstead of a Song, boys, I ll give you a Toast.\\nHere s the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost\\nThat we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav n, that ^e found;\\nFor their fame it shall last while the world goes round.\\nThe next in succession, I ll give you the King,\\nWhoe er would betray him, on high may he swing I\\nAnd here s the gi and fabric, our free Constitution,\\nAs built on the base of the great Revolution.\\nAnd longer with Politics, not to be cramm d,\\nBe Anarchy curs d, and be Tyranny d d\\nAnd who would to Liberty e er prove disloyal,\\nMay his son be a hangman, and he his first triall\\nVERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE.\\nI AM a keeper of the law\\nIn some sma points, although not a\\nSome people tell me gin I fa\\nAe way or ither.\\nThe breaking of ae point, tho sma\\nBreaks a thegither.\\nI hae been in for t ance or twice.\\nAnd winna say owre far for thrice,\\nWritten at Inverary, The Duke of Argyll.\\nGiven on occasion of the celebration of the naval victory, April It,\\n1782.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0485.jp2"}, "486": {"fulltext": "454 BURN3,\\nYet never met with that surprise\\nThat broke my rest,\\nBut now a rumom- s like to rise,\\nA whaup s i the nest.\\nON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OP\\nLORD GALLOWAY.\\nWhat dost thou in that mansion fair?\\nFlit, Galloway, and find\\nSome narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,\\nThe picture of thy mind\\nON THE SAME.\\nNo Stewart art thou, Galloway,\\nThe Stewarts all were brave\\nBesides, the Stewarts were but fools,\\nNot one of them a knave.\\nON THE SAME.^\\nBright ran thy line, O Galloway,\\nThro many a f ar-fam d sire\\nSo ran the far-fam d Roman way,\\nSo ended in a mire\\nTO THE SAME.\\nON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED AVITH HIS RBSBKIV\\nMENT.\\nSpare me thy vengeance, Galloway,\\nIn quiet let me live\\nI ask no kindness at thy hand.\\nFor thou hast none to give.\\n1 These were some of the satirical fruits of the Heron contest.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0486.jp2"}, "487": {"fulltext": "EXTEMPORANEOUS E FPU SI ON. 455\\nVERSES TO J. RANKINE.\\nAe day, as Death, that grusome carl,\\nWas drivin to the tither warP\\nA mixtie-maxtie^ motley squad,\\nAnd monie a guilt-bespotted lad\\nBlack gowns of each denomination,\\nAnd thieves of every rank and station,\\nFrom him that wears the star and garter,\\nTo him that wintles^ in a halter\\nAsham d himsel to see the v^etches.\\nHe mutters, glowrin at the b s,\\nBy G I ll not be seen behint them,\\nNor mang the spiritual core present them,\\nWithout, at least, ae honest man.\\nTo grace this d d infernal clan.\\nBy Adamhill a glance he threw,\\nL\u00e2\u0080\u0094 G\u00e2\u0080\u0094 quoth he, I have it now.\\nThere s just the man I want, i faith,\\nAnd quickly stoppit Rankine s breath.\\nEXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, ON BEING AP\\nPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.\\nSearching auld wives barrels,\\nOch, hon! the day!\\nThat clartie^ barm should stain my laurels\\nBut what ll ye say?\\nThese movin things, ca d wives and weans,\\nWad move the very hearts o stanes I\\n!0N HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOB\\nIN THE REV. DR. B S VERY LOOKS.\\nThat there is falsehood in his looks\\nI must and will deny\\nThey say their master is a knave\\nAnd sure they do not lie.\\nConfusedly mixed. Staggers. Dirty.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0487.jp2"}, "488": {"fulltext": "456 BURNS.\\nPOVERTY.\\nIn politics if thou wouldst mix,\\nAnd mean thy fortunes be\\nBear this in mind, be deaf and blind,\\nLet great folks hear and see.\\nON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH,\\nFIFESHIRE.\\nHere lie Willie Michie s banes\\nO Satan, when ye tak him,\\nGie him the schoolin o your weans.\\nFor clever deils he ll mak them 1\\nLINES WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS.\\nKEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARAC-\\nTER OF YARICO.\\nDumfries Theatre, 1794.\\nKemble, thou cur st my unbelief\\nOf Moses and his rod\\nAt Yarico s sweet notes of grief\\nThe rock with tears had flowed.\\nI MURDER hate by field or flood,\\nTho glory s name may screen us\\nIn wars at hame I ll spend my blood,\\nLife-giving war to Venus.\\nThe deities that I adore\\nAre social Peace and plenty,\\nTm better pleased to make one more,\\nThan be the death of twenty.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0488.jp2"}, "489": {"fulltext": "LINES, ETC, 457\\nLINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING S\\nARMS TAVERN, DU]yiFRIES.\\nYe men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering\\nGainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing;\\nWliat are your landlords rent-rolls? taxing ledgers:\\nWhat premiers, what? even Monarch s mighty gangers:\\nNay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men?\\nWhat are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen\\nLINES WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE\\nGLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES.\\nThe greybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures,\\nGive me with gay Folly to live\\nI grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,\\nBut Folly has raptures to give.\\nLINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTL^RE OF THE\\nCELEBRATED mSS BLTRNS.\\nCease ye prudes, your envious railing,\\nLovely Burns has charms confess:\\nTrue it is, she had one failing.\\nHad a woman ever less?\\nEPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE S TRANSLATION\\nOF MARTIAL S EPIGRAMS.\\nO THOU, whom Poetry abhors,\\nWhom Prose had turned out of doors,\\nHeard st thou that groan? proceed no further,\\nTwas laurel d Martial roaring murder.\\nEPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, NOT QUITS,\\nSO WISE AS SOLOMON.\\nBless the Redeemer. O Cardoness,\\nWith c^rateful lifted eyes,\\nWho said that not the soul alone,\\nBut body, too, must rise", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0489.jp2"}, "490": {"fulltext": "458 BURNS,\\nFor had He said, The soul alon^\\nFrom death I will deliver,\\nAlas! alas! O Cardoness,\\nThen thou hadst slept for ever\\nEPITAPH ON WEE JOHNN^,^\\nHie jacet wee Johnny.\\nWhoe er thou art, O reader know\\nThat death has murder d Joiinuy^\\nAn here his body lies fu low\\nFor saul he ne er had ony.\\nEPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RUTJNG ELDER\\nHere sowter^ Hood in Death dues sle^jp\\nTo h 1, if he s gane thither,\\nSatan, gie him thy gear to keep,\\nHe ll hand it weel thegither.\\nEPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.\\nKnow thou, O stranger to the fame\\nOf this much lov d, much honour d name!\\n(For none that knew him need be told)\\nA warmer heart death ne er made cold.\\nEPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.\\nThe poor man weeps here Gavin sleeps,\\nWhom canting wretches blam d\\nBut with such as he, where er htj be,\\nMay I be sav d, or d d\\nJohn Wilson, who printed an edition of Burns Poem\u00c2\u00bb.\\n2 Shoemaker,", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0490.jp2"}, "491": {"fulltext": "EPITAPHS. 4:9\\nEPITAPH ON MY FATHER.