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Thread: Robert Burns

  1. #1
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    Default Robert Burns

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

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

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

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

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

  2. #2
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    Default

    What a breath-taking moment when this was sung unaccompanied at the Opening of the Scottish Parliament in 1999....Everyone joined in.

  3. #3
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    Default Kate O'Shanter

    Yes, Trinkie a breath-taking moment indeed.

    Here's a modern alternative which I think is in praise of the Bard.

    Kate O’Shanter



    And where do you suppose, was Kate
    When market days were wearing late
    While Tam frequented wretched dives
    And fooled around with landlords’ wives
    And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
    And had an eye for handsome witches,
    Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
    And yelled and gave himself away
    And fled from there, amid the din
    And Maggie barely saved his skin??

    Not where you think!

    Kate slaved away, the livelong day
    They had so many bills to pay
    The twins just had to have new shoes
    And Tammie spent so much on booze.
    She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
    She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
    She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
    And what all else, God only knows!
    She keeps the house all neat and trim,
    And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
    A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
    Who does Tam’s work, while Tam’s away.


    She herds the sheep and cattle, too
    Feeds hens, milks cows, and when that’s through
    Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs –
    For Tam to sell on market day
    And drink the proceeds half away!
    In harvest time, from early morn,
    Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
    And many a sunny summer day
    She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
    When they got home, that night, at four
    And Maggie’d found the stable door
    Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
    To sleep it off, eight hours or more –
    He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
    Went through that nightmare ride again.


    About the middle of the day
    The livestock had a lot to say;
    The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
    Said we want food, and want it Now
    Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
    And saw Meg’s stump above his head.
    An awful thought ran through his brain.
    Oh Lord! That wasn’t hail and rain

    Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
    He was not clean, he was not neat
    He scraped off what he could, but when
    He’d found his way, from but to ben
    Tam stood dumfounded: ‘What the hell’
    Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.


    But Kate had left a note for him:
    I’ve sailed for Montreal, with Jim
    And we expect to settle soon
    Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
    Forgive me Tam, and don’t be sore –
    I couldn’t take it anymore
    I had to find a better way
    Before I’d slaved my youth away.
    I had to try to save myself –
    You’ll find the oatmeal on the shelf –
    Don’t fash yoursell’ about the twins
    I might as well confess, they’re Jim’s….


    Written by
    Seanair
    Melbourne Australia
    Published in Scottish Field January 1993

  4. #4
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    Default A Celebration Of The Bard Of Scottish Nation

    A Celebration Of The Bard Of Scottish Nation
    It’s my pleasant inclination
    To give humorous narration
    Re the females situation
    As part of obligation
    To the bard of Scottish Nation
    For your further delectation

    As a form of explanation
    The shape of presentation
    Has been born of desperation
    With a bit of irritation
    And some intense concentration
    Whilst awaiting inspiration

    So the main manifestation
    Will amuse your contemplation
    And give super satisfaction
    With no harassment infraction
    And no active prosecution
    But meet every expectation

    In this case it’s not narration
    Of some Robert Burns quotation
    There need be no consternation
    As our ultimate destination
    Is a substantial libation
    Of a Celtic distillation

    Now Robert Burns intention
    Was some covert observation
    Of some skirt/leg titillation
    Or of hip/thigh revelation
    And some manly rumination
    Plus some quiet contemplation

    Though with a predilection
    For intense inebriation
    With a whisky-like concoction
    His poetic creation
    Gained some serious publication
    And resulted in attraction

    The ladies of the Nation
    Who received young Burns’ attention
    Found some intense stimulation
    And unplanned fertilisation
    Leading to much procreation
    With the bard’s participation

    Now the Kirk of Scottish nation
    When it heard his aberration
    Of carnal multiplication
    Considered it abomination
    And placed him in the station
    To endure humiliation

    What a dreadful situation
    A public exposition
    Cos of love struck agitation
    And a steady accumulation
    Of unwed bedtime action
    And horizontal agitation

    I’m recommending congregation
    To the female situation
    And to further reproduction
    For the future of our nation
    In the fine anticipation
    Of our work-related pension

    So here is my summation
    All the girls need adoration
    And romantic inspiration
    Burns memory needs retention
    But remember – celebration
    Of the feminine condition!
    Working On Behalf Of The Community!

