But for the dirty, yawning fool And discontent devour him! And nane say "wae's me" for him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel o' Tullochgorum! 1776. ROBERT BURNS A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause In Whose dread presence, ere an hour, If I have wandered in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something loudly in my breast Remonstrates I have done, Thou know'st that Thou hast formèd me With passions wild and strong, Has often led me wrong. 5 10 And list'ning to their witching voice Where human weakness has come short, Do Thou, All Good-for such Thou art, 15 Or frailty stept aside, In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have erred, No other plea I have But, Thou art good; and Goodness still Delighteth to forgive. 1781? 1786. 1784. MY NANIE, O Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill, The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young; That wad beguile my Nanie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonie, 0: A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; Come weel, come woe, I care na by; But live an' love my Nanie, O. 1787. 330 25 20 15 ΙΟ 5 MARY MORISON O Mary, at thy window be; It is the wished, the trysted hour! That make the miser's treasure poor! A weary slave frae sun to sun, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string I sat, but neither heard or saw: I sighed, and said amang them a', O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace If love for love thou wilt na gie, The thought o' Mary Morison. A thought ungentle canna be 1784? 1800. 5 ΙΟ 15 20 THE HOLY FAIR Upon a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun, owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin; Fu' sweet that day. 5 There swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin owre the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an' scarlets glitter; 60 Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools, 70 Right loud that day. Here some are thinkin on their sins, An' some upo' their claes; Ane curses feet that fyled his shins, On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin on the lasses To chairs that day. 85 90 |