\\nO YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains\\nDraw near with pioas rev reuce and attend 1\\nHere lie the loving husband s dear remains,\\nThe tender father, and the gen rous friend;\\nThe pitying heart that felt for human woe\\nThe dauntless heart that fear d no human pride;\\nThe friend of man, to vico alone a foe:\\n^For ev n his failings lean d to virtue s side.\\nEPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER,\\nMAUCHIJNE.\\nHere lies Johnny Pidgeon\\nWhat was his religion?\\nWha e er desires to ken,\\nTo some other warP\\nMaun follow the carl,\\nFor here Johnny Pidgeon had nane I\\nStrong ale was ablution,\\nSmall beer persecution,\\nA dram was memento mori;\\nBut a full flowing bowl\\nWas the saving his soul.\\nAnd port was celestial glory.\\nEPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY,^ WRITER, US\\nDUMFRIES.\\nHere lies John Bushby, honest man,\\nCheat him, Devil, if you can.\\nWent to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller\\naccompanied us. Went on to visit the grave. There, said the\\nbookseller to us, pointing to a pompous monument a few yards off,\\nthere lies Mr. John Bushby, a remarkably clever man; he was an\\nattorney, and hardly ever iosi a cause he undertook. Burns mad\u00c2\u00ab\\nmany r. ];-:rnDOon upon him, and there they rest, as yru see.\\nMemoiia 0/ WordifWorthj i. S14.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0491.jp2"}, "492": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0492.jp2"}, "493": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY,\\nThe ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound\\nof the English diphthong oo, is commonly spelled ou. The\\nFrench w, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language,\\nis marked oo, or id. The a in genuine Scottish words, except\\nwhen forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a\\nsingle consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in\\nwaU. The Scottish diphthong oe, always, and ea. verj* often,\\nBound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong\\ney, Bounds like the Latin ei.\\nA\u00c2\u00bb, All\\nAback, away, aloof\\nAbeigh, at a shy distance\\nAboon, above, up\\nAbread, abroad, in sight\\nAbreed, in breadth\\nAddle, putrid water, fec.\\nAe^ one\\nAn, off; Aff loof, unpremedi-\\ntated\\nAfore, before\\nAft, oft\\nAften, often\\nAffley, off the right line; wrong\\nAiblins, perhaps\\nAin, own\\nAlrle penny, Airles, earnest\\nmoney\\nAim, iron\\nAith, an oath\\nAits, oats\\nAiver, an old horse\\nAizle, a hot cinder\\nAlake, alas\\nAlane, alone\\nAkwart, awkward\\nAmaist, almost\\nAmang, among\\nAn and; if\\nAnce, once\\nAne, one; and\\nAnent, over against\\nAnither, another\\nAse, ashes\\nAsklent, asquint; aslant\\nAsteer, abroad; stirring\\nAthart, athwart\\nAught, possession; as, In a my\\naught, in all my possession\\nAuld lang syne, olden time,\\ndays of other years\\nAuld, old\\nAuldfarran, or auld f arrant; sa-\\ngacious, cunning, prudent\\nAva, at all\\nAwa away\\nAwfu awful\\nAwn, the beard of barley, oats,\\nc.\\nAwnie, bearded\\nAyont, beyond\\nBA Ball\\nBackets, ash boards\\nBacklins, coming; coming back,\\nreturning\\nBack, returning\\nBad, did bid\\nBaide, endured, did stay\\nBaggie, the belly\\nBainie,ha\\\\ing lai ge bones, stout\\nBairn, a child\\nBaimtime, a family of children,\\na brood\\nBaith, both\\nBan, to swear\\nBane, bone\\nBang, to beat; to strive\\nBarme, diminutive of bard\\nBarefit, barefooted\\nBarmie, of, or like barm\\nBatch, a crew, a gang\\nBatts, bots\\nBaudrons, a cat", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0493.jp2"}, "494": {"fulltext": "46:\\nGLOSSARY,\\nBauld, bold\\nBawk, bank\\nBaws nt, having a white stripe\\ndown the face\\nBe, to let be; to give over; to\\ncease\\nBear, barley\\nBeastie, diminutive of beast\\nBeet, to add fuel to fire\\nBeld, bald\\nBelyve, by and by\\nBen, inlo the spence or parlour;\\na spenee\\nBenlomond, a noted mountain\\nin Dumbartonshire\\nBethankit, grace after meat\\nBeuk, a book\\nBicker, a kind of wooden dish;\\na short race\\nBie, or Bield, shelter\\nBien, wealthy, plentiful\\nBig, to build\\nBiggin, building; a house\\nBiggit, built\\nBill, a bull\\nBillie, a brother; a young fel-\\nlow\\nBing, a heap of grain, pota-\\ntoes, c.\\nBirk, birch\\nBirkcn-shaw, Birchen wood\\n6hav\\\\^, a siijali wood\\nBirkie, a clever feilov/\\nBirring, 1 he noise of partridges,\\nfec., vv hea they spring\\nBit, crisis, nick of time\\nBizz, a bu.stle, to buzz\\nBlastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a\\nterm of contempt\\nBlastit, blasted\\nBlate, bashful, sheepish\\nBlather, bladder\\nBladd, a fiat piece of au}-thing;\\nto slap\\nBlaw, to blow, to boast\\nBleerit, bleared, sore with\\nrheum\\nBleert and blin bleared and\\nblind\\nEleezing, blazing\\nBlelium, an idle^ talking fellow\\nBlether, to talk idly; nonsense\\nBleth rin, talking idly\\nBlink, a little while a smiling\\nlook; to look kindly; to shine\\nby fits\\nBlinker, a term of contempt\\nBlinkin, smirking\\nBlue-govvn, one of those beg-\\ngars who get annually, on the\\nKing s birtn-day, a blue cloak\\nor gown, with a badge\\nBluid, blood\\nBluntie, a sniveller, a stupid\\nperson\\nBlype, a shred, a large piece\\nBock, to vomit, to gush inter-\\nmittently\\nBocked, gushed, vomited\\nBodle, a small gold coin\\nBogles, spirits, nobgoblins\\nBonnie or bonny, handsome,\\nbeautiful\\nBonnock, a kind of thick cake\\nof bread, a small jannock, or\\nloaf made of oatmeal\\nBoord, a board\\nBoortrce, the shrub elder; plant-\\ned much of old in hedges of\\nbarn-yards, c.\\nBoost, behaved, must needs\\nBore, a hole in the wall\\nBotch, an angi-y tumour\\nBousing, drinking\\nBow-kail, cabbage\\nBo^\\\\ t,, bended, crooked\\nBrackens, fern\\nBrae, a declivity; a precipice;\\nthe slope of a hill\\nBraid, broad\\nBraindg t, reeled forward\\nBraik, a kind of harrow\\nBraindge, to run rashly forward\\nBrak, broke, made insolvent\\nBranks, a kind of wooden curb\\nfor horses\\nBrash, a sudden illness\\nBrats, coarse clothes, rags, c.\\nBrattle, a short race; hurry;\\nfury\\nBraw, fine, handsome\\nBrawly, or brawlie, very well;\\nfinely; heartily\\nBraxie, a morbid sheep\\nBreastie, diminutive of breast\\nBreastit, did spring up or for-\\nward\\nBreckan, fern\\nBreef, an invulnerable or irre-\\nsistible spell\\nBreeks, breeches\\nBrent, smooth\\nBrewin^, brewing\\nBrie, Juice, liquia", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0494.jp2"}, "495": {"fulltext": "OLOSSA/s^V.