On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you takin notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it:
If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel;
And wow! he has an unco sleight
O' cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bitches.
It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the-Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass:
A broomstick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.
Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg
The cut of Adam's philibeg;
The knife that nickit Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Gude fellows wi' him:
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And Then ye'll see him!
Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!-
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca' thee;
I'd take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, "Shame fa' thee!"
poem by Robert Burns
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Related quotes
Auld Lang Syne
(r.burns)
Traditional new years eves song. jeff performed it live at mercury lounge, new york, on december 31 1995.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
And surely yell be your pint stowp
And surely Ill be mine!
And well tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes
And poud the gowans fine
But weve wanderd mony a weary fit
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidld in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine
But seas between us briad hae roard
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
And theres a hand, my trusty fere
And gies a hand o thine
And well tak a right gude-willie waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !
and surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand my trusty fiere !
and gies a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
Well take a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run aboot the braes
And poud the gowans fine;
Weve wanderd mony a weary foot
Sin auld lang syne.
We two hae paidled i the burn,
Frae mornin sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roard
Sin auld lang syne.
And heres a hand, my trusty friend,
And gies a hand o thine;
Well take a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
Well take a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
Well take a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sodger's Lassie
A'the toun is to the doun
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Ab's gane, Rab's gane,
Aggie's gane, Maggie's gane,
A' the toun is to the doun,
An's left the house to wae and me.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Sodger Tam, he cam an' cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie;
Still I went, an' still I bent,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Berries high, an' berries low,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Tam maun come where berries grow,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha'll hae a blaeberrie?
Ah, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Never ance I looked at Tam,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Weel I kent him when he cam,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Baith our faces to the groun',
Puin' o' the blaeberrie,
Tam cam near without a soun',
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wow! but we were near, I ween,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
A' the air was warm between,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Could a lassie think o' ill,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries e'en grow where they will,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Berries here, an' berries there,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I was ware,
Puin' o' the blaeberrie.
Wha wad fash wi' ane anither
Puin' o' the blaeberrie?
Berries whiles will grow thegither,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
I was kissed or I could speer,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Hech! that folk sud come sae near,
A' to pu' a blaeberrie!
While I grat and chid forbye,
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Doun we sat-I ken na why-
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
A' amang the blaeberrie!
Sidelong Tam he cam an' cam
A' amang the blaeberrie.
Wha could tell he meant na fair?
Weel I ken I chid him sair,
But that day we gaed na mair
Puin' o' the blaeberrie!
Heigho the blaeberrie!
Wha 'll hae a blaeberrie?
Oh, to min' o' auld lang syne,
Doun amang the blaeberrie!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Market-Wife's Song
The butter an' the cheese weel stowit they be,
I sit on the hen-coop the eggs on my knee,
The lang kail jigs as we jog owre the rigs,
The gray mare's tail it wags wi' the kail,
The warm simmer sky is blue aboon a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
I sit on the coop, I look straight before,
But my heart it is awa' the braid ocean owre,
I see the bluidy fiel' where my ain bonny chiel',
My wee bairn o' a', gaed to fight or to fa',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
I see the gran' toun o' the big forrin' loun,
I hear the cannon soun', I see the reek aboon;
It may be lang John lettin' aff his gun,
It may be the mist-your mither disna wist-
It may be the kirk, it may be the ha',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
An' I ken the Black Sea, ayont the rock o' dool,
Like a muckle blot o' ink in a buik fra' the schule,
An' Jock! it gars me min' o' your buikies lang syne,
An' mindin' o' it a' the tears begin to fa',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the old wheels twa.
Then a bull roars fra' the scaur, ilka rock's a bull agen,
An' I hear the trump o' war, an' the carse is fu' o' men,
Up an' doun the morn I ken the bugle horn,
Ilka birdie sma' is a fleein' cannon ba',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
Guid Heavens! the Russian host! We maun e'en gie up for lost!
Gin ye gain the battle hae ye countit a' the cost?
Ye may win a gran' name, but wad wee Jock come hame?
Dinna fecht, dinna fecht! there's room for us a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
In vain, in vain, in vain! They are marchin' near and far!
Wi' swords an' wi' slings an' wi' instruments o' war!
Oh, day sae dark an' sair! ilka man seven feet an' mair!
I bow my head an' say, 'Gin the Lord wad smite them a'!'