  5. #5
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    Default Celebration

    I love it - so very clever. Thank you.

    I must admit I have been sitting here trying to reply in a more clever way,
    but it just wont come. ( Another minor problem has raised it's ugly head this morning and sapped the last few remaining sparks of intelligence from within my old head.)


    More please.
    Trinkie

  6. #6
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    Default

    as brilliantly done as Benjamin Zephaniah himself could have rhymed it

  7. #7
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    Default From The Burds To The Laddies...

    Ye Scottish men, will ye lend me an ear
    If you can separate yourself from your beer
    Or tear yourself from the TV screen
    From Thurso Toun to Aberdeen

    From Edinburgh to Glasgow
    We thought that we’d just let you know
    We girls are sick to teeth of waiting
    For promised shelves and decorating

    For Christmas buy me drills and screws
    And let me gorge and binge on booze
    Since Carol Smiley led the way
    We’re Do It Yourself girls every day

    Quite angry now is how we’re feeling
    So we’ve broken through the old glass ceiling
    Whereas before we would stay at home
    Now high in the world of work we roam

    You can talk of Burns in modern time
    And though his words have rhythm and rhyme
    A view of girls as aggressive drinkers
    Misses the point, we’re sensible thinkers

    A family and a good career
    Can be balanced without fear
    A man on board adds to the fun
    But we can function in units of one

    No more days of wrinkles fear
    Cellulite there or saggy bits here
    These days we don’t wait man’s interest
    To consider implants upon our chest

    For far too long we have worried so
    No more! If you don’t like it, Go!
    I jest, the future of mankind
    Would fail if we left men behind

    And so, although we like a date
    And men to letch, appreciate
    Just see it from our point of view
    Respect as individuals from you?

    Listen boys, just think of this
    That girl is independent miss
    A muscled bum is not enough
    If you want to attract a bit of fluff

    Robert Burns wrote poems for boys
    But viewed his girls as more than toys
    On equal terms we lassies boast
    To men: Girls raise your glasses, TOAST!
    TO THE LADDIES!!!
    Last edited by Tubthumper; 04-Jun-07 at 23:19. Reason: Great big gap appeared
    Working On Behalf Of The Community!

  8. #8
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    Default Man was Made to Mourn by Robert Burns

    Man Was Made
    to Mourn</B>
    by Robert Burns
    (1759-1796)

    When chill November's surly blast
    Made fields and forests bare,
    One evening, as I wandered forth,
    Along the bank of Ayr,
    I spied a man, whose aged step
    Seemed weary, worn with care;
    His face was furrowed o'er with years,
    And hoary was his hair.


    "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"
    Began the reverend sage;
    "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
    Or youthful pleasure's rage?
    Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
    Too soon thou has began
    To wander forth, with me, to mourn
    The miseries of man!

    "The sun that overhangs yon moors,
    Outspreading far and wide,
    Where hundreds labor to support
    A haughty lordling's pride --
    I've seen yon weary winter sun
    Twice forty times return;
    And every time has added proof
    That man was made to mourn.

    "O man, while in the early years,
    How prodigal of time!
    Misspending all thy precious hours,
    Thy glorious youthful prime!
    Alternate follies take the sway:
    Licentious passions burn;
    Which ten-fold force gives nature's law,
    That man was made to mourn.

    "Look not alone on youthful prime,
    Or manhood's active might;
    Men then is useful to his kind
    Supported in his right;
    But see him on the edge of life,
    With cares and sorrows worn,
    Then age and want, O ill-matched pair!
    Show man was made to mourn.