\\nm\\\\\\\\\\nBrig, a bridge\\nBrisket, the breast, the bosom\\nBrither, a brother\\nBrock, a badger\\nBrogue, a hum; a trick\\nBroo, broth a trick\\nBroose, broth; a race at country\\nweddings, who shall first\\nreach tiie bridegroom s house\\non returning from church\\nBrowster-wives, ale-house wives\\nBrugh, a burgh\\nBruilzie, a broil, a combustion\\nBrunstane, brimstone\\nBrunt, did burn, burnt\\nBrust, to burst; burst\\nBuchan-bullers, the boiling of\\nthe sea among the rocks of\\nBuchan\\nBuckskin, an inhabitant of Vir-\\nginia\\nBught, a pen\\nBughtin-time, the time of col-\\nlecting the sheep in the pens\\nto be milked\\nBuirdly, stout made; broad\\nmade\\nBum-clock, a humming beetle\\nthat flies in the summer even-\\nings\\nBumming, humming as bees\\nBummle, to blunder\\nBummler, a blunderer\\nBunker, a window-seat\\nBurdies, diminutive of birds\\nBure, did bear\\nBum, water, a rivulet\\nBumewin, i burn the wind,\\na blacksmith\\nBurnie, diminutive of bum\\nBuskie, bushy\\nBuskit, dressed\\nBusks, dresses\\nBussle, a bustle; to bustle\\nBuss, shelter\\nBut, bot, with; without\\nBut an ben, the country kitch-\\nen and parlour\\nBy himsel, lunatic, distracted\\nByke, a bee-hive\\nByre, a cow-stable; a sheep-pen\\nCA to call, to name; to drive\\nCa t, or ca d, called, driven;\\ncalved\\nCadger, a carrier\\nCadie, or Caddie, a person; a\\nyoung fellow\\nCa:8:, cliall:\\nCaird, a tinker\\nCairn, a loose heap of stones\\nCalf-ward, a small enclosure\\nfor calves\\nCall an, a boy\\nCaller, fresh; sound; refreshing\\nCanie, or cannie, gentle, mild;\\ndexterous\\nCannilie, dexterously; gently\\nCantie, or canty, cheerful,\\nmerry\\nCantraip, a charm, a spell j\\nCape-stane, cope-stone; key-j\\nstone\\nCareerin, cheerfully\\nCarl, an old man\\nCarlin, an old stout woman\\nCartes, cards\\nCaudron, a cauldron\\nCaulk and keel, chalk and red\\nclay\\nCauld, cold\\nCaup, a wooden-drinking vessel\\nCesses, taxes\\nChanter, a part of a ba^ipe\\nChap, a person, a fellow a\\nblow\\nChaup, a stroke, a blow\\nCheekit, checked\\nCheep, a chirp; to chirp\\nChiel, or cheel, a j^oung fellow\\nChimia, or ehimlie, a fire-grate,\\na Hre-ijlace\\nChimla-lug, the fireside\\nChittering, shivering,trembling\\nChockin, choking\\nChow, to chew: Cheek for\\nchow, side by side\\nChuffie, fat-faced\\nClachan, a small village about\\na church; a hamlet\\nClaise, or claes, clothes\\nClaith, cloth\\nClaithing, clothing\\nClaivers, nonsense; not speak-\\ning sense\\nClapj clapper of a mill\\nClarkit, wrote\\nClash, an idle tale, the story of\\nthe day\\nClatter, to tell idle stories; an\\nidle story\\nClaught, snatched at, laid hold\\nof", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0495.jp2"}, "496": {"fulltext": "464\\nGLOSSARY.\\nClaut, to clean; to scrape\\nClauted, scraped\\nClavers, idle stories\\nClaw, to scratch\\nCleed, to clothe\\nCleeds, clothes\\nCleekit, having caught\\nClinkin, jerking; clinking\\nClinkumbell, he who rings the\\nchurch-bell\\nClips, shears\\nClishmaclaver, idle conversa-\\ntion\\nClock, to hatch; a beetle\\nClockin, hatching\\nCloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep,\\nc.\\nClootie, an old name for the\\nDevil\\nClour, a bump or swelling after\\na blow\\nCluds, clouds\\nCoaxin, wheedling\\nCoble, a lishiog boat\\nCockernony, a lock of hair tied\\nupon a girl s head; a cap\\nCoft, bought\\nCog, a wooden dish\\nCo^gie, diminutive of cog\\nCoila, from K,yle, a district of\\nAyrshire; so called, saith tra-\\ndition, from Coil, or Coilus,\\na Pictish monarch\\nCollie, a general and some-\\ntimes a particular name for\\ncountry curs\\nCollieshangie, quarrelling, an\\nuproar\\nCommaun, command\\nCood, the cud\\nCoof, a blockhead, a ninny\\nCookit, appeai*ed and disap-\\npeared by fits\\nCoost, did cast\\nCoot, the ancle or foot\\nCootie, a wooden kitchen dish:\\nalso, those fowls whose legs\\nare clad with feathers are said\\nto be cootie\\nCorbies, a species of the crow\\nCore, corps; party; clan\\nCom t, fed with oats\\nCotter, the inhabitant of a cot-\\nhouse, or cottager\\nCouthie, kind, loving\\nCove, a cave\\nCowe, to terrify: to keep under,\\nto lop; fright; a branch ol\\nfurze, broom, c.\\nCowp, to barter; to tumblt\\nover a gang\\nCowpit, tumbled\\nCowrin, cowering\\nCowt, a colt\\nCozie, snug\\nCozily, snugly\\nCra bbit, crabbed, fretful\\nCrack, conversation; to con-\\nverse\\nCrackin, conversing\\nCraft, or croft, a field near a\\nhouse (in old husbandry)\\nCraiks, cries or calls incessant*\\nly; a bird\\nCrambo-clink, or crambo-jingle,\\nrhymes, doggrel verses\\nCrank, the noise of an un-\\ngreased wheel\\nCrankous, fretful, captious\\nCranreuch, the hoar frost\\nCrap, a crop; to crop\\nCraw, I crow of a cock; a rook\\nCreel, a basket; to have one s\\nwits in a creel, to be crazed;\\nto be fascinated\\nCreepie-stool, the same a\\ncutty-stool\\nCreeshie, greasy\\nCrood, or croud, to coo as a\\ndove\\nCroon, a hollow and continued\\nmoan; to make a noise like\\nthe continued roar of a bull;\\nto hum a tune\\nCrooning, humming\\nCrouchie, crook-backed\\nCrouse, cheerful; courageous\\nCrousely, cheerfully, courage-\\nously\\nCrow^e, a composition of oat-\\nmeal and boiled water; some-\\ntimes from the broth of beef,\\nmutton, c.\\nCrowdie-time, breakfast time\\nCrowlin, crawling\\nCrummock, a cow with crooked\\nhorns\\nCrump, hard and brittle; spo-\\nken^ of bread\\nCrunt, a blow on the head with\\na cudgel\\nCuif a blockhead, a ninny\\nCummock, a short stafi with s\\ncrooked head", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0496.jp2"}, "497": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n465\\nCurchle, ioartt\\nCui ler, a i i yei at a ^ame on\\nthe ice, piactiscd in Scot-\\nland, called curling\\nCurlie, curled, who3e hair tUls\\nnaturally in ringlets\\nCurling, a well known gam^ on\\nthe ice\\nCurmurring, murmuring; a\\nslight rumbling noise\\nCurpin, the crupper\\nCushat, the dove, or wood-\\npigeon\\nCutty, short; a spoon broken in\\nthe middle\\nCutty-stooJ, the stool of repent-\\nance\\nDADDIE, a father\\nDaffin, merriment; foolishness\\nDaft, merry, giddy; foolish\\nDaimen, rare, now and then;\\ndaimen-icker, an ear of com\\nnow and then\\nDainty, pleasant, good humour-\\ned, agreeable\\nDaise, daez, to stupify\\nDales, plains, valleys\\nDarklins, darkling\\nDaud, to thrash, to abuse\\nDaur, to dare\\nDaurt, dared\\nDaurg, or daurk, a day s labour\\nDavoc, David\\nDawd, a large piece\\nDawtit, or da svtet, fondled,\\ncaressed\\nDearies, diminutive of dears\\nDearthfu dear\\nDeave, to deafen\\nDeil-ma care! no matter! for all\\nthat!\\nDeleerit, delirious\\nDescrive, to describe\\nDight, to wipe; to clean com\\nfrom chaif\\nDight, cleaned from chaff\\nDing, to worst, to push\\nDink, neat, tidy, trim\\nDinna, do not\\nDirl, a slight tremulous stroke\\nor pain\\nDizen, or dizz n, a dozen\\nDoited, stupified, hebetated\\nDolt, stupified, crazed\\nDonsie, unlucky\\nDool, sorrow; to sln^ dool, to\\nlament, to mourn\\nDoes, doves\\nDorty, saucy, nice\\nDouce, or douse, sober, wis*,\\nprudent\\nDoacely, soberly, prudently\\nDought, was or were able\\nDoup, backside\\nDoup-skelper, one that ot ikei\\nthe tail\\nDour and din, sullen and salloi*\\nDoure, stout, durable; sullen,\\nstubborn\\nDow, am or are able, can\\nDowff, pithless, wanting forc^\\nDowie, worn with grief,iatigua\\n(fee, half asleep\\nDowna, am or are not able, can\\nnot\\nDoylt, stupid\\nDozent, stupified, impotent\\nDrap, a drop; to drop\\nDraigle, to soil by trailing, ta\\ndraggle among wet, (fee.\\nDrapping, dropping\\nDraunting, draAvllng; of a slow\\nenunciation\\nDreep, to oose, to drop\\nDreigh, tedious, long about it\\nDribble, drizzling; slaver\\nDrift, a drove\\nDroddum, the breech\\nDrone, part of a bagpipe\\nDroop-rumpl t, that droops a1\\nthe crupper\\nDroukit, wet\\nDrounting, drawling\\nDrouth, thirst, drought\\nDrucken, drunken\\nDrumly, muddy\\nDrummock, meal and watei\\nmixed in a raw state\\nDrunt, pet, sour humour\\nDub, a small pond\\nDuds, rags, clothes\\nDuddie, ragged\\nDung, worsted; pushed, driven\\nDunted, beaten, boxed\\nDush, to push as a ram, c.\\nDusht, pushed by a ram, ox, c.\\nE E, the eye\\nEen, the eyes\\nE enin^, evening\\nEerie, frighted, dreading spirit*\\nEild, old age", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0497.jp2"}, "498": {"fulltext": "466\\nGLOSSARY.