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
Then forth fra' their ban' there steps an armed man,
His tairge at his breast an' his claymore in his han',
His gowd pow glitters fine an' his shadow fa's behin',
I think o' great Goliath as he stan's before them a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
To meet the Philistine leaps a laddie fra' our line,
Oh, my heart! oh, my heart! 'tis that wee lad o' mine!
I start to my legs-an' doun fa' the eggs-
The cocks an' hens a' they cackle an' they ca',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
Oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad-oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad,
Never till I saw thee that moment was I glad!
Aye sooner sud thou dee before thy mither's ee'
Than a man o' the clan sud hae stept out but thee!
An' sae I cry to God-while the hens cackle a',
An' whiddie. whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Auld Robin Gray
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld tae rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
Tae make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed tae sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
My mother she fell sick,—and my Jamie at the sea—
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toil't day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack—Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live tae cry, Wae 's me?
My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak;
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like tae break:
They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman tae me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith,—for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, 'I'm come hame tae marry thee.'
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like tae dee;
And why was I born tae say, Wae 's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena tae spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye tae be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind untae me.
poem by Lady Anne Barnard
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Christmas Auld Lang Syne
When mistletoe and tinsel glow
Paint a yuletide valentine
Back home I go to those I know
For a christmas auld lang syne
And as we gather round the tree
Our voices all combine
In sweet accord to thank our lord
For a christmas auld lang syne
When sleigh bells ring and choirs sing
And the childrens faces shine
With each new toy we share their joy
With a christmas auld lang syne
We sing his praise this day of days
And pray next year this time
Well all be near to share the cheer
Of a christmas auld lang syne
In sweet accord to thank our lord
For a christmas auld lang syne
song performed by by Gloria Estefan
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Auld Rob Morris
There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction nae words can express.
poem by Robert Burns (1792)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bide A Wee
'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind,
Are frail and failing sair;
And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad,
Gin I come hame nae mair.
The grist is out, the times are hard,
The kine are only three;
I canna leave the auld folk now.
We'd better bide a wee.
'I fear me sair they're failing baith;
For when I sit apart,
They talk o' Heaven so earnestly,
It well nigh breaks my heart.
So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
It surely winna be;
I canna leave the auld folk yet.
We'd better bide a wee.'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Ballade Of The Royal Game Of Golf
There are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee,
But ye mauna think driving is a',
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt--ony she, -
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw,
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen -
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree -
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
ENVOY.
Prince, faith you're improving a wee,
And, Lord, man, they tell me you're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Jock O The Side
Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
And my son Johnie is prisner tane?
With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.
For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.
Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:
'What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?'
'Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.'
'Neer fear, sister Downie,' quo Mangerton;
'I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel filld,
And I'll part wi them a' ere Johnie shall die.
'Three men I'll take to set him free,
Weel harnessd a' wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o their braid swords to feel
'The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa,
O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,
Since England banishd thee, to me.'
Now, Hobie was an English man,
In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him neer to return.
Lord Mangerton then orders gave,--
'Your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod;
Like gentlemen ye must not seem,
But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.
'Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,
Nor ance appear like men o weir;
As country lads be all arrayd,
Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.'
Sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way,
And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,
Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind,
And on they rode for the water o Tyne.
At the Cholerford they a' light down,
And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.
But when they came to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
They fand their stick baith short aid sma.
Then up and spake the Laird's ain Jock,
'There's naething for't; the gates we maun force.'
But when they cam the gate unto,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.
His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
Wi foot or hand he neer play'd paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
And cast his body ahind the wa.
Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,
And to the prisner thus they call:
'Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,
Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?'
Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:
'Aft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;
But wha's this kens my name sae weel,
And thus to hear my waes does seek?'
Then up and spake the good Laird's Jock:
'Neer fear ye now, my billie,' quo he;
'For here's the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat,
And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.'
'Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
And o thy talk now let me be!
For if a' Liddesdale were here the night,
The morn's the day that I maun die.
'Full fifteen stane o Spanish iron,
They hae laid a' right sair on me;
Wi locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.'
'Fear ye no that,' quo the Laird's Jock;
'A faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we'll work without,
And I'll be sworn we set thee free.'
The first strong dore that they came at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chaind dore that they cam at,
They gard it a' in flinders flee.
The prisner now, upo his back,
The Laird's Jock's gotten up fu hie;
And down the stair him, irons and a',
Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.