    "A few seem favorites of fate,
    In pleasure's lap carest;
    Yet think not all the rich and great
    Are likewise truly blest.
    But, oh, what crowds in every land
    Are wretched and forlorn!
    Through weary life this lesson learn --
    That man was made to mourn.

    "Many and sharp the numerous ills,
    Inwoven with our frame!
    More pointed still we make ourselves,
    Regret, remorse, and shame!
    And man, whose heaven-erected face
    The smiles of love adorn,
    Man's inhumanity to man
    Makes countless thousands mourn!

    "See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
    So abject, mean and vile,
    Who begs a brother of the earth
    To give him leave to toil;
    And see his lordly fellow-worm
    The poor petition spurn,
    Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife
    And help less offspring mourn.

    "If I'm designed you lording's slave --
    By nature's law designed --
    Why was a independent wish
    E'er planted in my mind?
    If not, why am I subject to
    His cruelty and scorn?
    Or why has man the will and power
    To make his fellow mourn?

    "Yet let not this too much, my son,
    Disturb thy youthful breast:
    This partial view of humankind
    Is surely not the last!
    The poor oppressed, yet honest man
    Had never, sure, been born,
    Had there not been some recompense
    To comfort those that mourn!

    "O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
    The kindest and the best!
    Welcome the hour my aged limbs
    Are laid with thee at rest!
    The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
    From pomp and pleasure torn;
    But, oh, a blest relief to those
    That weary-laden mourn!"
    Last edited by trinkie; 06-Dec-07 at 20:38. Reason: spelling

  9. #9
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    Default Robert Burns

    SWEET AFTON
    By R. Burns

    Flow gently sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
    Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise!
    My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream –
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

    Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
    Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
    Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear –
    I charge you – disturb not my slumbering fair!

    How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
    Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills!
    There daily I wander, as noon rises high,
    My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

    How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
    Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
    There oft, as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,
    The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

    Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
    And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
    How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
    As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave!

    Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
    Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
    My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream –
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream !



  10. #10
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    Default A Poet's Grace by R.Burns

    A POET’S GRACE.

    Before meat.

    O Thou, who kindly dost provide
    For ev’ry creature’s want !
    We bless the God of Nature wide
    For all Thy goodness lent.
    And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
    May never worse be sent
    But, whether granted or denied,
    Lord, bless us with content.


    After meat.

    O Thou, in whom we live and move,
    Who made the sea and shore,
    Thy goodness constantly we prove,
    And, grateful, would adore;
    And, if it please Thee, Power above!
    Still grant us with such store
    The friend we trust, the fair we love,
    And we desire no more.


  11. #11
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    Default

    Up In The Morning Early


    Up in the morning's no for me,
    Up in the morning early!
    When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
    I'm sure it's winter fairly!

    Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
    The drift is driving sairly,
    Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
    I'm sure it's winter fairly!

    Up in the morning's no for me,
    Up in the morning early!
    When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
    I'm sure it's winter fairly

    The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
    A' day they fare but sparely;
    And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
    I'm sure it's winter fairly!

    Up in the morning's no for me,
    Up in the morning early!
    When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw.
    I'm sure it's winter fairly

  12. #12
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    Default Not strictly Burns

    Apologies as this wasn't written by Burns...

    Kate O’Shanter



    And where do you suppose, was Kate
    When market days were wearing late
    While Tam frequented wretched dives
    And fooled around with landlords’ wives
    And rode poor Meg through mud and ditches
    And had an eye for handsome witches,
    Played Peeping Tom at Alloway
    And yelled and gave himself away
    And fled from there, amid the din
    And Maggie barely saved his skin??

    Not where you think!

    Kate slaved away, the livelong day
    They had so many bills to pay
    The twins just had to have new shoes
    And Tammie spent so much on booze.
    She bathed and clothed and fed the twins.
    She bakes the bread, she knits and spins.
    She does the wash, she mends the clothes,
    And what all else, God only knows!
    She keeps the house all neat and trim,
    And makes a lunch for ploughboy Jim-
    A neighbour lad, they hire by day,
    Who does Tam’s work, while Tam’s away.