\\nElbuck, the elbow\\nEldritch, ghastly, frightful\\nEller, an elder, or church officer\\nEn end\\nEnbrugh, Edinburgh\\nEneugh, enough\\nEspecial, especially\\nEttle, to try, to attempt\\nEydent, diligent\\nFA fall; lot; to fall\\nFa s, does fall; water-falls\\nFaddom t, fathomed\\nFae, a foe\\nFaem, foam\\nFaiket, unknown\\nFairin, a fairing; a present\\nFallow, fellow\\nFand, did find\\nFarl, a cake of oaten bread, c.\\nFash, trouble, care; to trouble,\\nto care for\\nFasht, troubled\\nFasteren-e en, Fasten s Even\\nFauld, a fold; to fold\\nFaulding, folding\\nFaut, fault\\nFaute, want, lack\\nFawsont, decent, seemly\\nFeal, a field; smooth\\nFearfu frightful\\nFeart, frighted\\nFeat, neat, spruce\\nFecht, to fi^ht\\nFechtin, fighting\\nFeck, many, plenty\\nFecket, an under waistcoat\\nwith sleeves\\nFeckfu large, brawny, stout\\nFeckless, puny, weak, silly\\nFeckly, weakly\\nFeg, a fig\\nFeide, feud, enmity\\nFeirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy\\nFell, keen, biting; the flesh im-\\nmediately under the skin; a\\nfield pretty level, on the side\\nor top of a hill\\nFen, successfal struggle; fight\\nFend, to live comfortably\\nFerlie, or ferley, to wonder; a\\nwonder; a term of contempt\\nFetch, to pull by fits\\nFetch d, pulled intermittently\\nFidge, to fidget\\nFiel, soft, smooth\\nFient, fiend, a petty oath\\nFier, sound, healthy; a brother^\\na friend\\nFissle, to make a rustling noise;\\nto fidget; a bustle\\nFit, a foot\\nFittie-lan the nearer horse of\\nthe hindmost pair In the\\nplough\\nFizz, to make a hissing noise,\\nlike fermentation\\nFlainen, flannel\\nFleech, to supplicate in a flat.\\ntering manner\\nFleech d, supplicated\\nFleechin, supplicating\\nFleesh, a fleece\\nFleg, a kick, a random stroke\\nFlether, to decoy by fair wordt\\nFletherin, flattering\\nFley, to scare, to frighten\\nFlichter, to flutter, as young\\nnestlings when their dam ap-\\nproaches\\nFlinders, shreds, broken pieces,\\nsplinters\\nFlinging-tree, a piece of timbef\\nhung by way of partition be-\\ntween two horses in a stable;\\na flail\\nFlisk, to fret at the yoke\\nFlisket, fretted\\nFlitter, to vibrate like the wlng\u00c2\u00bb\\nof small birds\\nFlittering, fluttering, vibrating\\nFlunkie, a sei-vant in livery\\nFodgel, squat and plump\\nFoord, a ford\\nForbears, forefathers\\nForbye, besides\\nForfairn, distressed; worn out,\\njaded\\nForfoughten, fatigued\\nForgather, to meet, to encoun*\\nter with\\nForgie, to forgive\\nForjesket, jaded with fatigue\\nFother, fodder\\nFou, full; drunk\\nFoughten, troubled, harassed\\nFouth, plenty, enough, or mort\\nthan enough\\nFow, a bushel, fec. also a pitch\\nfork\\nFrae, from; oflf\\nFrammit, strange, estranged\\nfrom, at enmity with", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0498.jp2"}, "499": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n467\\nFraeth, froth\\nFrien friend\\nFu full\\nFud, the scut, or tail of the\\nhare, cony, s;c.\\nFuif to hlow intermittently\\nFuS t, did blow\\nFunnie, full of merriment\\nFur, a furrow\\nFurm, a form, bench\\nFyke, trifling cares; to piddle,\\nto be in a fuss about trifles\\nFyle, to soil, dirty\\nFyl t, soiled, dirtied\\nGAB, the mouth; to speak\\nboldlv, or pertly\\nGaberlunzie, an old man\\nGadsman, a ploughboy, the boy\\nthat drives the horses in the\\nplough\\nGae, to go; gaed, went; gaen,\\nor gane, gone; gaun, gomg\\nGaet. or gate, way, manner;\\nro^d\\nGairs, triangular pieces of cloth\\nsewed on the bottom of a\\ngown, c.\\nGang, to go, to walk\\nGar, to make, to force to\\nGar t, forced to\\nGarten, a garter\\nGash, wise, sagacious; talka-\\ntive; to converse\\nGashin, conversing\\nGaucy, jolly, large\\nGaud, a plough\\nGear, riches; goods of anykmd\\nGeek, to toss the head in wan-\\ntonness or scorn\\nGed, a pike\\nGentles, great folks, gentry\\nGenty, elegantly formed, neat\\nGeordie, a guinea\\nGet, a child, a young one\\nGhaist, a ghost\\nGie, to give; gied, gave; gien,\\ngiven\\nGiJtie, dimiQutive of gift\\nGiglets, playful gkls\\nGillie, diminutive of gill\\nGilpey, a half grown, half in-\\nformed boy or girl, a romping\\nlad, a hoiden\\nGimmer, a ewe from one to\\ntwo years old\\nGin, if; against\\nGipsy, a young girl\\nGim, to grin, to twist the fear\\ntures in rage, agony, c.\\nGirning, grinning\\nGizz, a periwig\\nGlaiket, inattentive, foolish\\nGlaive, a sword\\nGawky, half-witted, foohsh,\\nromping\\nGlaizie, glittering; smooth like\\nglass\\nGlaum, to snatch greedily\\nGlaum d, aimed, snatched\\nGleck, sharp, ready\\nGleg, sharp, ready\\nGleib, glebe\\nGlen, a dale, a deep valley\\nGley, a squint; to squint; a-\\ngley, off at side, wrong\\nGlib-gabbet, smooth and ready\\nin speech\\nGlint, to peep\\nGlinted, peeped\\nGlintin, peeping\\nGloamin, the twilight\\nGlowr, to stare, to look; a stare,\\na look\\nGlowred, looked, stared\\nGlunsh, a frown, a sour look\\nGoavan, looking round with a\\nstrange, inquiring gaze; star-\\nGowan, the flower of the wild\\ndaisy, hawkweed, c.\\nGowany, daisied, abounding\\nwith daisies\\nGowd, gold\\nGo^vif, the game of golf: to\\nstrike as the bat does the ball\\nat golf\\nGowff d, struck\\nGowk, a cuckoo; a term of con-\\ntempt\\nGowl, to howl\\nGrane, or grain, a groan; to\\ngroan\\nGrain d and grunted, groaned\\nand grunted\\nGraining, groaning\\nGraip, a pronged instrument\\nfor cleaning stables\\nGraith, accoutrements, fumi\\nture, di-ess, gear\\nGrannie, gTandmother\\nGrape, to grope\\nGraipit, groped\\nGrat, wept, shed tears", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0499.jp2"}, "500": {"fulltext": "468\\nGLOSSARY.\\nGreat, intimate, familiar\\nGree, to agree; to bear the gree,\\nto be decidedly victor\\nree t, agreed\\nGreet, to shed tears, to weep\\nGreetin, cridng, weeping\\nGripped, catched, seised\\nGroat, to get the whistle of\\none s groat, to play a losing\\ngame\\nGrousome. loathsomely grim\\nGrozet, a gooseberi-y\\nGrumph, a grant; to grunt\\nGrumpliie, a sow\\nGriin ground\\nGrunstane, a grindstone\\nGruntle, the phiz; a grunting\\nnoise\\nGnmzie, mouth\\nGrushie, thick; of thriving\\ngrovv1:h\\nGude, the Supreme Being; good\\nGuid, good\\nGuid-morning, good morrow\\nGuid-e en, good evening\\nGuidman and guidwife, the\\nmaster and mistress of the\\nhouse; young guidman, a\\nman newly married\\nGuid- Willie, liberal; cordial\\nGuidfather, guidmother, fath-\\ner-in-law and mother-in-law\\nGully, or guliie, a large knife\\nGumlie, muddy\\nGusty, tasteful\\nHA hall\\nHa -Bible, the great bible that\\nlies in the hall\\nHae, to have\\nHaen, had, the participle\\nHaet, fient haet, a petty oath\\nof negation; nothing\\nHallet, the temple, the side of\\nthe head\\nHaiSins, nearly half, partly\\nHag, a scar, or gulf in mosses\\nand moors\\nHaggis, a kind of pudding boil-\\ned in the stomach of a cow\\nor sheep\\nHain, to spare, to save\\nHain d, spared\\nHairst, harvest\\nHaith, a petty oath\\nHaivers, nonsense, speaking\\nwithout thought\\nHal or hald, an abiding pi\\nMis\\nHalv, holy\\nac6\\nHale, whole, tigii liealthy\\nHallun, a particular partition\\nv/all in a cottage, or more\\nproperly a seat of turf at the\\noutside\\nHallowraass, Hallow-eve, the\\n31st of October\\nHame, home\\nHamely, homely, affable\\nHan or haun hand\\nHap, an outer garment, mantle,\\nplaid, c.; to wrap, to cover;\\nto hop\\nHdpper, a hopper\\nHapping, hopping\\nHap step an loup, hop skip\\nand leap\\nHarkit, hai-kened\\nHara, very coarse linen\\nHash, a fellow that neither\\nknows how to dress nor act\\nwith propriety\\nHas tie, dry; chaj)ped; barren\\nHastit, hastenea\\nHand, to hold\\nHaughs, low lying, rich lands;\\nvalleys\\nHdurl, to drag, to peel\\nllaurlin, peeling\\nHaverel, a half-witted person;\\nhalf-witted\\nHavins, good manners, deco-\\nrum, good sense\\nHawkie, a cow, properly one\\nv/ith a white face\\nHeapit, heaped\\nHealsome, healthtful, whole-\\nsome\\nHearse, hoarse\\nHear t, hear it\\nHeather, heath\\nHech! oh I strange I\\nHecht, promised; to foretell\\nsomething that is to be got\\nor given; foretold; the thing\\nforetold; offered\\nHeckle, a board in which are\\nfixed a number of sharp pins,\\nused in dressing hemp, flax,\\nc.