'Now, Jock, I wat,' quo Hobie Noble,
'Part o the weight ye may lay on me,'
'I wat weel no,' quo the Laird's Jock
'I count him lighter than a flee.'
Sae out at the gates they a' are gane,
The prisner's set on horseback hie;
And now wi speed they've tane the gate;
While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.
'O Jock, sae winsomely's ye ride,
Wi baith your feet upo ae side!
Sae weel's ye're harnessd, and sae trig!
In troth ye sit like ony bride.'
The night, tho wat, they didna mind,
But hied them on fu mirrilie,
Until they cam to Cholerford brae,
Where the water ran like mountains hie.
But when they came to Cholerford,
There they met with an auld man;
Says, 'Honest man, will the water ride?
Tell us in haste, if that ye can.'
'I wat weel no,' quo the good auld man;
'Here I hae livd this threty yeirs and three,
And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.'
Then up and spake the Laird's saft Wat,
The greatest coward in the company;
'Now halt, now halt, we needna try't;
The day is comd we a' maun die!'
'Poor faint-hearted thief!' quo the Laird's Jock,
'There'll nae man die but he that's fie;
I'll lead ye a' right safely through;
Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.
Sae now the water they a' hae tane,
By anes and 'twas they a' swam through
'Here are we a' safe,' says the Laird's Jock,
'And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?'
They scarce the ither side had won,
When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,
A' English lads right good and true.
But when the land-sergeant the water saw,
'It winna ride, my lads,' quo he;
Then out he cries, 'Ye the prisner may take,
But leave the irons, I pray, to me.'
'I wat weel no,' cryd the Laird's Jock,
'I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be;
My good grey mare; for I am sure,
She's bought them a' fu dear frae thee.'
Sae now they're away for Liddisdale,
Een as fast as they coud them hie;
The prisner's brought to his ain fireside,
And there o's airns they make him free.
'Now, Jock, my billie,' quo a' the three,
'The day was comd thou was to die;
But thou's as weel at thy ain fireside,
Now sitting, I think, 'tween thee and me.'
They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
And after it they maun hae anither,
And thus the night they a' hae spent,
Just as they had been brither and brither.
poem by Andrew Lang
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A Poets's Welcome to His Love-Begotten Daughter
Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.
Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in countra clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a' tint,
Tho' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.
Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As onie brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.
Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.
Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.
For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee -
The cost nor shame o't,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare, Maggie On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New-Year, The
A Guide 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
There could hae gaen like ony 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 the 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 ony bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;
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 trotting 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 an' skeigh
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye 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 waurt thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
In 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' power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit
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, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time 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.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' mony 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 heapit 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.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare , Maggie
A Guide 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
There could hae gaen like ony 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 the 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 ony bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;
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 trotting 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 an' skeigh
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh
An' tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
An' ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road aye 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 waurt thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,
In 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' power;
Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit
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, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time 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.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' mony 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 heapit 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.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forget Me Not
TO A. G. C.
Forget me not! though fate from thine,
My path of life may sever,
Still think of days of “auld lang syne,”
And moments fled forever.
When many a year has pass'd away,
And other ties have bound us,
Oh! then let memory sometimes stray,
To those that now surround us
Should pomp and pride be round thee then—
When day's bright beam is o'er thee,
And other forms shall meet thy ken—
Mine may not stand before thee.
But when the orb of day hath set,
Beneath the burning ocean,
And holy thoughts around thee met,
Have still'd the heart's commotion—
Oh! then may memory's hallow'd rays
Around my image hover,
And in the thoughts of other days,
These hours be then glanced over.
Forget me not! though fate from thine,
My path of life may sever,
But sometimes think of “auld lang syne,”
And moments fled forever.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tam Lin
O I forbid you, maidens a',
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
For young Tam Lin is there.
There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad,
Either their rings, or green mantles,
Or else their maidenhead.
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has braided her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she's awa' to Carterhaugh,
As fast as she can hie.
When she came to Carterhaugh
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.
She had na pu'd a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till up then started young Tam Lin,
Says, 'Lady, thou's pu nae mae.
'Why pu's thou the rose, Janet,
And why breaks thou the wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withoutten my command?'
'Carterhaugh, it is my ain,
My daddie gave it me;
I'll come and gang by Carterhaugh,
And ask nae leave at thee.'
* * * * *
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she is to her father's ha,
As fast as she can hie.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba,
And out then cam the fair Janet,
Ance the flower amang them a'.
Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And out then cam the fair Janet,
As green as onie grass.
Out then spak an auld grey knight,
Lay oer the castle wa,
And says, 'Alas, fair Janet, for thee
But we'll be blamed a'.'
'Haud your tongue, ye auld-fac'd knight,
Some ill death may ye die!
Father my bairn on whom I will,
I'll father nane on thee.'
Out then spak her father dear,
And he spak meek and mild;
'And ever alas, sweet Janet,' he says.
'I think thou gaes wi child.'
'If that I gae wi' child, father,
Mysel maun bear the blame;
There's neer a laird about your ha
Shall get the bairn's name.
'If my love were an earthly knight,
As he's an elfin grey,
I wad na gie my ain true-love
For nae lord that ye hae.
'The steed that my true-love rides on
Is lighter than the wind;
Wi siller he is shod before
Wi burning gowd behind.'
Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree,
And she's awa' to Carterhaugh,
As fast as she can hie.
When she cam to Carterhaugh,
Tam Lin was at the well,
And there she fand his steed standing,
But away was himsel.
She had na pu'd a double rose,
A rose but only twa,
Till up then started young Tam Lin,
Says, 'Lady, thou pu's nae mae.
'Why pu's thou the rose, Janet,
Amang the groves sae green,
And a' to kill the bonie babe
That we gat us between?'
'O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,' she says,
'For's sake that died on tree,
If eer ye was in holy chapel,
Or christendom did see?'
'Roxbrugh he was my grandfather,
Took me with him to bide,
And ance it fell upon a day
That wae did me betide.
'And ance it fell upon a day,
A cauld day and a snell,
When we were frae the hunting come,
That frae my horse I fell;
The Queen o Fairies she caught me,
In yon green hill to dwell.
'And pleasant is the fairy land,
But, an eerie tale to tell,
Ay at the end of seven years
We pay a tiend to hell;
I am sae fair and fu' o flesh
I'm feared it be mysel.
'But the night is Halloween, lady,
The morn is Hallowday;
Then win me, win me, an ye will,
For weel I wat ye may.
'Just at the mirk and midnight hour
The fairy folk will ride,
And they that wad their true love win,
At Miles Cross they maun bide.'
'But how shall I thee ken, Tam Lin,
Or how my true-love know,
Amang sae mony unco knights
The like I never saw?'
'O first let pass the black, lady,
And syne let pass the brown,
But quickly run to the milk-white steed,
Pu ye his rider down.
'For I'll ride on the milk-white steed,
And ay nearest the town;
Because I was an earthly knight
They gie me that renown.
'My right hand will be gloyd, lady,
My left hand will be bare,
Cockt up shall my bonnet be,
And kaimd down shall my hair;
And thae's the takens I gie thee,
Nae doubt I will be there.
'They'll turn me in your arms, lady,
Into an esk and adder;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I am your bairn's father.
'They'll turn me to a bear sae grim,
And then a lion bold;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
As ye shall love your child.
'Again they'll turn me in your arms
To a red het gaud of airn;
But hold me fast, and fear me not,
I'll do to you nae harm.
'And last they'll turn me in your arms
Into the burning gleed;
Then throw me into well water,
O throw me in wi speed.
'And then I'll be your ain true-love,
I'll turn a naked knight;
Then cover me wi your green mantle,
And cover me out o sight.'
Gloomy, gloomy was the night,
And eerie was the way,
As fair Jenny in her green mantle
To Miles Cross she did gae.
About the middle o' the night
She heard the bridles ring;
This lady was as glad at that
As any earthly thing.
First she let the black pass by,
And syne she let the brown;
But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,
And pu'd the rider down,
Sae weel she minded whae he did say,
And young Tam Lin did win;
Syne coverd him wi her green mantle,
As blythe's a bird in spring.
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
Out of a bush o broom:
'Them that has gotten young Tam Lin
Has gotten a stately groom.'
Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,
And an angry woman was she;
'Shame betide her ill-far'd face,
And an ill death may she die,
For she's taen awa the bonniest knight
In a' my companie.
