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Thread: Robert Burns

  1. #21
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    Default Robert Burns

    ROBERT BURNS
    To the Immortal Memory.
    By Robert MacKay aka The Caithness Violinist

    From a Caithness Courier c. 1943.

    We who appreciate the Bard
    Must show this day our deep regard
    To Robert Burns, poet and peasant
    Although no more with us he’s present.

    Let’s sing his songs with mirth and glee,
    As Scotsmen should you will agree;
    Let ‘Tam O’Shanter’ then be given
    Followed by ‘To Mary in Heaven.’

    To Rab we owe a debt unpaid,
    Let’s pay it now, each man and maid,
    Give all the honour that you can
    To Robert Burns, the poet man.

    His name shall live, though we may die,
    Through time and through posterity,
    The name of Burns, will ever be
    Sacred to Scots, where’er they be.
    ………………………………….

    THE BARD
    This tribute inspired by the Caithness Violinist.
    C.C. 1950

    His fame has spread o’er all the earth,
    A son of humble parents he,
    But by his wisdom, worth and wit,
    He’ll live for all posterity.

    None handles now his facile pen,
    Or rouses up our Scottish pride,
    Another Burns must rise again,
    To wield the pen he’s laid aside.

    But who, or what, or where is he,
    That could portray on parchment scroll,
    The poems and songs that seem to me,
    The essence of the poetic soul.

    Such was our Bard Immortal Burns,
    Such was the man, the Poet and Brother.
    Though centuries unborn returns,
    I fear we’ll never get another.
    ……………………………………..



    ANITHER SONG FOR ROBIN !
    Dedicated to the Northern Burns Society
    By C Sinclair.
    CC 1952

    Anither song for Robin, auld Scotland’s lyric king,
    Wi’ loyal he’rt that’s throbbin’, to his memory we’ll sing.
    Far had we been without him, for his songs hev blest wur days,
    We as bairns aye heard aboot him, when wur mithers sang his lays !

    Chorus.
    O there’s non’ hev sung lek Robin
    Ower the world fond he’rts are throbbin,
    As the home-songs aye, keep bobbin ,
    And his lyrics charm life’s day !

    Deep in the he’rt o’ Scotland lies the thrill o’ "Auld Lang Syne,"
    And "Scots Wha Hae" through centuries in homeland lore will shine,
    "My Ain Kind Dearie" ne’er will fade, while youth an’ maid aspire,
    To reach the haven o’ their dream an find their soul’s desire.

    We’ve listened while he charmed us wi’ "The Banks o’ Bonnie Doon"
    "Lea Rig" and "John Anderson" he cannily did croon.
    "A Man’s a Man" and "Duncan Gray" will aye be to the fore,
    "The Bonnie Lass o’ Ballochmyle" we’ll evermore adore !

    Full weel he plied his shuttle as the matchless songs he wove,
    Rich threeds his soul did kittle, these he twined in songs o’ love.
    Nor a lover need hev bother in the wooin’ o’ his dear,
    He fae Robin’s mint micht gether, and the love’licht clear !

    "When man to man wad brithers be" in that he did foresee,
    The nations, then at heids an thraws, set in felicity,
    A world transformed by kindness, and the graces it commands,
    The life, as ‘twas intended would thrive in distand lands !
    ……………………………………………………………….

    ROBERT BURNS.

    Wha’s this I see among the fields of Ayr,
    Sae blithely singin’ be it foul or fair?
    A plooman – ay, but sharely something mair,
    Sae sweet he sings.

    It’s maist o’ humble folk, an floors an’ things –
    A cottar, fieldmouse, daisy – that he sings,
    But thro his sangs a wealth o’ passion rings,
    An’ simple love.

    He lo’es the lassies and in lichter moods,
    Tells sweetly o lang walks thro’ fields and woods,
    He’d lichtsome barter a’ his wardly goods,
    For love o’ them !

    Nae preacher he, nor claims a saint tae be,
    But aye he praises honest piety,
    And hates pretence, and mocks hypocrisy,
    Wi’ biting scorn.

