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John Anderson, My Jo
John Anderson, my jo John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!
John Anderson, my jo John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
poem by Robert Burns
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John Anderson My Jo
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is bled, John,
Your locks are like the straw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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John Anderson
John Anderson, my jo John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!
John Anderson, my jo John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
poem by Robert Burns
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Duncan Gray
1 Duncan Gray came here to woo,
2 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
3 On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
4 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
5 Maggie coost her head fu high,
6 Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
7 Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
8 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
9 Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,
10 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
11 Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
12 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
13 Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
14 Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
15 Spak o' lowpin owre a linn;
16 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
17 Time and chance are but a tide,
18 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
19 Slighted love is sair to bide,
20 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
21 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he,
22 'For a haughty hizzie die?
23 She may gae to--France for me!'--
24 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
25 How it comes let doctors tell,
26 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
27 Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
28 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
29 Something in her bosom wrings,
30 For relief a sigh she brings;
31 And O! her een, they spak sic things
32 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
33 Duncan was a lad o' grace,
34 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
35 Maggie's was a piteous case,
36 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
37 Duncan could na be her death,
38 Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
39 Now they're crouse and cantie baith;
40 Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
poem by Robert Burns
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A proud mind and an empty purse gree ill thegither.
Greed is envy's auldest brither: scraggy wark they mak thegither.
O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee,
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Oh Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
poem by Robert Burns
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Blaw the wind ne'er sae fast, it will lown at the last.
Blaw the wind ne'er so fast, it will lower at last.
Blaw the wind nere so saft, it will lowen at the last.
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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For A' That And A' That
Tho' right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,
The true and leilfu' cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a' that.
For a' that an a' that,
Guns, guillotines, and a' that,
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is queen again for a' that!
We'll twine her in a friendly knot
With England's rose and a' that,
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made bra' that.
The Thistle, tho' her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we'll no misca' that,
She sheltered in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that!
The Austrian Vine, the Prussian pine.
(For Blucher's sake, hurra that,)
The Spanish olive too shall join,
And bloom in peace for a' that.
Stout Russia's hemp, so surely twin'd
Around our wreath we'll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!
Or if to chock sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thraw that,
The Devil's Elbo' be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might
In spite of brags and a' that,
The lads that battled for the right,
Have won the day, and a' that!
There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
They ca'd America that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that;
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loun, beware your croun,
There's kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land, or on the sea,
Where'er the breezes blaw that,
The British flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a' that!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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