'But had I kend, Tam Lin,' she says,
'What now this night I see,
I wad hae taen out thy twa grey e'en,
And put in twa een o tree.'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mother's Lesson
Come hither an' sit on my knee, Willie,
Come hither an' sit on my knee,
An' list while I tell how your brave brither fell,
Fechtin' for you an' for me:
Fechtin' for you an' for me, Willie,
Wi' his guid sword in his han'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
Ye min' o' your ain brither dear, Willie,
Ye min' o' your ain brither dear,
How he pettled ye aye wi' his pliskies an' play,
An' was aye sae cantie o' cheer:
Aye sae cantie o' cheer, Willie,
As he steppit sae tall an' sae gran',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun, Willie,
D'ye min' when the bull had ye doun?
D'ye min' wha grippit ye fra the big bull,
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun'?
D'ye min' o' his muckle red woun', Willie,
D'ye min' how the bluid doun ran?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
D'ye min' when we a' wanted bread, Willie,
the year when we a' wanted bread?
How he smiled when he saw the het parritch an' a',
An' gaed cauld an' toom to his bed:
Gaed awa' toom to his bed, Willie,
For the love o' wee Willie an' Nan?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
Next simmer was bright but an' ben, Willie,
Next simmer was bright but an' ben,
When there cam a gran' cry like a win' strang an' high
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen:
By loch, an' mountain, an' glen, Willie,
The cry o' a far forrin lan',
An' up loupit ilka brave man, Willie,
Up loupit ilka brave man.
For the voice cam saying, 'Wha 'll gang?' Willie,
The voice cam saying, 'Wha'll gang
To fecht owre the sea that the slave may be free,
An' the weak be safe fra' the strang?'
The weak be safe fra' the strang, Willie;
Rab looked on Willie an' Nan,
An' hech, but he was a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but he was a brave man!
I kent by his een he was gaun, Willie,
I kent by his een he was gaun,
An' he rose like a chief: twice we spak in our grief-
'Dinna gang!' 'My mither, I maun!'
When he said, 'My mither, I maun,' Willie,
I gied him his sword to his han'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
An' sae it happened afar, Willie,
Sae it happened afar,
In the dead midnight there rose a great fecht,
An' Rab was first i' the war:
First i' the haur o' the war, Willie,
Wi' his guid sword in his han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
An' there cam' a dark wicked lord, Willie,
There cam' a dark wicked lord,
An' oh my guid God! on my bauld bairn he rode,
An' smote him wi' his sword:
Smote him wi' his sword, Willie,
But Rab had his guid sword in han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
He rushed on the fae in his might, Willie,
In his might to the fecht thro' the night,
An' he grippit him grim, an' the fae grippit him,
An' they rolled owre i' the fecht:
They rolled owre i' the fecht, Willie,
Rab wi' his guid sword in han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
When the gran' stowre cleared awa', Willie,
When the gran' stowre cleared awa',
An' the mornin' drew near in chitter an' in fear,
Still, still, in death they lay twa:
Still, still, in death they lay twa, Willie,
Rab wi' his guid sword in han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
Then up fra the death-sod they bore him, Willie,
The young men an' maidens they bore him,
An' they mak the rocks ring 'gin my bairn were a king,
An' a' the sweet lassies greet owre him:
A' the sweet lassies greet owre him, Willie,
An' their proud lips kiss his cauld han',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
An' they big him a green grass grave, Willie,
They big him a green grass grave,
My ain lad! my ain! an' they write on the stane,
'Wha wad na sleep wi' the brave?'
An' wha wad na sleep wi' the brave, Willie?
Wha wad na dee for his lan'?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man!
Noo come to yon press wi' me, Willie,
Come to yon press wi' me,
And I'll show ye somethin' o' auld lang syne,
When he was a bairnie like thee:
When he was a bairnie like thee, Willie,
And stood at my knee where ye stan',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
D'ye see this wee bit bannet, Willie,
-I min' weel the day it was new-
See how I haud it here to my heart,
His wee bit bannet o' blue:
His wee bit bannet o' blue, Willie,
Wi' its wee bit cockie an' ban'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
D'ye see his ba' and his stickie, Willie,
When he played at the ba';
Na, na, ye 're no to tak it in han',
Ye 're no sae brave an' sae braw!
But gin ye grow braw an' brave, Willie,
Aiblins I'se gie 't to your han',
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
An' this was his Guid Buik, Willie,
The Guid Buik that he lo'ed,
Where he read the Word o' the great guid Lord
Wha bought us wi' His bluid.
An' will we spare our bluid, Willie,
To buy the dear auld lan'?
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
They say he's dead an' gane, Willie,
They say he's dead and gane.