    Wi’ patriots fire, tae Caledonia’s praise –
    Her grandeur, glory, worth – he tunes his lays.
    In mony a noble verse glad homage pays,
    Wi’ native pride.

    But higher still his aspirations rise :
    He dreams o’ warld-conjoinin’ bonds and ties
    O’ brotherhood. Wi’ pleading voice he cries
    For peace on earth.

    Lang years hae gane sin’ mortal Robbie passed
    Ayont oor ken; but, destined aye tae last,
    His spirit lives, his voice still speaks tae vast
    Far-scattered hosts.

    O may his presence fill this hall this birthday nicht;
    O may he shed his winsome, cheerin, fairy licht
    On a’ oolr he’rts, an gie’s ance mair a p[assin sicht
    O’ Scotland ever dear!
    ……………………………………………………..

    THE LASSIES
    The toast by C. Begg 1950.

    Chairman, an cronies at ma haun,
    A sair mis-shanter’s me befaun,
    For hire fornent ye A maun staan
    Tae Toast th’ Lasses;
    Th’ blyth an bonny, din an thrawn
    So chairg yer glasses.

    It’s no but A feel honoured tae,
    But fient a thing hae tae say
    So A’ll just chaunt a hammel lay
    In Robbie’s verse,
    Ma tribute, albins, A may pay
    Tho’ geven wersh.

    Pandora, who hes weel been ca’d
    A foosum, interferan’ jaud,
    Flang back her box-lid, wi’ a daud,
    An, och-an-nay !
    Loot out upon th’ warld a chaud,
    O dool an’ wae.

    An Eve, when a’ th’ warld was young –
    Th’ limmer should hev got a roung !
    Clan fell for Auld Nick’s slicked toung –
    Th’ buck depicts it !
    An’ feckless Adam first got stung –
    An’ then evictid.

    Far a’ th’ evils man is heir
    We hev tae thank that thowless pair,
    An’ but for them – just think od – where
    Wad ye be noo ?
    In bliss ye only could compare
    Wi getting foo !

    But ‘Dora, as ye mind nae doot,
    Sat thingan how she came tae do’t
    Heard in her box the faintest toot
    O’ a wee voice
    Rev up the lid an’ let Hope oot
    Th’ world t’ rejoice.

    An Adam hadna time tae pass
    Th’ rosy apple ower his lass
    Afore ke kent his Evie was,
    Richt weel worth seean
    An love between a land an lass
    Cam in tae bean !

    So tho the Lassies brocht us wae
    Still for them there is this to say !
    The price wis no ower high tae pay
    For what their thore is.
    Resplendant Hope and Love’s sweet way –
    Life’s greatest glories !

    So here’s tae them wha rule our life,
    Tae ma mither, sister, sweethe’rt, wife
    Th’ source or bliss, th’ cause o’ strife!
    Wha nane surpasses,
    So – while ‘guid spirits’ here is rife –
    I gie – The Lasses.

    An just afore A sit me doon –
    An faith, it cann be ower soon –
    A couple wi ma rustice rune,
    Ma ragged wheath,
    Th’ Provost o’ th’ tppn
    Miss Bessie Leith.
    ………………………………………….

    WE’RE KAITNESS FOWK FOR A’ THAT.
    A new song to an old lilt.
    From the JOG 1923

    Is there a fyarter fae ‘e north
    Fa hides his birth an a that,
    An blushes ‘cause his faither’s hoose
    Is thecked wi straw an a that ?
    For a that, an a that
    Wir modest crofts an a that,
    E foosum trosk, we pass him by –
    We’re Kaitness Fowk an a that !

    What though we toil in fishin boats,
    Howk tattie fields an a that,
    Or drive a cairtie till e hills
    A man’s a man for a that !
    For a that, an a that –
    Wir herrin nets an a that,
    Despise fa will wir canny ways
    We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that.

    Ye see yin shither dressed in spats,
    Fa scorns his nest an a that ?
    Though florin in a motor car,
    He’s no a man fort a that !
    For a that, an a that,
    His honours, blunt, an a that,
    Till hiz he’s jist a blostin feel –
    We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that.