\\nHeeze, to elevate, to raise\\nHelm, the radder or helm\\nHerd, to tend flocks; one who\\ntends flocks\\nHerrin, a herring", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0500.jp2"}, "501": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n469\\nHerry, to plunder: most pro-\\nperly to plunder oirds nests\\nHerryment, plundering, devas-\\ntation\\nHersel, herself; also a herd of\\ncattle of any sort\\nHet, hot\\nHeugh, a craig, a coalpit\\nHilch, a hobble; to halt\\nHilchin, halting\\nHimsel, himsefl\\nHiney, honey\\nHing, to hang\\nHirple, to walk crazily, to creep\\nHissel; so many cattle as one\\nperson can attend\\nHitch, a loop, a knot\\nHizzie, a hussy, a young girl\\nHoddin, the motion of a sage\\ncountryman riding on a cart-\\nhorse; humble\\nHog-score, a kind of distance-\\nline, in curling, drawn across\\nthe rink\\nHog-shouther, a kind of horse-\\nplay, by justling with the\\nshoulder; to justle\\nHool, outer skin or case, a nut-\\nshell; a peascod\\nHoolie, slowly, leisurely\\nHooliel take leisure, stop\\nHoord, a hoard; to hoard\\nHoordit, hoarded\\nHorn, a spoon made of horn\\nHomie, one of the many names\\nof the devil\\nHost, or hoast, to cough; a\\ncough\\nHostin, coughing\\nHosts, coughs\\nHotch d, turned topsyturvy;\\nblended, mixed\\nHoughmagandie, fornication\\nHornet, an owl\\nHousie, diminutive of a house\\nHove, to heave, to swell\\nHoved, heaved, swelled\\nHowdie, a midwife\\nHowe, hollow; a hollow or dell\\nHowebackit, sunk in the back,\\nspoken of a horse, c.\\nHowff, a tippling house; a\\nhouse of resort\\nHowk, to dig\\nHowkit, digged\\nHowkin, digging\\nHowlety an owl\\nHoy, to urge\\nHoy t, urged\\nHoyse, to pull upwards\\nHoyte, to amble crazily\\nHughoc, diminutive of Hugh\\nHurcheon, a hedgehog\\nHurdles, the loins; the crupper\\nHushion, a cushion\\nP, in\\nIcker, an ear of com\\nler-oe, a great grandchild\\nHk, or ilka, each, every\\nHl-willie, ill-natured, malicious,\\nniggardly\\nIngine, genius, ingenuity\\nIngle, fire; fire-place\\nIse, I shall or will\\nIther, other; one another\\nJ AD, jade; also a familiar term\\namong countryfolks for a\\ngiddy young girl\\nJauk, to dally, to trifle\\nJankin, trifling, dallying\\nJaup, a jerk oi water; to jerk\\nas agitated water\\nJaw, coarse railleiy; to pour\\nout; to shut, to jerk as water\\nJerkinet, a jerkin, or short\\ngown\\nJillet, a jilt, a giddy girl\\nJimp, to jump; slender in the\\nwaist; handsome\\nJimps, easy stays\\nJink, to dodge, to turn a cor-\\nner; a sudden turning; a\\ncomer\\nJinker, that turns quickly: a\\ngay sprightly girl; a wag\\nJinkin, dodging\\nJirk, a jerk\\nJocteleg, a kind of knife\\nJouk, to stoop, to bow the head\\nJow, to jow, a verb which in-\\ncludes both the swinging mo-\\ntion and pealing sound of\\nlarge bell\\nJundie, to justle\\nKAE, a daw\\nKail, colewort; a kind of broth\\nKail-runt, the stem of colewort\\nKain, fowls, c., paid as renl\\nby a farmer\\nKebbuck, a cheese\\nKeckle, to giggle; to tittar", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0501.jp2"}, "502": {"fulltext": "470\\nGLOSSARY.\\nKeek, a peep, to peep\\nKelpies, a sort of mischievous\\nspirits, said to haunt fords\\nand ferries at night, espe-\\ncially in storms\\nKen, to know; kend or kenned,\\nknew\\nKennin, a small matter\\nKenspeckle, well known, easily\\nknown\\nKet, matted, hairy; a fleece of\\nwool\\nKilt, to truss up the clothes\\nKimmer, a young gii-1, a gossip\\nKin, Idndred; kin kind, a-^\\nKing s-hood, a certain part of\\nthe entrails of an ox, c.\\nKintra, country\\nKintra cooser, country stallion\\nKim, the harvest-supper; a\\nchum\\nKirsen, to christen, or baptize\\nKist, a chest; a shop counter\\nKitchen, any thing that eats\\n-with bread; to serve for soup,\\ngravy, (fee.\\nKith, kindred\\nKittle, to tickle; ticklish; live-\\nly, apt\\nKittlin, a young cat\\nKiuttle, to cuddle\\nKiuttlin, cuddling\\nKnaggie, like knags, or points\\nof rocks\\nKnap, to strike smartly; a\\nsmart blow\\nELnappin-hammer, a hammer\\nfor breaking stones\\nKnowe, a small round hillock\\nKnurl, a dwarf\\nKye, cows\\nKyle, a district in Ayrshire\\nKyte, the belly\\nKythe, to discover; to show\\none s self\\nLADDIE, diminutive of lad\\nLa^gen, the angle between the\\nside and bottom of a wooden\\ndish\\nLaigh, low\\nLairing, wading, and sinking\\nin snow, mud, c.\\nLaith, loath\\nLaithfu bashful, sheepish\\nLallans, the Scottish dialect of\\nthe English language\\nLambie, diminutive of lamb\\nLampit, a kind of shell-fish, a\\nlimpet\\nLan land; estate\\nLane, lone; my lane, thy lane,\\nc., myself alone, c.\\nLanely, lonely\\nLang,*^ long; to think lang, to\\nlong, to weary\\nLap, did leap\\nLave, the rest, the remainder,\\nthe others\\nLaverock, the lark\\nLa win, shot, reckoning, bill\\nLawlan, lowland\\nLea e, to leave\\nLeal, loyal, time, faithful\\nLea-rig, grassy ridge\\nLear (pronounced lare), learn-\\ning\\nLee-lang, live-long\\nLeesome, pleasant\\nLeeze-me, a phrase of congrat-\\nulatory endearment; I am\\nhappy*^ in thee, or proud of\\nthee\\nLeister, a three-pronged dai^\\nfor striking fish\\nLeugh, did laugh\\nLeuk, a look; to }ook\\nLibbet, gelded\\nLift, the sky\\nLightly, sneeringly; to sneer\\nLilt, a ballad; a tune; to eing\\nLimmer, a kept mistress, a\\nstrumpet\\nLimp t, limped, hobbled\\nLink, to trip along\\nLinkin, tripping\\nLinn, a waterfall; a precipice\\nLint, flax; Lint i the bell, flax\\nin flower\\nLintwhite, a linnet\\nLoan, or loanin, the place of\\nmilking\\nLoof the palm of the hand\\nLoot, did let\\nLooves, plural of loof\\nLoun, a fellow, a ragamufiln,\\na woman of easy virtue\\nLoup, jump, leap\\nLowe, a flame\\nLowin, flaming\\nLowrie, abbreviation of Law-\\nrence\\nLowse, to loose\\nLows d, loosed", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0502.jp2"}, "503": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\n471\\nLng, the ear; a handle\\nLugget, haying a handle\\nLuggie, a small wooden dish\\nwith a handle\\nLum, the chimney\\nLunch, a large piece of cheese,\\nflesh, c.\\nLunt, a column of smoke; to\\nsmoke\\nLuntin, smoking\\nLyart, of a mixed colour, grey\\nMAE, more\\nMair, more\\nMaist, most, almost\\nMaistly, mostly\\nMak, to make\\nMakin, making\\nMailen, a farm\\nMallie, Molly\\nMang, among\\nManse, the parsonage house,\\nwhere the minister lives\\nManteele, a mantle\\nMark, marks. (This and seve-\\nral other nouns which in\\nEnglish require an s to form\\nthe plural, are in Scotch, like\\nthe words sheep, deer, the\\nsame in both numbers)\\nMarled, variegated; spotted\\nMar s year, the year 1715\\nMashlum, meslin, mixed corn\\nMask, to mash, as malt, c.\\nMaskin-pat, a tea-pot\\nMaud, maad, a plaid worn by\\nshepherds, c.