    She herds the sheep and cattle, too
    Feeds hens, milks cows, and when that’s through
    Makes cheese and butter, gathers eggs –
    For Tam to sell on market day
    And drink the proceeds half away!
    In harvest time, from early morn,
    Her sickle reaps the oats and corn,
    And many a sunny summer day
    She and ploughboy Jim make hay.
    When they got home, that night, at four
    And Maggie’d found the stable door
    Tam tumbled, senseless on the floor
    To sleep it off, eight hours or more –
    He tossed and turned, mid hail and rain
    Went through that nightmare ride again.


    About the middle of the day
    The livestock had a lot to say;
    The chicken, donkey, goose and cow
    Said we want food, and want it Now
    Tam stirred upon his lowly bed
    And saw Meg’s stump above his head.
    An awful thought ran through his brain.
    Oh Lord! That wasn’t hail and rain

    Tam struggled slowly to his feet,
    He was not clean, he was not neat
    He scraped off what he could, but when
    He’d found his way, from but to ben
    Tam stood dumfounded: ‘What the hell’
    Fro Kate was gone, the twins as well.


    But Kate had left a note for him:
    I’ve sailed for Montreal, with Jim
    And we expect to settle soon
    Out on a farm near Saskatoon.
    Forgive me Tam, and don’t be sore –
    I couldn’t take it anymore
    I had to find a better way
    Before I’d slaved my youth away.
    I had to try to save myself –
    You’ll find the oatmeal on the shelf –
    Don’t fash yoursell’ about the twins
    I might as well confess, they’re Jim’s….


    Written by
    Seanair
    Melbourne Australia
    Published in Scottish Field January 1993





  13. #13
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    Default

    Scotch Drink

    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
    An' grate our lug:
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
    In glass or jug.

    O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
    Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
    In glorious faem,
    Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,
    To sing thy name!

    Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
    An' aits set up their awnie horn,
    An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,
    Perfume the plain:
    Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
    Thou king o' grain!

    On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
    In souple scones, the wale o' food!
    Or tumbling in the boiling flood
    Wi' kail an' beef;
    But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
    There thou shines chief.

    Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
    Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
    When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;
    But oil'd by thee,
    The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,
    Wi' rattlin glee.

    Thou clears the head o' doited Lear,
    Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
    Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
    At's weary toil;
    Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair
    Wi' gloomy smile.

    Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
    Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
    Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,
    The poor man's wine:
    His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
    Thou kitchens fine.

    Thou art the life o' public haunts:
    But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
    Even godly meetings o' the saints,
    By thee inspired,
    When, gaping, they besiege the tents,
    Are doubly fired.

    That merry night we get the corn in,
    O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!
    Or reekin on a New-Year mornin
    In cog or bicker,
    An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
    An' gusty sucker!

    When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
    An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
    O rare! to see thee fizz an freath
    I' th' lugget caup!
    Then Burnewin comes on like death
    At ev'ry chaup.

    Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
    The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
    Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
    The strong forehammer,
    Till block an' studdie ring an' reel,
    Wi' dinsome clamour.

    When skirlin weanies see the light,
    Thou make the gossips clatter bright,
    How fumbling cuifs their dearies slight;
    Wae worth the name!
    Nae howdie gets a social night,
    Or plack frae them.

    When neebors anger at a plea,
    An' just as wud as wud can be,
    How easy can the barley-brie
    Cement the quarrel!
    It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
    To taste the barrel.

    Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason,
    To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
    But monie daily weet their weason
    Wi' liquors nice,
    An' hardly, in a winter season,
    E'er spier her price.

    Wae worth that brandy, burnin trash!
    Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
    Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
    O' half his days;
    An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
    To her warst faes.

    Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
    Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
    Poor, plackless deils like mysel!
    It sets you ill,
    Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
    Or foreign gill.

