The Scots Reader — Rabbie Burns
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Comin Throu The Rye
Owerwird:
O Jenny's aw weet puir
body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigelt aw her petticoatie,
Comin throu the rye.
Gin a body meet a body
Comin throu the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Comin throu the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken?
The Kintra Lass
In simmer, whan the hey wis mawn
And corn wafft green in ilka field,
While claver bluims white ower the lea
And roses blaw in ilka bield!
Blithe Bessie in the milkin shiel,
Says - A'll be wad, come o't whit will:
Oot spak a dame in wrinkelt eild -
O guid advisement comes nae ill.
It's ye hae wooers ane,
And lassie, ye're but young, ye ken,
Than wait a wee, and canny wale
A routhy but, a routhy ben;
Thare's Johnie o the Busky-glen,
Fou is his barn, fou is his byre;
Tak this frae me, ma bonny hen,
It's plenty beets the luver's fire.
For Johnie o the Busky-glen,
I didna care a single flee;
He lues sae weel his craps and kye,
He haes nae luve tae spare for me;
But blithe's the blink o Robie's ee,
And weel A wat he lues me dear:
Ae blink o him wadna gie
For Busky-glen and aw his gear.
O thochtless lassie, life's a fecht;
The canniest gate, the strife is sair;
But aye fou-haund't is fechtin best,
A hungry care's an unco care:
But some will spend and some will spare,
And willfu fowk maun hae thair will;
Syne as ye brew, ma maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill
O gear will buy me rigs o laund,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender hert o leesome luve,
The gowd and siller canna buy;
We mey be puir - Robie and A -
Licht is the burden luve lays on;
Content and luve brings peace and jey
Whit mair hae Queens upon a throne?
Address Tae The Tuithache
Ma curse upon your venomed stang,
That shuits ma torturt goums alang,
And throu ma lugs gies sic a twang,
Wi gnawin vengeance,
Teirin ma nerves wi bitter pang,
Like rackin ingines!
Whan fiver burn, or agues freeze us,
Rheumatics gnaws, or colics squeeze us,
Oor neebour's seempathy can ease us,
Wi peetyin mane;
But thee - thoo hell o aw diseases -
Thay mock oor grain.
Aw doun ma beard the slavers trickle,
A thraw the wee stuils ower the mickle,
While roond the fire the giglets keckle,
Tae see me lowp,
And ravin mad, I wiss a heckle
War in thair dowp!
In aw the numerous human dules,
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stuils,
Or wirthy freends raked in the muilds, -
Sad sicht tae see!
The tricks o knaves, or fash o fuils,
Thoo beir'st the gree!
Whaur e'er that place be priests
caw hell,
Whaur aw the tones o meesery yell,
And rankit plagues thair nummers tell,
In dreidfu raw,
Thoo, TUITHACHE, shuirly beir'st
the bell,
Amang thaim aw!
Thoo grim, mischief-makkin chield,
That gars the notes o discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shae-thick,
Gie's aw the faes o SCOTLAND'S weel
A towmond's tuithache!
Guid Ale Keeps The Hert Abuin
Owerwird:
O guid ale comes and guid ale goes;
Guid ale gars me sell ma hose,
Sell ma hose, and pawn ma shuin -
Guid ale keeps ma hert abuin!
A HAED sax owsen in a pleuch,
And thay drew aw weel eneuch:
A selt thaim aw juist ane by ane -
Guid ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moup wi the servand hizzie,
Staund i' the stuil whan A hae duin -
Auld Lang Syne
Shoud auld acquentance be forgot,
And niver brocht tae mind?
Shoud auld acquentance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Owerwird:
For auld lang syne, ma dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And shuirly ye'll be your
pint stowp!
And shuirly A'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae rin aboot the braes,
An poued the gowans fine;
But we'v wandert mony a weary fit
Sin auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidelt in the burn,
Frae mornin sun till dine;
But seas atween us braid haes raired
Sin auld lang syne.
And thare's a haund, ma trusty fere!
And gie's a haund o thine!
And we'll tak a richt guid-willy waucht,
For auld lang syne.
Address Tae A Haggis
Fair faw your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o the Puddin-race!
Abuin thaim aw ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wirdie o a grace
As lang's ma airm.
The grainin trencher thare ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help tae mend a mill
In time o need,
While throu your pores the dews distil
Like lammer bead.
His knife see Rustic-laubour dicht,
And cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenchin your gushin entrails bricht
Like ony ditch;
And than, O whit a glorious sicht,
Wairm-reekin, rich!
Than, horn for horn thay streetch and strive,
Deil tak the hintmaist, on thay drive,
Till aw thair weel-swallt kytes belive
Are bent like drums;
Than auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Is thare that ower his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sou,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfit scunner,
Leuks doun wi sneerin, scornfu view
On sic a denner?
Puir deevil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a withert rash,
His spinnle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Throu bluidy fluid or field tae dash,
O hou unfit!
But merk the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The tremmlin earth resoonds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blad,
He'll mak it whistle;
And legs, and airms, and heids will sned,
Like taps o thristle.
Ye Pouers that maks mankind your care,
And dish thaim oot thair bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkin ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if you wiss her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
The oreeginal stanza wis as follaes:-
"Ye Pouers that gies us aw that's guid
Still bliss auld Caledonia's bruid,
Wi great John Baurleycorn's hert's bluid
In stowps or luggies;
And on oor buirds, that keeng o fuid,
A glorious Haggis!"