Robert Burns - Part 8

In blogs 1 – 7 I have tried to represent the life of Robert Burns through his poems, and now it is time to do something different. So here are a further selection of his poems. They are not set in context, nor are they in any particular order. They are simply here to be enjoyed—Cormac


John Barleycorn: A Ballad

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him sown,
Put clods upon his head,
And they have sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Lika a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell’d him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pit,
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear’d,
They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crush’d him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very hearts blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
‘Twill make your courage rise.

‘Twill make a man forget his woe,
‘Twill heighten all his joy;
‘Twill make the widows heart to sing,
Tho’ the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast Lord Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in Old Scotland.
_____

Farewell Song To The Banks Of Ayr

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o’er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scat’red coves meet secure,
While here I wander, pressed with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn
By early winter’s ravage torn;
Across her placid, Azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly;
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave ,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

‘Tis not the scourging billows roar,
‘Tis not the fatal deadly shore;
Tho’ death in ev’ery shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Cola’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell my friends! farewell my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those—
The bursting tears my heart declare—
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
_____

      Epigram On Rough Roads

I’m now arrived—thanks to the Gods!—
   Thro’ pathways rough and muddy,
A certain sign that making roads
   Is no this people’s study:
Altho’ I’m not wi’ Scripture cram’d,
   I’m sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damm’d
   Unless they mend their ways.
_____

Address To The Unco Guid                     Extremely Good
 Or, The Rigidly Righteous

My Son, these maxims make a rule,
   An lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
   The Rigid wise another:
The cleanest corn that ere was dight               sifted
   May hae some pyles o’ caff in;                    chaff
So ne’er a fellow creature slight
   For random fits o’ daffin—
                                       (SOLOMON,--Ecles. Ch7,v.16)

O ye wha are sae guid yourself,                     who, good
   Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
   Your neibours’ fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,                 well going
   Supplied wi’ store o’ water;
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,
   An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
   As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door      sober
   For Glakit Folly’s portals; [foolish]
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes.
   Would here propose defences,
Their donsie tricks,, their black mistakes,      vicious
   Their failings and mischances.
Ye’ see your state we’ theirs compared,
   And shudder at the niffer; [barter]
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
    What makes the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
   That purity ye’ pride in;
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave),
   Your better art p’ hiding.

Think, when your castigating pulse
   Gies now and then a wallop,                        gives
What ragings must his veins convulse,
   That still eternal gallop:
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,                      in
   Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
   It makes a unco leeway.                              strange

See Social Life and Glee sit down,                  Suppose?
   All joyus and unthinking,
‘Till, quite transmogrified, they’re grown
   Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
  Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
   Damnation of expenses.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
   Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,                     give
   Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
   A trech’rous inclination—
But let me whisper i’ your lug,
   Ye’re aiblins near temptation.                         perhaps

Then gently scan your brother man,
   Still gentler sister woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kenning wrang,                go a little wrong
   To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark—
   The moving Why they do it;
And just as lanely can ye mark,
   How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ‘tis He alone
   Decidedly can try us; luve
He knows each chord, its various tone,
   Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
   We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
   But know not what’s resisted.
_____

The Posie

O luve will venture in where it daur na weel be seen,
O luve will venture in where wisdom once has been;
But I will doun yon river rove, amang the woods sae green,
   And a’ to pu’ a posy to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu’ , the firstling o’ the year;
And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear,
For she’s the pink o’ womankind and blossoms without a peer—
   And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose when Phoebus peeps in vies
For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet, bonnie mou’:
The hyacinth’s for constancy wi’ its unchanging blue,
   And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there;
The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
   And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’ , wi’ its locks o’ silver grey,
Where like an aged man it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away;
   And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near,
And the diamond drape o’ dew shall be her een sae clear;
The violet’s for modesty, which weel she fa’s to wear,
   And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve,
And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above
That to my latest draft o’ life the hand shall ne’er remove,
   And this shall be a posie to my ain dear love.
_____

The Charming Month Of May
Altered from an Old English Song
(Tune – Daintie Davie)

Chorus:
Lovely was she by the dawn,
   Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
   The youthful, charming Chloe.

It was the charming month of May,
When all the flowers were fresh and gay.
One morning, by the break of day,
   The youthful charming Chloe,
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o’er the flowery mead she goes,
   The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feather’d people you might see
Perch’d all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
   They hail the charming Chloe;
Till, painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun begins to rise,
Outrivall’d by the radiant eyes
   Of youthful, charming Chloe.
_____

      Hughie Graham
   (Tune-Druimion dubh)

Our lords are to the mountains gane,
   A-hunting o’ the fallow deer,
And they hae gripet Hughie Graham,
   For stealing o’ the bishops mare.

And they hae tied him hand and foot,
   And led him up thro’ Stirling town;
The lads and lassies met him there,
   Cried, “Hughie Graham thou art a loon.”

“O, lowse my right hand free,” he says,
   “And put my braid sword in the same.
He’s no in Stirling town this day.
   Daur tell the tale to Hughie Graham.”

Up then bespoke the brave Whitefoord,
   As he sat by the bishop’s knee;
Five hundred whit stots I’ll gie you,
   If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free.

“O haud your tongue,” the bishop says,
   “And wi’ your pleading let me be;
Fro tho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,
   Hughie Graham this day shall die.”

Up then bespoke the fair Whitefoord,
   As she sat by the bishop’s knee;
Five hundred white pence I’ll gie you.
   If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me.”

“O haud your tongue now, lady fair,
   And wi’ your pleading let it be;
Altho’ ten Grahams were in his coat,
   It’s for my honour he must die.

They’ve ta’n him to the gallows knowe,
   He looked to the gallows tree,
Yet never colour left his cheek,
   Nor ever did he blin’ his e’e.

At length he looked round about,
   To see whatever he could spy.
And there he saw his auld father,
   And he was weeping bitterly.

O haud your tongue, my father dear,
   And wi’ your weeping let it be;
The weeping’s sairer on my heart “
   Than a’ that they can do to me.

“And ye ma gie my brother John
   My sword that’s bent in the middle clear,
And let him come at twelve o’clock,
   And see me pay the bishop’s mare.

“Ane ye may gie my brother James
   My sword that’s bent in the middle brown,
And bid him come at four o’clock,
   And see his brother Hugh cut down.

“Remember me to Maggy, my wife,
   The niest time ye gang o’er the moor;
Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare,
   Tell her she was the bishops whore.

“And ye may tell my kith and kin
   I never did disgrace their blood;
And when they meet the bishop’s cloak,
   To make it shorter by the hood.”
_____

Highland Laddie

She:
The bonniest lad the e’er I saw,
   Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
Wore a plaid and was fu’ brave,
   Bonnie Highland laddie.

On his head a bonnet blue,
   Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie;
His royal heart was firm and true
   Bonnie Highland laddie.

He:
Trumpets sound and cannons roar,
   Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie;
And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar,
   Bonnie Lawland lassie.

Glory, Honour, now invite,
   Bonnie lassie Lawland lassie,
For freedom and my king to fight,
   Bonnie Lawland lassie.

She:
The sun a backward course shall take,
   Bonnie laddie Highland laddie,
Ere aught thy manly courage shake,
   Bonnie Highland laddie.

Go, for yoursel’ procure renown,
   Bonnie laddie Highland Laddie,
And for your lawful king his crown,
   Bonnie Highland laddie.
__________

Note: This blog, "Robert Burns - Part 8", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 11th March 2006