    May gravels round his blather wrench,
    An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,
    Wha twists his gruntle wi a glunch
    O' sour disdain,
    Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch
    Wi' honest men!

    O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
    Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
    When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
    Are my poor verses!
    Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks
    At ither's arses!

    Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
    Scotlands lament frae coast to coast!
    Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
    May kill us a';
    For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
    Is taen awa!

    Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
    Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
    Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
    There, seize the blinkers!
    An' bake them up in brunstane pies
    For poor damn'd drinkers.

    Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
    Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
    An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
    Tak a' the rest,
    An' deal't about as thy blind skill
    Directs thee best.

  14. #14
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    Default Ae Fond Kiss

    Ae Fond Kiss

    Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
    Ae farewell, and then forever!
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

    Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
    While the star of hope she leaves him?
    Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,
    Dark despair around benights me.

    I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:
    Naething could resist my Nancy!
    But to see her was to love her,
    Love but her, and love for ever.

    Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
    Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
    Never met - or never parted --
    We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

    Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
    Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
    Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
    Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!

    Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
    Ae farewell, alas, for ever!
    Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
    Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

  15. #15
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    Default Burns

    A SONNET UPON SONNETS.

    Fourteen, a sonneteer thy praises sings,
    What magic myst’ries in that number lie !
    Your hen hath fourteen eggs beneath her wings,
    That fourteen chickens to the roost may fly.
    Fourteen full pounds the jockey’s stone must be;
    His age fourteen – a horse’s prime is past.
    Fourteen long hours too oft the Bard must fast;
    Fourteen bright bumpers – bliss he ne’er must see !
    Before fourteen, a dozen yields the strife;
    Before fourteen – e’en thirteen’s strength is vain.
    Fourteen good years – a woman gives us life,
    Fourteen good men - we lose that life again.
    What lucubrations can be more upon it ?
    Fourteen good measur’d verses make a sonnet .
    …………………………………………………….

    TRAGIC FRAGMENT

    All villain as I am – a damned wretch,
    A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting sinner –
    Still my heart melts at human wretchedness,
    And with sincere, tho’ unavailing, sighs
    I view the helpless children of distress.
    With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
    Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction,
    Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
    Ev’n you, ye hapless crew ! I pity you.
    Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
    Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
    Whom Vice, as usual, has turned o’er to ruin.
    Oh! But for friends and interposing Heaven,
    I had been driven forth, like you forlorn,
    The most detested, worthless wretch among you !
    O injured God! Thy goodness has endow’d me
    With talents passing most of my compeers,
    Which I in just proportion have abused,
    As far surpassing other common villains
    As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
    ………………………………………………





    Holy Willie’s Prayer

    O Thou that in the Heavens does dwell,
    Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
    Sends ane to Heaven an’ ten to Hell
    A’ for Thy glory,
    And no for one guid or ill
    They’ve done before Thee !

    I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
    When thousands Thou hast left in night,
    That I am here before Thy sight,
    For gifts an’ grace,
    A burning and a shining light
    To a’ this place.

    What was I, or my generation,
    That I should get sic exaltation ?
    I, wha deserved most just damnation,
    For broken laws,
    Sax thousand years ere my creation,
    Thro’ Adam’s cause !

    When from my mither’s womb I fell,
    Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell,
    To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail
    In burning lakes,
    Whare damned devils roar and yell,
    Chain’d to their stakes.

    Yet I am here , a chosen sample,
    To show Thy grace is great and ample;
    I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,
    Strong as a rock,
    A guide, a buckler, and example,
    To a’ Thy flock !

    But yet, O Lord! Confess I must;
    At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;
    An’ sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
    Vile self gets in;
    But Thou remembers we are dust,
    Defiled wi’ sin.

    O Lord ! yestreen, Thou kens, wi’ Meg –
    Thy pardon I sincerely beg –
    O, may’t ne’er be a living plague
    To my dishonour !
    An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
    Again upon her.