    Oh, southern lands hev richer fields
    Wi floorags, trees an a that,
    I wudna gie a tattie bleem
    O Kaitness soil, for a that !
    For a that, an a that,
    Here’s til wirsels for a that !
    Though up or down, though far or dear,
    We’re Kaitness Fowk for a that !
    ……………………………………………

    My sincere thanks to a great freen who keeps sending me such wonderful Caithness Verses !
    A few names of authors still to be found - can anyone help here?
















  2. #22
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    Default Robert Burns

    The Loves that Robbie Missed.
    By Duncan Mackenzie, Beauly.

    To a Toast to the Lasses.
    From the Caithness Courier 1950

    The Loves that Robbie Missed.

    O Robbie, though loved your Hielan Mary,
    You never saw her on her native hill,
    Nor roamed with her through bonny purple heather,
    Or kissed her near her native mountain rill.

    O you never saw the treasures of the Highlands,
    That sparkle north of the Caledon canal
    Or viewed the sunrise over Kessock Ferry;
    Seen auld Ben Wyvis smile on Balliechaul.

    You saw not the beauties of Glen Affric,
    Nor trod the water side by old Strathglass,
    The golden eagle soar on Scuir-na-Lapaith
    Nor taste the lipstick of a Beauly Lass.

    Trod ye not with Cromach to the Highlands
    Or smelt and felt the tangle of the Isles
    You cuddled not the lassies sweet in my land
    And missed the glorious poetry of their smiles.

    You sailed not up the Minch to Isle o’Lewis
    Nor saw the West’ring Isles gleam in the sun,
    Ye heard not the poetry of the Islesmen,
    In Gaelic songs when day’s work is done.

    You viewed not the windings of the Beauly,
    Or on it’s banks, you never squeezed or kissed,
    O sorry for you Robbie, is yours truly
    To think of all the loves that you have missed.


  3. #23
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    Default Kate o Shanter

    I have just found some info on this poem -
    it was written by
    Seanair, Melbourne, Australia,

    published in the Scottish Field, Jany 1993.


    Thank you for submitting it Lavenderblue2

  4. #24
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    Default Robert Burns

    Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
    Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
    Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
    Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.

    Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !

    Trinkie

  5. #25
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    Default Robert Burns

    Duncan Gray
    By Robert Burns

    Duncan Gray cam here tae woo
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    On blythe Yule Night when we were fou
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
    Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
    Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh –
    Ha ha the wooing o’t.

    Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
    Grat his een baith bleer’d an’ blin’
    Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn –
    Ha ha the wooing o’t!

    Time and Chance are but a tide
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Slighted love is sair to bide
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    ‘Shall I like a fool’ quoth he
    ‘For a haughty hizzie die?
    She may gae to – France for me!’-
    Ha ha the wooing o’t.

    How it comes, let doctors tell
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
    (Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Something in her bosom wrings,
    For relief a sigh she brings,
    And O! her een they spak sic things!
    Ha ha the wooing o’t.

    Duncan was a lad o’ grace,
    ( Ha ha the wooin o’t)
    Maggie’s was a piteous case
    ( Ha ha the wooing o’t)
    Duncan could na be her death
    Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath,
    Now they’re crouse and canty baith –
    Ha ha the wooing o’t.


    " Robert Burns wrote the words in 1792.

    The lively tune ‘Duncan Gray’ as generally reported,
    was composed by Duncan Gray a Carter or Carman
    in Glasgow about the beginning of the last century (1700s)
    and the tune was taken down from his whistling it
    2 – 3 times a day, to a musician in that city.
    It is inserted in both the MacGibbon and
    Oswald’s Collections " taken from Songs of Scotland by G.F.Graham

  6. #26
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    Default Invitation

    Quote Originally Posted by trinkie View Post
    Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night.
    Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
    Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
    Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.

    Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !

    Trinkie

    Thank you for the Invitation Trinkie. I've had a wee practice on my boxie today - Ca' the Yowes etc... The cats enjoyed it, at least, they sang along!
    I think I'll bake a Whisky cake for the night.