\\nMaukin, a hare\\nMaun, must\\nMavis, the thrush\\nMaw, to mow\\nMa win, mowing\\nMe ere, a mare\\nMeikle, meickle, much\\nMelancholious, mournful\\nMelder, com, or grain of any\\nkind, sent to the mUl to be\\nground\\nMell, to meddle. Also a mal-\\nlet for pounding barley in a\\nstone trough\\nMel vie, to soil with meal\\nMen to mend\\nMense, good manners, decorum\\nMenseless, ill-bred, rude, impu-\\ndent\\nMessin, a small dog\\n^Midden, a dunghill\\nMidden-hole, a gutter at the\\nbottom of a dunghill\\nMim, prim, aSectedly meek\\nMin mind; resemblance\\nMind t, mind it; resolved, in-\\ntending\\nMinnie, mother, dam\\nMirk, mirkest, dark, darkest\\nMisca to abuse, to call names\\nMisca d, abused\\nMislear d, mischievous, un-\\nmannerly\\nMisteuk, mistook\\nMither, a mother\\nMixtie maxtie, confusedly\\nmixed\\nMoistify, to moisten\\nMony, or monie, many\\nMoois, dust, earth, the earth ol\\nthe grave; to rake i the\\nmools, to lay in the dust\\nMoop, to nibble as a sheep\\nMoorlan of or belonging t\\nmoors\\n]\\\\Iom, the next day, to-morrow\\nMou, the mouth\\nMoudiwort, a mole\\nMousie, diminutive of mouse\\nMuckle, or mickle, great, big,\\nmuch\\nMusie, diminutive of muse\\nZvluslin-kail, broth composed\\nsimply of water, shelled bar-\\nley and greens\\nMutchkin, an English ptat\\nMysel, myself\\nNA, no, not, nor\\niae, no, not any\\nNaething, or naithing, nothing\\nNaig, a horse\\nNane, none\\nNappy, ale; to be tipsy\\nNegleckit, neglected\\nNeuk, a nook\\nNiest, next\\nNieve, the fist\\nNievefu handfu\\nNiffer, an exchange; to ex-\\nchange, to barter\\nNiger, a negro\\nNine-tailed-cat, a hangman s\\nwhip\\nNit, a nut\\nNorland, of or belonging to the\\nnorth", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0503.jp2"}, "504": {"fulltext": "472\\nGLOSSARY,\\nNotic t, noticed\\nNowte, black cattle\\nOS of\\nOcliils, name of mountaiiis\\nO haite, O faith! an oatli\\nOny, or onie, any\\nOr, is often used for ere, before\\nOra, or orra, supernumerary,\\nthat can be spared\\nO t, of it\\nOurie, shivering; drooping\\nOursel, or oursels, ourselves\\nOutlers, cattle not housed\\n0\\\\vre, over; too\\nOwre-hip, a way of fetching a\\nblow with the hammer over\\nthe arm\\nPACK, intimate, familiar\\ntwelve stone of wool\\nPainch, paunch\\nPaitrick, a partridge\\nPang, to cram\\nParle, speech\\nParritch, oatmeal pudding, a\\nwell-known Scotch dish\\nPat, did put; a pot\\nPattle, or pettle, a plough-staff\\nPaughty, proud, haughty\\nPauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly\\nP^y t, paid; beat\\nPech to fetch the breath snort,\\nas in an asthma\\nPechan, the crop, the stomach\\nPeelin, peeling, the rind of fruit\\nPet, a domesticated sheep, c.\\nPettle. to cherish; a plough-\\nstaff\\nPhilabegs, short petticoats\\nworn by the Highlandmen\\nPhraise, fair speeches, flatter}^;\\nto flatter\\nPhraisin, flattery\\nPibroch, Highland war mu^ic\\nadapted to the bagpipe\\nPickle, a small quantity\\nPine, pain, uneasiness\\nPit, to put\\nPlacad, public proclamation\\nPlack, an old Scotch coin, the\\nthird part of a Scotch penny,\\ntwelve of which make an\\nEnglish penny\\nPlacid ess, penniless, without\\nmoney\\nPiatie, diminutive of plate\\nPlew, or pleugh, a plough\\nPliskie, a trick\\nPoind, to seize cattle or goods\\nfor rent, as the laws of Scot-\\nland allow\\nPoortith, poverty\\nPou, to pull\\nPouk, to pluck\\nPoussie, a hare, or cat\\nPout, a poult, a chick\\nPou t, did pull\\nPow, the head, the skull\\nPo\\\\vnie, a little horse\\nPowther, or pouther, powdei\\nPo^vthery, like powder\\nPreen, a pin\\nPrent, to print; print\\nPrie, to taste\\nPrie d, tasted\\nPrief, proof\\nPrig, to cheapen; to dispute\\nPriggin, cheapening\\nPrimsie, demure, precise\\nPropone, to lay down, to pro-\\npose\\nProvoscB, provosts\\nPuddock-stool, a mushroom\\nfungus\\nPund, pound; pounds\\nPyle, a pyle o caff, a single\\ngrain of chaff\\nQUAT, to quit\\nQuak, to quake\\nQuey, a cow from one to two\\n3 ears old\\nRAGWEED, the herb ragwort\\nKaible, to rattle nonsense\\nItair, to roar\\nRaize, to madden, to inflame\\nRam-feezl d, fatigued; over-\\nspread\\nRam-stam, thoughtless, forward\\nRaploch, properly a coarse\\ncloth; but used as an adnoun\\nfor coarse\\nRarely, excellently, very well\\nRash, a rash; rash-bush, a bush\\nof rushes\\nRatton, a rat\\nRaucle, rash; stout; fearless\\nRaught, reached\\nRaw, a row\\nRax, to stretch\\nReam, cream to cream", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0504.jp2"}, "505": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY,\\n473\\nReaming, brimful, frothing\\nReave, rove\\nReck, to heed\\nRede, counsel; to counsel\\nRed-wat-shod, walking in blood\\nover the shoe-tops\\nRed-wud, stark mad\\nRee, half drunk, fuddled\\nReek, smoke\\nReekin, smoking\\nReekit, smoked; smoky\\nRemead, remedy\\nRequite, requited\\nRest, to stand restive\\nRestit, stood restive; stunted;\\nwithered\\nRestricked, restricted\\nRew, to repent, to compassion-\\nate\\nRief, reef, plenty\\nRief randies, sturdy beggars\\nRig, a ridge\\nRigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope\\nor chain that crosses the sad-\\ndle of a horse to support the\\nspokes of a cart; spare, with-\\nered, sapless\\nRi\u00c2\u00bb, to run, to melt\\nRionin, running\\nRink, the course of the stones,\\na term in curling on ice\\nRip, a handful of unthreshed\\ncom\\nRiskit, made a noise like the\\ntearing of roots\\nRockin, spinning on the rock,\\nor distaff\\nRood, stands likewise for the\\nplural roods\\nRoon, a shred, a border or sel-\\nvage\\nRoose, to praise, to conmiend\\nRoosty, rusty\\nRoun round in the circle of\\nneighbourhood\\nRoupet, hoarse, as with a cold\\nRouthie, plentiful\\nRow, to roll, to wrap\\nRow t, rolled, wrapped\\nRowte, to low, to bellow\\nRowth, or routh, plenty\\nRowtin, lowing\\nRozet, rosin\\nRung, a cudgel\\nRunkled, wrinkled\\nRunt, the stem of colewort or\\ncabbage\\nRuth, a woman s name; th#\\nj book so called; sorrow\\nI Ryke, to reach\\nSAE, so\\nSaft, soft\\nSair, to serve; a sore\\nSairly, or sairlie, sorely\\nSair t, served\\nSark, a shirt; a shift\\nSarkit, provided in shirt*\\nSaugh, the willow\\nSaul, soul\\nSaumont, salmon\\nSaunt, a saint\\nSaut, salt, adj, salt\\nSaw, to sow\\nSawin, sowing\\nSax, six\\nScaith, to damage, to Injnrti\\ninjury\\nScar, a cliff\\nScaud, to scald\\nScauld, to scold\\nScaur, apt to be scared\\nScawl, a scold; a termagant\\nScon, a cake of bread\\nSconner, a loathing; to loathd\\nScraich, to scream as a hen,\\npartridge, c.\\nScreed, to tear; a rent\\nScrieve, to glide swiftly along\\nScrievin, gleesomely; swiftly\\nScrimp, to scant\\nScrimpet, did scant; scanty\\nSee d, did see\\nSeizin, seizing\\nSel, self; a body s sel, one s self\\nalone\\nSell t, did sell\\nSen to send\\nSen t, I, c. sent, or did send\\nit; send it\\nServan servant\\nSettlin settlin; to get a settlln,\\nto be frighted into quietness\\nSets, sets off, goes away\\nShachled, distorted; shapeless\\nShaird, a shred, a shard\\nShangan, a stick cleft at on\u00c2\u00ab\\nend for putting the tail of a\\ndog, c., into, by way of mis-\\nchief, or to frighten him away\\nShaver, a humorous wag; a bar-\\nber\\nShaw, to show; a small woo4\\nin a hollow", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0505.jp2"}, "506": {"fulltext": "474\\nGLOSSARY.