    Besides, I farther maun avow –
    Wi Leezie’s lass, three times, I trow –
    But, Lord, that Friday I was fou,
    When I cam near her.
    Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
    Wad never steer her.

    Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
    Buffet Thy servant e’en and morn,
    Lest he owre proud and high should turn
    That he’s sae gifted;
    If sae, Thy han maun e’en be borne
    Until Thou lift it.

    Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
    For here Thou has a chosen race !
    But God confound their stubborn face
    An’ blast their name,
    Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
    An’ open shame !

    Lord, mind Gau’n Hamilton’s deserts;
    He drinks as swears, as plays at cartes,
    Yet has sae monie takin arts
    Wi’ great and sma’
    Frae God’s ain Priest the peoples hearts
    He steals awa.

    And when we chasten’d him therefore,
    Tho kens how he bred sic a splore,
    And set the warld in a roar
    O’ laughin at us;
    Curse Thou his basket and his store,
    Kail an potatoes !

    Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r
    Against that Presbyt’ry of Ayr !
    Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
    Upo’ their heads !
    Lord, visit them, an’ dinna spare
    For their misdeeds !

    O Lord, my God ! that glib-tongu’d Aiken
    My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
    To think how we stood sweatin and shakin
    An’ pish’d wi dread,
    While he, wi’ hingin lip an’ snakin
    Held up his head.

    Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him !
    Lord, visit him wha did employ him !
    And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
    Nor hear their pray’r.
    But for Thy people’s sake destroy them,
    An dinna spare !

    But Lord, remember me and mine
    Wi’ mercy temporal and divine,
    That I for grace an’ gear may shine
    Excell’d by nane;
    And a’ the glory shall be Thine –
    Amen, Amen !





  16. #16
    Join Date
    Sep 2001
    Location
    East Pictopia
    Posts
    3,966

    Default

    Happy Birthday Rabbie...

    Address to a Haggis...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



    Reply From a Haggis
    J.G.Farrell.

    O' (your name) man, ye addressed me weel,
    Which so befits a hielan' chiel,
    And tho' like you I'm far frae hame,
    I sure achieved my share of fame.

    I never thocht I'd see the day,
    I'd grace a trencher doon this way,
    In the brawest club in your toon,
    Tho' mony a mile frae bonny Doon.

    Once fit for only rustic table,
    I now enjoy a five star label,
    No longer classed as peasant grub
    For now I grace the (your name) table.

    I'm sometimes scorned by snobbish folks,
    And the butt of corny jokes,
    Such folks and jokes are unco phony,
    Now I'm acclaimed by Egon Ronay.

    The Power who made mankind her care,
    Set me above all other fare,
    For Scotland's sake I'll keep this place,
    An' aye be Chieftain of the pudden' race.

    So to all you Braw Scots lads & lassies
    That here tonight I see,
    Uphold auld Scotias good fair name,
    And from me - "Bon Appetite"


    After The Haggis
    Anon.

    Oh what a sleekit horrible beastie
    Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
    Just as ye sit doon among yer kin
    There sterts tae stir an enormous wind

    The neeps and tatties and mushy peas
    Stert workin like a gentle breeze
    But soon the puddin wi the sauncie face
    Will have ye blawin all ower the place

    Nae matter whit the hell ye dae
    A'bodys gonna have tae pay
    Even if ye try tae stifle
    Its like a bullet oot a rifle

    Hawd yer bum tight tae the chair
    Tae try and stop the leakin air
    Shift yersel fae cheek tae cheek
    Pray tae God it disnae reek.

    But aww yer efforts go asunder
    Oot it comes like a clap o thunder
    Ricochets aroon the room
    Michty me a sonic boom

    God almighty it fairley reeks
    Hope I huvnae shat ma breeks
    Tae the bog I better scurry
    Aww whit the hell, its no ma worry.