    Looking in my book of Burns I found the following:

    Versified Reply To An Invitation.

    Sir,
    Yours this moment I unseal,
    And faith I’m gay and hearty!
    To tell the truth and shame the deil,
    I am as fou as Bartie:
    But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal,
    Expect me o’ your party,
    If on a beastie I can speel,
    Or hurl in a cartie.

    Yours,
    Robert Burns.

    Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o’clock.
    Last edited by Lavenderblue2; 14-Jan-09 at 17:41.

  7. #27
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    Default

    Quote Originally Posted by trinkie;
    Start brushing up your Burns again and let's have another good night......
    Everyone is invited to join in with a Burns verse or two.
    Your favourites are welcome as from today, and on the Big Night do come along and bring a dram.... Lavenderblue will bake a cake, and Moira some shortbread, all donations gratefully received.
    Dont forget to bring an instrument - pipes, boxie, clarsach, guitar - and the piano is at the ready.
    Of course Caithness verses relating to Burns are more than welcome - there are many !
    Trinkie
    I hate to tell you this Trinkie but I don't do very good shortbread. However, I reckon I could still pull a recognisable tune from a piano accordian and my hubby has a good stock of Old Pulteney (we can't stand the stuff btw).

    I've merged some threads here so it may seem we're all out of kilter, but some of us know better.

  8. #28
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    Default Robert Burns

    Corn Rigs are Bonnie
    By Robert Burns

    Chorus –
    Corn rigs an’ barley rigs,
    An corn rigs are bonie;
    I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,
    Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.

    It was upon a Lammas night
    When corn rigs are bonie
    Beneath the moon’s unclouded light
    I held awa to Annie.
    The time flew by, wi tentless heed,
    Till ‘tween the late and early,
    Wi sma persuasion she agreed,
    To see me thro’ the barley.

    The sky was blue, the wind was still,
    The moon was shining clearly
    I set her doon wi’ right good will
    Amang the rigs o’ barley.
    I kent her heart was a my ain,
    I lov’d her most sincerely,
    I kiss’d her owre and owre again
    Amang the rigs o’ barley.

    I lock’d her in my fond embrace
    Her heart was beating rarely,
    My blessing on that happy place,
    Amang the rigs o’ barley.
    But by the moon and stars so bright,
    That shone that hour so clearly!
    She ay shall bless that happy night
    Amang the rigs o barley.

    I hae been blythe wi comrades dear,
    I hae been merry drinking,
    I hae been joyfu’ gatherin gear,
    I hae been happy thinking,
    But a' the pleasures e’er I saw,
    Tho three times doubled fairly,
    That happy night was worth them a’
    Amang the rigs o’ barley.

    “ The above verses were written by Robert Burns in his earlier years,
    to the old tune of ‘Corn Rigs’
    It is said that Annie Ronald, was the inspirer of the song.
    The tune is a very old one, it appears in Craig’s Collection 1730.
    Craig was a very old man and one of the principle violin players
    at the Edinburgh Concerts in 1695.
    This tune was selected for a musical opera of ‘Polly’ beginning
    ‘Should I not be bold when honour calls’ printed c.1729 “

    taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahamn. C. 1860,

  9. #29
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    Default The Winter It Is Past

    I think this is a beautiful song - Burns words are used in the Irish Traditional folk song The Curragh of Kildare.

    The Winter It Is Past

    v. 1 and 2, written by Robert Burns in 1788;
    v.3 and 4 unknown

    The winter it is past,
    And the summers comes at last,
    And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree;
    The hearts of these are glad,
    While I am very sad,
    Since my true love is parted from me.

    The rose upon the breer,
    By the waters running clear,
    May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
    Their little loves are blest
    And their little hearts at rest,
    But my true love is parted from me.

    My love is like the sun,
    In the firmament does run,
    For ever constant and true;
    But his is like the moon
    That wanders up and down,
    And every month it is new.

    All you that are in love
    And cannot it remove,
    I pity the pains you endure:
    For experience makes me know
    That your hearts are full of woe,
    A woe no mortal can cure.