\\nSheen, bright, siiining\\nSheep-shank; to think one s self\\nnae sheep-shank, to be con-\\nceited\\nSherra-muir, Sheriff-moor, the\\nfamous battle iou,a:ht in the\\nrebellion, A. D. 1715\\nSheugh, a ditch, a trench, a\\nsluice\\nShiel, a shed\\nShill, shiiil\\nShog, a shock; a push off at one\\nside\\nShool, shovel\\nShoon, shoes\\nShore, to offer, to threaten\\nShor d, offered\\nShouther, the shoulder\\nShure, did bhear, shore\\nSic, such\\nSicker, sure, steady\\nSidelins, sidelong, slanting\\nSiller, silver; money\\nSimmer, summer\\nSin, a son\\nSin since\\nSkaith. See Scaith\\nSkellum, a worthless fellow\\nSkelp, to strike, to slap; to\\nwalk with a smart tripping\\nstep; a smart stroke\\nSkelpie-limmer, a reproachful\\nterm in female scolding\\nSkelpin, stepping, walking\\nSkiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice,\\nhighmettled\\nSkinkiin, a small portion\\nSkirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly\\nSkirling, shrieking, crying\\nSkirl t, shrieked\\nSklent, slant; to run aslant, to\\ndeviate from truth\\nSklented, ran, or hit, in an ob-\\nlique direction\\nSkouth, freedom to converse\\nwithout restraint range,\\nscope\\nSkriegh, a scream; to scream\\nSkyrin, shining; making a great\\nshov/\\nSkyte, force, very forcible mo-\\ntion\\nSlae, a sloe\\nSlade, did slide\\nSlap, a gate; a breach in a fence\\nSlaver, saliva; to emit saliva\\nSlaw, slow\\nSlee, sly; sleest, sliest\\nSleekit, sleek; sly\\nSiiddery, slippery\\nSlype, to fall over, as a wet fuB\\nrovv^ from the plough\\nSlypet, fell\\nSma small\\nSmeddum, dust, powder; met*\\ntie, sense\\nSmiddy, a smithy\\nSmoor, to smother\\nSmoor d, smothered\\nSmoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly\\nSmytrie, a numerous collection\\nof small individuals\\nSnapper, to stumble; a stumble\\nSnash, abuse. Billingsgate\\nSnaw, snow; to snow\\nSnaw-broo, melted snow\\nSnawie, snowy\\nSneck, snick, the latch of a door\\nSued, to lop, to cut off\\nSneeshin, snuff\\nSneeshin-mill, a snuff-box\\nSnell, bitter, biting\\nSnick drawing, trick contriv-\\ning, crafty\\nSnii-tle, to laugh restrainedly\\nSnood, a ribbon for binding the\\nhair\\nSnool, one whose spirit is brok-\\nen with oppressive slavery; to\\nsubmit tamely, to sneak\\nSnoove, to go smoothly and\\nconstantly; to sneak\\nSnowk, to scent or snuff, as a\\ndog, ;c.\\nSnow kit, scented, snuffed\\nSonsle, having sweet, engaging\\nlooks; lucky, jolly\\nSoom, to swim\\nSooth, truth, a petty oath\\nSough, a heavy sigh, a sound\\ndying on the ear\\nSouple, flexible; swift\\nSouter, a shoemaker\\nSowens, a dish made of oatmeal;\\nthe seeds of oatmeal soured,\\nc., flummery\\nSovr[), a spoonful, a small quan-\\ntity of anything liquid\\nSowth, to try over a. tune withj\\na low whistle\\nSowther, solder; to solder, to\\ncement\\nSpae, to prophesy, to divine\\nSpaul, a limb", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0506.jp2"}, "507": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY,\\n475\\nSpairge, to dash, to soil, as with\\nmire\\nSpaviet, having the spavin\\nSpean, spane, to wean\\nSpeat, or spate, a sweeping tor-\\nrent, after rain or thaw\\nSpeel, to climb\\nSpence, the country parlour\\nSpier, to ask, to inquire\\nSpier t, inquired\\nSplatter, a splutter, to splutter\\nSpleughan, a tobacco-pouch\\nSplore, a frolic; a noise, riot\\nSprackle, sprachle, to clamber\\nSprattle, to scramble\\nSpreckled, spotted, speckled\\nSpring, a quick air in music; a\\nScottish reel\\nSprit, a tough -rooted plant,\\nsomething like rushes\\nSprittie, full of spirits\\nSpunk, fire, mettle; wit\\nSpunkie, mettlesome, fiery;\\nwilx-o -wisp, or ignis fatuus\\nSpurtle, a stick, used in making\\noatmeal pudding or porridge\\nSquad, a crew, a party\\nSquatter, to flutter in water, as\\na wild duck\\nSquattle, to sprawl\\nSqueel, a scream, a screech; to\\nscream\\nStacher, to stagger\\nStack, a rick of com, hay, c.\\nStaggie, the diminutive of stag\\nStalwart, strong, stout\\nStan, to stand; stan t, did stand\\nStane, a stone\\nStang, an acute pain; a twinge;\\nto sting\\nStank, did stink; a pool of\\nstanding water\\nStap, stop\\nStark, stout\\nStartle, to run as cattle stung\\nby the gad-fly\\nJBtaumrel, a blockhead; half-\\nwitted\\nStaw, did steal; to surfeit\\nStech, to cram the belly\\nStechin, cramming\\nSteek, to shut; a stitch\\nSteer, to molest; to stir\\nSteeve, firm, compacted\\nStell, a still\\nSten, to rear as a horse\\nSten t, reared\\nStents, tribute; dues of any\\nkind\\nStey, steep; steyest, steepest\\nStibble, stubble; stibble-rig, the\\nreaper in harvest who takes\\nthe lead\\nStick an stow, totally, alto-\\ngether\\nStfle, a crutch; to halt, to limp\\nStimpart, the eighth part of a\\nWinchester bushel\\nStirk, a cow or bullock a year\\nold\\nStock, a plant or root of cole-\\nwort, cabbage, c.\\nStockin, a stocking; throwing\\nthe stockin, v/hen the bride\\nand bridegroom are put into\\nbed, and the candle out, the\\nformer throws a stocking at\\nrandom among the company,\\nand the person whom it\\nstrikes is the next that will\\nbe married\\nStoiter, to stagger, to stammer\\nStooked, made up in shocks as\\ncom\\nStoor, sounding hollow, strong,\\nand hoarse\\nStot, an ox\\nStoup, or stowp, a kind of jug\\nor dish with a handle\\nStoure, dust, more particularly\\ndust in motion\\nStowlins, by stealth\\nStown, stolen\\nStoyte, to stumble\\nStrack, did strike\\nStrae, straw: to die a fair strae\\ndeath, to die in bed\\nStraik, did strike\\nStraikit, stroked\\nStrappin, tall and handsome\\nStraught, straight; to straighten\\nStreek, stretched, tight; to\\nstretch\\nStriddle, to straddle\\nStroan, to spout, to piss\\nStuddie, an anvil\\nStumpie, diminutive of stump\\nStrunt, spinfno .is liqaor of any\\nkind; to v/alk sturdilj^, hufr,\\nsullenness\\nStuff, corn or p alse of any kind\\nSturt, tronble; to molest\\nSturtin, frighted\\nSucker, sugar", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0507.jp2"}, "508": {"fulltext": "476\\nGLOSSARY.\\nSud, should\\nSugh, the continued rushing\\nnoise of wind or water\\nSouthron, southern; an old\\nname for the English nation\\nSwaird, sward\\nSwall d, swelled\\nSwank, stately, jolly\\nSwankie, or swanker, a tight\\nstrappin young fellow or girl\\nSwap, an exchange; to barter\\nSwm, to swoon; a swoon\\nSwat, did sweat\\nSwatch, a sample\\nSwats, drink; good ale\\nSweaten, sweating\\nSweer, lazy, averse: dead-sweer,\\nextremely averse\\nSwoor, swore, did swear\\nSwinge, to beat, to whip\\nSwirl, a curve; an eddying blast,\\nor pool; a knot in wood\\nSwirlie, knaggie, full of knots\\nSwith, get away\\nSwither, to hesitate in choice;\\nan irresolute wavering in\\nchoice\\nSyne, since, ago; then\\nTACKETS, a kind of nails for\\ndriving into the heels of shoes\\nTae, a toe; three-tae d, having\\nthree prongs\\nTairge, a target\\nTak, to take; takin, taking\\nTamtallan, the name of a moun-\\ntain\\nTangle, a sea-weed\\nTap, the top\\nTapetless, heedless, foolish\\nTarrow, to murmur at one s al-\\nlowance\\nTarrow t, murmured\\nTarry-breeks, a sailor\\nTauld, or tald, told\\nTaupie, a foolish, thoughtless\\nyoung person\\nTauted, or tautie, matted to-\\ngether; spoken of hair or wool\\n5 awie, that allows itself peace-\\nably to be handled; spoken\\nof a horse, cow, c.\\nTeat, a small quantity\\nTeen, to provoke; provocation\\nTedding, spreading after the\\nmower\\nTen-hour s bite, a 8 Rg-ht feed to\\nthe horses wliile in the yoke,\\nin the forenoon\\nTent, a field-pulpit; heed, cau-\\ntion; to take heed; to tend ol\\nherd cattle\\nTentie, heedful, cautious\\nTentless, heedless\\nTeugh, tough\\nThack, thatch; thack an rap\u00c2\u00ab^\\nclothing necessaries\\nThae, these\\nThairms, small guts; fiddle-\\nstrings\\nThankit, thanked\\nTheekit, thatched\\nThegither, together\\nThemsel, themselves\\nThick, intimate, familiar\\nThieveless, cold, dry, spited;\\nspoken of a person s de-\\nmeanour\\nThir, these\\nThirl, thriU\\nThirled, thrilled, vibrated\\nThole, to suffer, to endure\\nThowe, a thaw; to thaw\\nTnowless, slack, lazy\\nThrang, throng, a crowd\\nThrapple, throat, windpipe\\nThrave, twenty-four sheaves or\\nor two shocks of com; a con-\\nsiderable number\\nThraw, to sprain, to twist; tc\\ncontradict\\nThrawin, twisting, fec.