Wad God my bairnies a' were sons,
That ten might gang for ane:
Ten might gang for ane, Willie,
To save the dear auld lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
I'd no be lorn an' lane, Willie,
I'd no be lorn an' lane,
For gin I had him here by the han'
He could na be mair my ain:
He'd no be mair my ain, Willie,
Gin I grippit him by the han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
An' oh! gin ye gang fra me, Willie,
Gin ye gang as he gaed fra me,
Ye'll aye be still as near to my heart
As the noo when ye sit on my knee:
As the noo when ye sit on my knee, Willie,
An' I haud ye by the han'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
'An' wad ye no greet at a', mither?
Wad ye no greet at a'?'
Aye, wad I greet my bonnie bonnie bairn!
'An' will ye no greet when I fa'?'
Will I no greet when ye fa', Willie?
God bless your bonnie wee han'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
I kent weel ye'd be a brave man!
Aye, will I greet day an' night, Willie,
Aye, will I greet day an' night!
But gin ye can see fra your heaven doun to me,
Ye'se no be wae at the sight:
Ye'se no be wae at the sight, Willie,
E'en in your bright blessed lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
I kent weel ye'd be a brave man.
Ye ken how I greet sae sair, Willie,
Ye ken how I greet sae sair,
When ye're no my ain guid bairnie the day,
An' my een are cloudy wi' care:
My een are cloudy wi' care, Willie,
An' I lean doun my head on my han',
An' think 'Will ye be a guid man, Willie,
Ah, will ye grow a guid man?'
Ye ken when I did na greet sae, Willie,
Ye ken when I did na greet sae!
Gran' gran' are a proud mither's tears,
An' the gate that she gangs in her wae:
The gate that she gangs in her wae, Willie,
Wi' her foot on her ain proud lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
Ye min' how ye saw me greet, Willie,
Ye min' how ye saw me greet,
When the great news cam' to the toun at e'en,
An' we heard the shout in the street:
We heard the shout in the street, Willie,
An' the death-word it rode an' it ran.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
Ye min' how I lift up mine ee', Willie,
Ye min' how I lift up mine ee',
An' smiled as I smile when I stan' i' the door,
An see ye come toddlin' to me:
See ye come toddlin' to me, Willie,
An' smile afar off where I stan'.
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
Thank God for ilk tear I let fa', Willie,
Thank God for ilk tear I let fa',
For oh, where they wipe awa' tears fra' a' een,
Sic tears they wad no wipe awa':
Sic tears they wad no wipe awa', Willie,
Tho' there's nane may be sad i' that lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
Noo to your play ye maun gang, Willie,
Noo to your play ye maun gang,
An' belyve, my ain wee, ye'll come back to my knee,
And I'se sing ye an auld Scots sang:
I'se sing ye an auld Scots sang, Willie,
A sang o' the dear auld lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
An' aye d'ye min' what I say, Willie,
What ye heard your auld mither say,
Better to dee a brave man an' free,
Than to live a fause coward for aye:
Than to live a fause coward for aye, Willie,
An' stan' by the shame o' your lan'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
It's brave to be first at the schule,
It's brave to be cock o' the class,
It's brave to thwack a strang fule,
It's brave to win a wee lass,
It's brave to be first wi' the pleugh,
An' first i' the reel an' strathspey,
An' first at the tod i' the cleugh,
An' first at the stag at bay.
It's brave to be laird o' the glen,
It's brave to be chief o' the clan,
But he that can dree for his neebor to dee,
Oh, he's the true brave man:
He's the true brave man, Willie,
An' the fame o' his name sall be gran'!
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man, Willie,
Hech, but ye'll be a brave man.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jamie Telfer
It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey.
The first ae guide that they met wi',
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi',
It was laigh down in Borthwick water.
'What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?'
'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see.'
And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a',
And ranshackled the house right weel.
Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair,
The tear aye rowing in his e'e;
He pled wi' the captain to hae his gear,
Or else revenged he wad be.
The captain turned him round and leugh;
Said--'Man, there's naething in thy house,
But ae auld sword without a sheath,
That hardly now wad fell a mouse!'
The sun was na up, but the moon was down,
It was the gryming o' a new fa'n snaw,
Jamie Telfer has run three myles a-foot,
Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'
And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,
He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,
Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot--
'Wha's this that brings the fraye to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's naething left at the fair Dodhead,
But a waefu' wife and bairnies three.
'Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha'.
For succour ye'se get nane frae me!
Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,
For, man! ye ne'er paid money to me.'
Jamie has turned him round about,
I wat the tear blinded his e'e--
'I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again,
And the fair Dodhead I'll never see!
'My hounds may a' rin masterless,
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree;
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
For there again maun I never be.'
He has turned him to the Tiviot side,
E'en as fast as he could drie,
Till he came to the Coultart Cleugh
And there he shouted baith loud and hie.
Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve--
'Wha's this that brings the fray to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I trow I be.
'There's naething left in the fair Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three,
And sax poor ca's stand in the sta',
A' routing loud for their minnie.'
'Alack a wae!' quo' auld Jock Grieve,
'Alack! my heart is sair for thee!
For I was married on the elder sister,
And you on the youngest of a' the three.'
Then he has ta'en out a bonny black,
Was right weel fed wi' corn and hay,
And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back,
To the Catslockhill to tak' the fray.
And whan he cam to the Catslockhill,
He shouted loud and weel cried he,
Till out and spak him William's Wat--
'O wha's this brings the fraye to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I think I be!
The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear;
For God's sake rise, and succour me!'
'Alas for wae!' quo' William's Wat,
'Alack, for thee my heart is sair!
I never cam by the fair Dodhead,
That ever I fand thy basket bare.'
He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,
Himsel' upon a freckled gray,
And they are on wi, Jamie Telfer,
To Branksome Ha to tak the fray.
And whan they cam to Branksome Ha',
They shouted a' baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch,
Said--'Wha's this brings the fray to me?
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's nought left in the fair Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three.'
'Alack for wae!' quoth the gude auld lord,
'And ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,
And see that he come to me speedilie!
'Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
Gar warn it soon and hastily!
They that winna ride for Telfer's kye,
Let them never look in the face o' me!
'Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons,
Wi' them will Borthwick water ride;
Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,
And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.
'Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
And warn the Currors o' the Lee;
As ye come down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrinbery.'
The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadilie!
And aye the ower-word o' the thrang,
Was--'Rise for Branksome readilie!'
The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,
Whan Willie has looked his men before,
And saw the kye right fast driving.
'Wha drives thir kye?' 'gan Willie say,
'To mak an outspeckle o' me?'
'It's I, the captain o' Bewcastle, Willie;
I winna layne my name for thee.'
'O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back,
Or will ye do aught for regard o' me?
Or, by the faith o' my body,' quo' Willie Scott,
'I se ware my dame's cauf's-skin on thee!'
'I winna let the kye gae back,
Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear,
But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye,
In spite of every Scot that's here.'
'Set on them, lads!' quo' Willie than,
'Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!
For ere they win to the Ritterford,
Mony a toom saddle there sall be!
But Willie was stricken ower the head,
And through the knapscap the sword has gane;
And Harden grat for very rage,
Whan Willie on the ground lay slain.
But he's ta'en aff his gude steel-cap,
And thrice he's waved it in the air--
The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white,
Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair.
'Revenge! revenge!' auld Wat 'gan cry;
'Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie!
We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again,
Or Willie's death revenged shall be.'
O mony a horse ran masterless,
The splintered lances flew on hie;
But or they wan to the Kershope ford,
The Scots had gotten the victory.
John o' Brigham there was slain,
And John o' Barlow, as I hear say;
And thirty mae o' the captain's men,
Lay bleeding on the grund that day.
The captain was run thro' the thick of the thigh--
And broken was his right leg bane;
If he had lived this hundred year,
He had never been loved by woman again.
'Hae back thy kye!' the captain said;
'Dear kye, I trow, to some they be!
For gin I suld live a hundred years,
There will ne'er fair lady smile on me.'
Then word is gane to the captain's bride,
Even in the bower where that she lay,
That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land,
Since into Tividale he had led the way.
'I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,
And helped to put it ower his head,
Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
When he ower Liddel his men did lead!'
There was a wild gallant amang us a',
His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs,
Cried--'On for his house in Stanegirthside,
If ony man will ride with us!'
When they cam to the Stanegirthside,
They dang wi' trees, and burst the door;
They loosed out a' the captain's kye,
And set them forth our lads before.
There was an auld wife ayont the fire,
A wee bit o' the captain's kin--
'Wha daur loose out the captain's kye,
Or answer to him and his men?'