  10. #30
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    Default The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie.

    By Robert Burns.

    On giving her the accustomed ripp of
    corn to hansel in the new-year.

    A Guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!
    Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
    Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,
    I've seen the day
    Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie,
    Out-owre the lay.

    Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
    An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,
    I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
    A bonie gray:
    He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,
    Ance in a day.

    Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
    A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank:
    An' set weel down a shapely shank
    As e'er tread yird;
    An' could hae flown out-owre a stank
    Like onie bird.

    It's now some nine-an'-twenty year
    Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere;
    He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
    An' fifty mark;
    Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
    An' thou was stark.

    When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
    Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie:
    Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
    Ye ne'er was donsie;
    But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
    An' unco sonsie.

    That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
    When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
    An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
    Wi' maiden air!
    Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,
    For sic a pair.

    Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
    An' wintle like a saumont-coble,
    That day, ye was a jinker noble,
    For heels an' win'!
    An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
    Far, far behin'!

    When thou an' I were young and skiegh,
    An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh,
    How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh,
    An' tak the road!
    Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abiegh,
    An' ca't thee mad.

    When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
    We took the road ay like a swallow:
    At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
    For pith an' speed;
    But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
    Whare'er thou gaed.

    The sma, droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle
    Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
    But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
    And gar't them whaizle:
    Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
    O' saugh or hazle.

    Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
    As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
    Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
    On guid March-weather,
    Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'
    For days thegither.

    Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;
    But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
    An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
    Wi' pith an' pow'r;
    Till sprittie knowes wad rair't, an' risket,
    An' slypet owre.

    When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,
    An' threaten'd labour back to keep,
    I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
    Aboon the timmer:
    I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
    For that, or simmer.

    In cart or car thou never reestit;
    The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
    Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,
    Then stood to blaw;
    But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
    Thou snoov't awa.

    My pleugh is now thy bairntime a',
    Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
    Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,
    That thou hast nurst;
    They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
    The vera warst.

    Monie a sair darg we twa hae wrought,
    An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
    An' monie an anxious day I thought
    We wad be beat!
    Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
    Wi' something yet.

    An' think na, my auld trusty servan',
    That now perhaps thou's less deservin,
    An' thy auld days may end in starvin;
    For my last fow,
    A heapet stimpart, I'll reserve ane
    Laid by for you.

    We've worn to crazy years thegither;
    We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
    Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether
    To some hain'd rig,
    Whare ye may nobly rax your leather
    Wi' sma' fatigue.

    Dear old Maggie - I now know where Mr MacGregor got his inspiration for his Fordson poem submitted by me in an earlier thread.
    Last edited by Lavenderblue2; 20-Jan-09 at 17:23.

  11. #31
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    Default

    We had this sung at our wedding ceremony, it was absolutely beautiful!

    My Heart is in the Highlands

    My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
    My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer -
    A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
    My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

    Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
    The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;
    Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
    The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

    Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
    Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
    Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;
    Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

    My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
    My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
    Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
    My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.
    Last edited by AfternoonDelight; 21-Jan-09 at 12:17.
    Behold the turtle - he only ever gets anywhere by sticking his neck out...

  12. #32
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    Default My Heart's in the Highlands.

    From ‘ Songs of Scotland’ by G F Graham, c. 1860

    ‘‘ My Heart’s in the Highlands, In his note 259 of Johnson, Mr Stenhouse says
    ‘ The first half stanza of this song (says Burns) is old – the rest is mine’ See Reliques. ‘’
    later
    ‘’ Instead of the air ‘Failte na melsg’’ to which the song is adapted in Johnson’s Museum, we have adopted the much finer Gaelic air called ‘ Crochallan’’ in R H Smith’s Minstrel, but named ‘Crodh Chailean’ by Captn Fraser in his collection.’’

    from me ......The tune Crochallan, is the one we mostly use nowadays – was that the air played at your wedding ?

    Thank you for submitting this beautiful song.
    Trinkie

  13. #33
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    It was a lass that sung it with out music, Trinks, fair made the hair on the back of my beautifully perfumed neck stand up!!
    Behold the turtle - he only ever gets anywhere by sticking his neck out...