\\nThrawn, sprained, twisted; con-\\ntradicted\\nThreap, to maintain by dint ol\\nassertion\\nThreshin, thrashing\\nThreteen, thirteen\\nThristle, thistle\\nThrough, to go on with; to\\nmake out\\nThrouther, pell-mell, confused-\\nThud, to make a loud, Inter\\nmittent noise\\nThumpit, thumped\\nThysel, thyself\\nTiU t, to it\\nTimmer, timber\\nTine, to lose; tint, lost\\nTinkler, a tinker\\nTint the gate, lost the way\\nTip, a ram", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0508.jp2"}, "509": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY.\\nm\\ntippence, twopence\\nTirl, to make a eligM noise; to\\nuncover\\nTirlin, uncovering\\nTither, the other\\nTittle, to whisper\\nTittlin, whispering\\nTocher, marriage portilon\\nTod, a fox\\nToddle, to totter, like the walk\\nof a child\\nToddlin, tottering\\nToom, empty; to empty\\nToop, a ram\\nToun, a hamlet; a farm-house\\nTout, the blast of a horn or\\ntrumpet; to blow a horn, c.\\nTow, a rope\\nTowmond, a twelvemonth\\nTowzie, rough, shaggy\\nToy, a very old fashion of fe-\\nmale head-dress\\nToyte, to totter like old age\\nTransmugrified, transmigrated,\\nmetamorphosed\\nTrashtrie, trash\\nTrews, trowsers\\nTrickle, full of tricks\\nTrig, spruce, neat\\nrrinily, excellently\\nTrcw, to believe\\nFrowth, truth, a petty oath\\nfryste, an appomtment; a fair\\nTrysted, appointed; to tryste,\\nto make an appointment\\nTry t, tried\\nTug, raw hide^ D* which in old\\ntimes plougi- ^races were fre-\\nquently ro^xJv\\nTulzie, a qvA* i el; to quarrel, to\\nfight\\nTwa, two\\nTw%-t :e a few\\n\u00e2\u0080\u00a2T^TP^, n vould\\nT vA^ t\\\\valve; twal-pennie-\\n^orth, a small quantity, a\\npennyworth. N.B. One pen-\\nny English is 12d. Scotch\\nT jirin, to part\\nTyke, a dog\\nUNCO, strange, uncouth; very,\\nvery great, prodigious\\nUncos, news\\nUnkenn d, unknown\\nUnsieker, unsure, unsteady\\nUnskaith d,undamaged unhurt\\nUnweeting, unwittingly, un\u00c2\u00ab\\nknowingly\\nUpo upon\\nUrchin, a hedgehog\\nVAP RIN, vapouring\\nVera, very\\nVirl, a riig round a colmniii\\nc.\\nYittle, com of all kinds, food\\nWA wall; wa s, walls\\nWabster, a weaver\\nWad, would; to bet; a bet, a\\npledge\\nWadna, would not\\nWae, wo, sorrowful\\nWaefu*, woful, sorrowful, wail-\\ning\\nWaesucksl or waes me I alasl O\\nthe pity\\nWaft, the cross thread that\\ngoes from the shuttle througk\\nthe web; woof\\nWair, to lay out, to expend\\nWale, choice; to choose\\nWaled, chose, chosen\\nWalie, ample, large, jolly; also\\nan interjection of distress\\nWame, the belly\\nWamefu a bellyful\\nWanchancie, unlucky\\nWanrestfu restless\\nWark, work\\nWark-lume, a tool to work with\\nWarl, or warld, world\\nWarlock, a wizard\\nWarly, worldly, eager on amass-\\ning wealth\\nWarran, a warrant; to warrant\\nWarst, worst\\nWarstl d or warsVd, wrestled\\nWastrie, prodigality\\nWat, wet; I wat, I wot, I know\\nWater-brose, bro-e made of\\nmeal and water simply, with-\\nout the addition of milk,\\nbutter, c.\\nWattle, a twig, a wand\\nWauble, to swing, to reel\\nWaught, a draugnt\\nWaukit, thickened as fuller!\\ndo cloth\\nWaukrife, not apt to sleep\\nWaur, worse; to worst\\nWaur t, worsted\\nWean, or weanle, a child", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0509.jp2"}, "510": {"fulltext": "478\\nGLOSSARY,\\nVVearie, or weary; many a weary\\nbody, mp.ny a different persoii\\nWeason, ^easand\\nWeaving the stocking. Ece\\nStockm, p. 475\\nWee, little; Wee things, little\\nones; W^ee bit, a small matter\\nWeel, well; W^eelfare, welfare\\nWeet, rain, wetness\\nWeird, fate\\nWe se, we shall\\nWha, who\\nWhaizle, to wheeze\\nWhalpit, whelped\\nWhang, a leathern string; a\\npiece of cheese, bread, c.;\\nto give the strappado\\nWhare, where; Whare er, wher-\\never\\nWheep, to fiy nimbly, jerk^\\npenny-wheep, small beer\\nWnase. whose\\nWhatreck, nevertheless\\nWhid, the motion of a hare\\nrunning, but not frighted; a\\nlie\\nWhiddin, running as a hare or\\ncony\\nWhigmeleeries, whims, fancies,\\ncrotchets\\nWhingin, crying, compiaining,\\nfretting\\nWhirligigums, useless orna-\\nments, trifling appendages\\nWhissle, a whistle; to whistle\\nWhisht, silence; to hold one s\\nwhisht, to be silent\\nWhisk, to sweep, to lash\\nWhiskit, lashed\\nWhitter, a hearty draught of\\nliquor\\nWhun-stane, a whin-stone\\nWhyles, whiles, sometimes\\nWi with\\nWieht, wight, powerful, strong;\\ninventive; of a superior gen-\\nius\\nV/lck, to strike a stone in an\\noblique direction; a term in\\ncurling\\nWicker, willow (the smaller\\nsort)\\nWiel, a small whirlpool\\nWifie, a diminutive or endear-\\ning term for a wife\\nWilyo.rt, bashful and reserved,\\navoiding EOciety or appearing\\nawkward in it; wild, strange^\\ntimid\\nWimple, to meander\\nWimpl t, meandered\\nWimpiin, waving, meandering\\nWin, to win, to winnow\\nWin t, winded as a bottom ol\\nyam\\nWin wind; Win s, winds\\nWinna, will not\\nWinncck, a window\\nWinsome, heany vaunted, ffay\\nAViutle, a staggering motton;\\nto stagger, to reel\\nWinze, an oath\\nWiss, to wish\\nWithoutten, without\\nWizen d, hide-bound, dried,\\nshrunk\\nWonner, a wonder; a con-\\ntemptuous appellation\\nW^ons, dwells\\nWoo wool\\nWoo, to couri, to make love to\\nWoodie, a rope, more properly\\none made ot withes or willows\\nWooer bab, the garter knotted\\nbelow the knee with a coupL\\nof loops\\nW^ordy, worthy\\nWorsst, worsted\\nW^ow, an exclamation of pleas-\\nure or wonder\\nWrack, to teaze, to vex\\nWraith, a spirit or ghost; an\\napparition exactly like a liv-\\ning person, whose appear-\\nance is said to forebode the\\nperson s approaching death\\nV\\\\ rang, wrong; to wrong\\nWreeth, a drifted heap of snow\\nWud, mad, distracted\\nWumble, a wimble\\nWyle, to beguile\\nWyliecoat, a flannel vest\\nWyte, blame; to blame\\nYAD, an old mare; a worn-out\\nhorse\\nYe; this pronoun is frequently\\nused for thou\\nYearns, longs much\\nYearlings, born in the samt\\nyear, coevals\\nYear is used both for singulai\\nMnd plural years", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0510.jp2"}, "511": {"fulltext": "GLOSSARY,\\n473\\nyearn, earn, an eagle, an os-\\npray\\nYell, barren, that gives no milk\\nYerk, to lash, to jerk\\nYerkit, jerked, lashed\\nYestreen, vestemlght\\nYett, a gate, such as is usually\\nat the entrance into a farm-\\nyard or Held\\nYill, ale\\nYird, earth\\nYokin, yoking; a bout\\nYont, beyond\\nYoursel, yourself\\nYowe, an ewe\\nYowie, diminutive of yowe\\nYule, Christmas\\nTHE ENB.", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0511.jp2"}, "512": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0512.jp2"}, "513": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0513.jp2"}, "514": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0514.jp2"}, "515": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4523", "width": "2860", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0515.jp2"}, "516": {"fulltext": "", "height": "4703", "width": "2941", "jp2-path": "poeticalworksofr11burn_0516.jp2"}}