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Craigieburn Wood
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakens the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet darena for your anger'
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.
poem by Robert Burns
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Carigieburn Wood
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakens the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet darena for your anger'
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bloody Sun
“O WHERE have ye been the morn sae late,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
O where have ye been the morn sae late?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“By the water-gate, by the water-gate,
O dear mither.”
“And whatten kin’ o’ wark had ye there to make,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And whatten kin’ o’ wark had ye there to make?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“I watered my steeds with water frae the lake,
O dear mither.”
“Why is your coat sae fouled the day,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
Why is your coat sae fouled the day?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“The steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay,
O dear mither.”
“And where gat ye thae sleeves of red,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where gat ye thae sleeves of red?
And I wot I hae but anither.”
“I have slain my ae brither by the weary water-head,
O dear mither.”
“And where will ye gang to mak your mend,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And where will ye gang to mak your mend?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The warldis way, to the warldis end,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your father dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your father dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The wood to fell and the logs to bear,
For he’ll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your mither dear,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your mither dear?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“The wool to card and the wool to wear,
For ye’ll never see my body mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave for your wife to take,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave for your wife to take?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“A goodly gown and a fair new make,
For she’ll do nae mair for my body’s sake,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your young son fair,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your young son fair?
And I wot ye hae not anither.”
“A twiggen school-rod for his body to bear,
Though it garred him greet he’ll get nae mair,
O dear mither.”
“And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And what will ye leave your little daughter sweet?
And I wot ye hae not anither.”
“Wild mulberries for her mouth to eat,
She’ll get nae mair though it garred her greet,
O dear mither.”
“And when will ye come back frae roamin’,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
And when will ye come back frae roamin’?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When the sunrise out of the north is comen,
O dear mither.”
“When shall the sunrise on the north side be,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall the sunrise on the north side be?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea,
O dear mither.”
“When shall stanes in the sea swim,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall stanes in the sea swim?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When birdies’ feathers are as lead therein,
O dear mither.”
“When shall feathers be as lead,
My merry son, come tell me hither?
When shall feathers be as lead?
And I wot I hae not anither.”
“When God shall judge between the quick and dead,
O dear mither.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Oubit
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang-
'My Minnie bad me bide at hame until I won my wings;
I show her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things.'
This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,
A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in:
Oh when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,
And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.
Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;
Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.
Oh haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;
For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
Eversley, 1851.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Every man's tale is good till anither's be tauld.
Ane beats the bush, and anither grips the bird.
Married folk are like rats in a trap -- fain to get others in, but fain to be out themselves.
He that rides ahint anither doesna saddle when he pleases.
The damage done to U.S. prestige by the feckless, buffoonish George W. Bush will take years to repair.
quote by Camille Paglia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If a policy is wrongheaded, feckless and corrupt, I take it personally and consider it a moral obligation to sound off and not shut up until it's fixed.
quote by David Hackworth
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MAN and GOD
In a world full of fear n’ doubt
Feckless souls’ go unexplored
Situation ripe for a turnabout
Man seeks God of own accord
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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As ane flits anither flits, and that keeps mailins dear.
It may be that we have become so feckless as a people that we no longer care how things do work, but only what kind of quick, easy outer impression they give. If so, there is little hope for our cities or probably for much else in our society. But I do not think this is so.
quote by Jane Jacobs
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fluttered Wings
The splendour of the kindling day,
The splendor of the setting sun,
These move my soul to wend its way,
And have done
With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
The paling roses of a cloud,
The fading bow that arches space,
These woo my fancy toward my shroud,
Toward the place
Of faces veil’d, and heads discrown’d and bow’d.
The nation of the awful stars,
The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
These make me beat against the bars
Of my grief;
My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart toss’d to and fro,
So fain to flee, so fain to rest!
All glories that are high or low,
East or west,
Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Vinegar Smile
She turned cold, bitter, feckless
True archetype of vexed tartness
With vinegar smile on pouted lips
Ran off friends and partnerships
(Horrors of Dementia)
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Four years of Jimmy Carter gave us two titanic Reagan landslides, peace and prosperity for eight blessed years - and even a third term for his feckless vice president, George H.W. Bush.
quote by Ann Coulter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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