  14. #34
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    Default by Robert Burns

    Afternoondelight - The unaccompanied voice - best way to hear that song !
    It makes me shiver too!
    ............................




    Lines Written on a Bank Note.
    By Robert Burns

    Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
    Fell source of a’ my woe and grief,
    For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass,
    For lack of thee I scrimp my glass!
    I see the children of affliction
    Unaided, through thy curs’d restriction.
    I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile
    Amid his hapless victims’ spoil;
    And for thy potence vainly wish’d
    To crush the villain in the dust.
    For lack o’ thee I leave this much-lov’d shore,
    Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.
    ……………………………………………

    On Hearing a Thrush Sing in a Morning Walk in January.
    By Robert Burns

    Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
    Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
    See aged Winter, ‘mid his surly reign,
    At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.
    So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear
    Sits meek Content with Light, unanxious heart,
    Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
    Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.
    I thank Thee, Author of this opening day,
    Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
    Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys;
    What wealth could never give nor take away!
    Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care,
    The mite high Heav’n bestowed, that mite with
    Thee I’ll share.
    ………………………………………………..

    A Rose-bud, by My Early Walk.
    By Robert Burns

    A rose-bud by my early walk
    Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
    Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
    All on a dewy morning.
    Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
    In a’ its crimson glory spread
    And drooping rich the dewy head
    It scents the early morning.

    Within the bush her covert next
    A little linnet fondly prest,
    The dew sat chilly on her breast,
    Sae early in the morning.
    She soon shall see her tender brood,
    The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
    Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d
    Awake the early morning.

    So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
    On trembling string or vocal air
    Shall sweetly pay the tender care
    That tents thy early morning!
    So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay
    Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
    And bless the parent’s evening ray,
    That watch’d thy early morning!

    “The subject of this song was Miss Cruickshanks, daughter of William Cruickshanks, one of the Masters of the High School, in whose house Burns resided for some time during his visit to Edinburgh in 1787.”

    Taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Grahham.

    Trinkie

  15. #35
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    Default Robert Burns

    Is There for Honest Poverty
    By 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 rank 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 silks, and knaves their wine –
    A man’s a man for a’ that.
    For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
    The 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 cuif 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 aboon his might –
    Guid faith, he mauna 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 comin yet for a’ that,
    That man to man the world o’er
    Shall brithers be for a’ that.
    …………………………………..

    Burns wrote two songs for the air. The other song was called 'Tho' women's minds, like winter winds!'
    But I dont have the rest of the words !! (from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.)

  16. #36
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    Default Robert Burns

    Taken from ‘The Russet Coat’ by Christina Keith.

    Chapter 11

    The Love – Songs

    ‘You know I am a cool lover’
    Burns to Clarinda
    18th March, 1788.

    It is on the love-songs Burns has made his name. He was writing them, it is true, all his life, but, of the
    multitude he wrote, only about a score or so still linger on everybody’s lips.
    That however, is a very large number to be at the credit of any individual poet, as songs there is no forgetting.
    For a love-song, more than any other, takes a deal of writing, and the percentage of successful ones must be the lowest in all art… For the pitfalls here are not a few. First, over the song’s length. Your inexperienced poet, like Burns at the beginning, is apt to go on for too long. Love evaporates. And in song, nothing goes so quickly off the boil…….
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    So says Christina Keith and her book is well worth reading. In it she considers his art, first in relation to it’s traditional Scots background, and then in it’s wider European setting.
    Christina Keith was born in Thurso. Educated at Thurso, Edinburgh and Lausanne, then at Edinburgh University
    and Newnham College, Cambridge, she has travelled all over the world – and was once ship-wrecked off the coast of Greece.
    For many years she was a don at St Hilda’s College, Oxford, but left in order to return to Caithness and write …..

  17. #37
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    Default

    Scotland Without Burns
    By M.H.
    c. 1951

    Scotland without Burns ! Think o’id
    An’ measure, if ye can
    All id would mean, had we no’ kent
    ‘E greatness o’e’ man!