'It's I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
I winna layne my name frae thee!
And I will loose out the captain's kye,
In scorn of a' his men and he.'
When they cam to the fair Dodhead,
They were a wellcum sight to see!
For instead of his ain ten milk-kye,
Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.
And he has paid the rescue shot,
Baith wi' goud, and white monie;
And at the burial o' Willie Scott,
I wot was mony a weeping e'e.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Address to the Devil
1 O thou! whatever title suit thee,--
2 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
3 Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,
4 Clos'd under hatches,
5 Spairges about the brunstane cootie
6 To scaud poor wretches!
7 Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,
8 An' let poor damned bodies be;
9 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
10 E'en to a deil,
11 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
12 An' hear us squeel!
13 Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
14 Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
15 An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
16 Thou travels far;
17 An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
18 Nor blate nor scaur.
19 Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
20 For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;
21 Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
22 Tirlin' the kirks;
23 Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
24 Unseen thou lurks.
25 I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
26 In lanely glens ye like to stray;
27 Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray
28 Nod to the moon,
29 Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
30 Wi' eldritch croon.
31 When twilight did my graunie summon
32 To say her pray'rs, douce honest woman!
33 Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin,
34 Wi' eerie drone;
35 Or, rustlin thro' the boortrees comin,
36 Wi' heavy groan.
37 Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
38 The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
39 Wi' you mysel I gat a fright,
40 Ayont the lough;
41 Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight,
42 Wi' waving sugh.
43 The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
44 Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
45 When wi' an eldritch, stoor 'Quaick, quaick,'
46 Amang the springs,
47 Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
48 On whistling wings.
49 Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags
50 Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags
51 They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags
52 Wi' wicked speed;
53 And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
54 Owre howket dead.
55 Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain
56 May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
57 For oh! the yellow treasure's taen
58 By witchin skill;
59 An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
60 As yell's the bill.
61 Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
62 On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose;
63 When the best wark-lume i' the house,
64 By cantraip wit,
65 Is instant made no worth a louse,
66 Just at the bit.
67 When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
68 An' float the jinglin icy-boord,
69 Then water-kelpies haunt the foord
70 By your direction,
71 An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd
72 To their destruction.
73 And aft your moss-traversing spunkies
74 Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:
75 The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
76 Delude his eyes,
77 Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
78 Ne'er mair to rise.
79 When Masons' mystic word an grip
80 In storms an' tempests raise you up,
81 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
82 Or, strange to tell!
83 The youngest brither ye wad whip
84 Aff straught to hell!
85 Lang syne, in Eden'd bonie yard,
86 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
87 An all the soul of love they shar'd,
88 The raptur'd hour,
89 Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
90 In shady bow'r;
91 Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!
92 Ye cam to Paradise incog,
93 And play'd on man a cursed brogue,
94 (Black be your fa'!)
95 An gied the infant warld a shog,
96 Maist ruin'd a'.
97 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
98 Wi' reeket duds an reestet gizz,
99 Ye did present your smoutie phiz
100 Mang better folk,
101 An' sklented on the man of Uz
102 Your spitefu' joke?
103 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
104 An' brak him out o' house and hal',
105 While scabs and blotches did him gall,
106 Wi' bitter claw,
107 An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,
108 Was warst ava?
109 But a' your doings to rehearse,
110 Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
111 Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
112 Down to this time,
113 Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
114 In prose or rhyme.
115 An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
116 A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,
117 Some luckless hour will send him linkin,
118 To your black pit;
119 But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
120 An' cheat you yet.
121 But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben!
122 O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
123 Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--
124 Still hae a stake:
125 I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
126 Ev'n for your sake!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Address ToThe Devil
O thou! whatever title suit thee,-
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing' d tempest flyin,
Tirlin' the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my graunie summon
To say her pray'rs, douce honest woman!
Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin thro' the boortrees comin,
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you mysel I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight,
Wi' waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor 'Quaick, quaick,'
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags
Wi' wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howket dead.
Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witchin skill;
An' dawtet, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' croose;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin icy-boord,
Then water-kelpie s haunt the foord
By your direction,
An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd
To their destruction.
And aft your moss-travers ing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Masons' mystic word an grip
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden'd bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r;
Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
And play'd on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)
An gied the infant warld a shog,
Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reeket duds an reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house and hal',
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin,
To your black pit;
But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
An' cheat you yet.
But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-
Still hae a stake:
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Ev'n for your sake!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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