    A'body roon aboot me chokin
    Wan or two are nearly bokin
    Ill feel better for a while
    Cannae help but raise a smile

    Wis him! I shout with accusin glower
    Alas too late, he's just keeled ower
    Ya durty buggar they shout and stare
    Ah dinnae feel welcome anymair

    Where e're ye go let yer wind gan' free
    Sounds like just the job fur me
    Whit a fuss at Rabbies perty
    Oower the sake o' wan wee ferty.

  17. #17
    Join Date
    Aug 2007
    Location
    Wick
    Posts
    308

    Default

    The tears of laughter are rolling down my face!

  18. #18
    Join Date
    Nov 2005
    Location
    Over the pond, but not quite over the hill yet
    Posts
    2,806

    Default

    Oh Rabbie oor bard, I come here awfae late
    Ma lang work day prevailed, an' jist couldna wait
    When I wrote doon the date, I'll admit I thocht o' ye
    Ma hairt is in ma hameland, that's whaur I'd raither be!

    I'm a lang way fae hame, I canna deny it
    Yer a lang time deid, ma handsome Scottish poet
    But yer mem'ry lives on, rest assured we'll ne'er forget ye
    Yer poetry still arouses, and fills Scots hairts wi' glee!

    So dear Rab, tae ye I drink a toast
    Oor very ain bard, of whom we like tae boast
    Yer the pride an' joy o' a proud Scottish nation
    Lang live yer mither tongue, an' written inspiration!
    I am living for today, always remembering yesterday, and looking forward to tomorrow!

  19. #19
    Join Date
    Jan 2003
    Posts
    1,941

    Default Robert Burns


    Weel Rabbie we hed a grand nicht
    Wi company jist aboot richt
    Frae Holy Willie till Kate o’ Shanter
    The room wis fu’ o’ plenty banter
    The Scotch wis flowing –
    The Haggis jist fine
    We said the Grace as we sat doon till dine.
    Then Up in the Morning till dotter
    Doon aroon’ by Afton Water,
    We pit on oor bonnets
    An said a few sonnets
    Nodded ‘Good Mornin’’ till Leezie’s daughter,
    Then all too soon twas time till pert
    As some Mad soul left off a big fert.
    Wi Ae Fond Kiss as each did sever
    For Ye we’ll mind forever and ever.


  20. #20
    Join Date
    Jun 2004
    Location
    Caithness
    Posts
    4,922

    Default e' Ode tae a moos'

    Great thread Trinkie - thank you! I did try to post my favourite and (for me and a few others here) the most topical of Rabbie's works yesterday. However, the spacing became messed up when I copied & pasted and I did not have time to correct it.

    I'm sure the Bard himself would forgive me for posting this late, given that we can now purchase Easter Eggs in December.

    To a Mouse
    Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
    O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
    Wi bickering brattle!
    I wad be laith to rin an chase thee,
    Wi murdering pattle!

    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
    Has broken Nature's social union,
    An justifies that ill opinion,
    Which makes thee startle
    At me, thy poor, earth-born companion.
    An fellow mortal!

    I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
    A daimen icker in a thrave
    'S a sma request;
    I'll get a blessin wi the lave,
    An never miss't!

    Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
    Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
    An naething, now, to big a new ane,
    O foggage green!
    An bleak December's win's ensuin.
    Baith snell an keen!

    Thou saw the fields laid bare an waste,
    An weary winter comin fast.
    An cozie here, beneath the blast,
    Thou thought to dwell,
    Till crash! the cruel coulter past
    Out thro thy cell.

    That wee bit heap o leaves an stibble,
    Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble.
    But house or hald,
    To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
    An cranreuch cauld!

    But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain:
    The best-laid schemes o mice an men
    Gang aft agley,
    An lea'e us nought but grief an pain,
    For promis'd joy!

    Still thou art blest, compar'd wi me!
    The present only toucheth thee:
    But och! I backward cast my e'e,
    On prospects drear!
    An forward, tho I canna see,
    I guess an fear!

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