    Had he no’ won a princely plaice
    Among ‘e poet throng
    An’ if no voice hed ever raised
    ‘E glory o’ his song.

    No ‘Tam O’Shanter’ ‘Halloo-we’en’
    ‘Twa Dowgs’ or ‘Scots Wha Hae’
    Till set afire wur Scottish pride
    Upon his natal day!

    No ‘Afton Water’ ‘A’ the Airts’
    Or ‘Lass o Ballochmyle’
    Not one impassioned utterance
    O’ all he did compile!

    An’ hed he never felt ‘e joy
    An sorrow o’ e’ earth
    Nor noted in ‘e humblest guise
    True Dignity an worth!

    Fit then ? Ah, then wur noblest claim
    An’ grandest heritage,
    Wid not exist – wur brightest scroll
    Be an unwritten page!

    Jewel o’ thocht an’ gems o’ speech
    By genius inspired
    ‘E vision o’ a fairer world
    So long by man desired.

    Not wurs! We dare no’ dream o’ it!
    For more than ever noo
    He lives in every Scottish he’rt
    ‘E poet o’ the ploo.

    Safe treasured in his neime an’ fame
    By all o’ human kind
    All Men love Burns, and in his song
    ‘E Soul o’ Freedom Find.


    M.H

  18. #38
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    Fantastic, Trinkie!!
    Behold the turtle - he only ever gets anywhere by sticking his neck out...

  19. #39
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    Default Robert Burns

    From The Caithness Violinist AKA Robert MacKay.

    The Bard,
    A tribute to the National Bard on Burns Night c. 1940

    His fame is spread o’er all the earth,
    A son of humble parents he,
    But by his wisdom, worth and wit,
    He’ll live for all posterity.

    None handles now his facile pen
    Or rouses up our Scottish pride,
    Another Burns must rise again,
    To wield the pen he’s laid aside.

    But who, or what, or where is he
    That could portray on parchment scroll,
    The poems and songs that seem to me,
    The essence of the poetic soul.

    Such was our Bard Immortal Burns,
    Such was the man, the Poet, and Brother,
    Though centuries unborn returns,
    I fear we’ll never get another.
    ……………………………………………

    ROBERT BURNS
    To the Immortal Memory
    By the Caithness Violinist c. 1943

    We who appreciate the Bard,
    Must show this day our deep regard,
    To Robert Burns, poet and peasant,
    Although no more with us he’s present.

    Let’s sing his songs with mirth and glee,
    As Scotsmen should you will agree,
    Let Tam O Shanter then be given
    Followed by To Mary in Heaven.

    To Rab we owe a debt unpaid,
    Let’s pay it now, each man and maid,
    Give all the honour that you can,
    To Robert Burns, the poet and man.

    His name shall live, though we may die,
    Through time and through posterity
    The name of Burns will ever be,
    Sacred to Scots where’er they be.
    …………………………………………………..

    Robert Burns
    By the Caithness Violinist.
    c. 1940

    Burns was the soul of Scotland’s Muse,
    ‘Twas as a corse until his art
    Breathed o’er it as his passions chose,
    And woke to Life it’s silent heart.

    He sang of War in martial strain,
    A patriot, yet he hated strife,
    He sang of Love and then again
    Of Coila, Scotia, Sweetheart, Wife.

    He sang of Nature, and tis here,
    We see our poet at his best,
    The linnet’s song was ne’er more clear
    Than Rab’s composed beneath its nest.

    And ev’ry flower on hill or brae,
    Was oft reviewed ‘neath sunny skies,
    Crowds saw them all, yes, ev’ry day
    But not through Robert Burn’s eyes.

    Twas not for pomp or power he wrote,
    Nor for the purse-proud genterie,
    Twas done for Scotia, and I wot,
    For simple chiels like you and me.
    ................................................


    E&OE Trinkie

  20. #40
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    Exclamation

    SHORT VERSION
    some have meat an canna eat
    an some would eat that want it
    but we have meat and we can eat
    so let the lord be thankit
    tony

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