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Insularum Ocelle
Sark, fairer than aught in the world that the lit skies cover,
Laughs inly behind her cliffs, and the seafarers mark
As a shrine where the sunlight serves, though the blown clouds hover,
Sark.
We mourn, for love of a song that outsang the lark,
That nought so lovely beholden of Sirmio's lover
Made glad in Propontis the flight of his Pontic bark.
Here earth lies lordly, triumphal as heaven is above her,
And splendid and strange as the sea that upbears as an ark,
As a sign for the rapture of storm-spent eyes to discover,
Sark.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Night is Near Gone
HEY! now the day dawis;
The jolly cock crawis;
Now shroudis the shawis
Thro' Nature anon.
The thissel-cock cryis
On lovers wha lyis:
Now skaillis the skyis;
The nicht is neir gone.
The fieldis ouerflowis
With gowans that growis,
Quhair lilies like low is
As red as the rone.
The turtle that true is,
With notes that renewis,
Her pairty pursuis:
The nicht is neir gone.
Now hairtis with hindis
Conform to their kindis,
Hie tursis their tyndis
On ground quhair they grone.
Now hurchonis, with hairis,
Aye passis in pairis;
Quhilk duly declaris
The nicht is neir gone.
The season excellis
Through sweetness that smellis;
Now Cupid compellis
Our hairtis echone
On Venus wha waikis,
To muse on our maikis,
Syne sing for their saikis--
'The nicht is neir gone!'
All courageous knichtis
Aganis the day dichtis
The breist-plate that bright is
To fight with their fone.
The stoned steed stampis
Through courage, and crampis,
Syne on the land lampis:
The nicht is neir gone.
The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright shieldis
At Titan in trone;
Stiff speiris in reistis
Ouer corseris crestis
Are broke on their breistis:
The nicht is neir gone.
So hard are their hittis,
Some sweyis, some sittis,
And some perforce flittis
On ground quhile they grone.
Syne groomis that gay is
On blonkis that brayis
With swordis assayis:--
The nicht is neir gone.
poem by George Gascoigne
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The Garment Of Good Ladies
Would my good Lady love me best,
And work after my will,
I should ane garment goodliest
Gar mak' her body till.
Of high honour should be her hood
Upon her head to wear,
Garnish'd with governance so good
No deeming should her deir.
Her sark should be, her body next,
Of chastity so white;
With shame and dread together mix'd,
The same should be perfyt.
Her kirtle should be of clear Constance,
Lasit with lesum love ,
The maillies of continuance,
For never to remove.
Her gown should be of goodliness,
Well ribbon'd with renown,
Purfill'd with pleasure in ilk place,
Furred with fine fashion.
Her belt should be of benignity
About her middle meet;
Her mantle of humility,
To thole baith wind and wet.
Her hat should be of fair having,
And her tippet of truth,
Her patelet of good pansing,
Her hats-ribbon of ruth.
Her sleeves should be of esperance,
To keep her from despair;
Her gloves of the good governance,
To hide her fingers fair.
Her shoon should be of sickerness,
In sign that she nought slide;
Her hose of honesty, I guess,
I should for her provide.
Would she put on this garment gay,
I durst swear by my seill,
That she wore never green nor gray
That set her half so weil.
poem by Robert Henryson
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Single Handed Sailor
Two in the morning, dry-dock town
The rivers rolls away in the night
Little gypsy moth shes all tied down
She quiver in the wind and the light
Yeah and a sailing ship just held down in chains
From the lazy days of sail
Its just lying there in silent pain
He lean on the turist rail
A mother and her baby and the colege war
And the concrete graves
You never wanna against the river law
Nobody rules the waves
Yeah and on the night when the lazy wind is a-wailing
Around the cutty sark
Single handed sailor goes sailing
Sailing away in the dark
Hes upon the bridge on the self same night
The mariner of dry dock land
Two in the morning, but there is one green light
And the man on the barge of sand
Shes gonna slip away below him
Away from the things hes done
But he just shouts hey man, what do you call this thing?
He could have said pride of london
On the night when the lazy wind is a-wailing
Around the cutty sark
Yeah the single handed sailor goes sailing
Sailing away in the dark
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kirtles Drapped
In their kirtles drapped in times,
When a boodle carried was kept disguised.
Those of prim and proper grace,
Kept their business away...
From other's faces.
Today,
It is in our eyes.
On display and to no one's surprise.
Like crumbs on fingertips one licks,
From a bag of potato chips one grips.
And when they're finished with that bag,
In the street they toss it quick.
But in their kirtles they would murmur,
Without announcing it one bit.
And today folks like to brag,
About what they have in their grasp.
Few kirtle blurters from the past,
Would never show their valuables or cash.
But times like these have slipped from us fast!
Like crumbs on fingertips one licks,
From a bag of potato chips one grips.
And when they're finished with that bag,
In the street they toss it quick.
And those in kirtles may not show,
What they keep bestowed...
At all!
*Kirtle:
A tunic or coat worn by men,
In the Middle Ages.
Also known as a long gown,
Or dress worn by women.
Perhaps...
To 'protect' their 'treasures'.
Source of info:
Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary.
10th edition.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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An Intercepted Valentine
Little Bo-Peep, will you be mine?
I want you for my Valentine.
You are my choice of all the girls,
With your blushing cheeks and your fluttering curls,
With your ribbons gay and your kirtle neat,
None other is so fair and sweet.
Little Bo-Peep, let's run away,
And marry each other on Midsummer Day;
And ever to you I'll be fond and true,
Your faithful Valentine,
LITTLE BOY BLUE.
poem by Carolyn Wells
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Requiem Night
amu's chall
nan vara
nam erai
king's dead
the day's out
watch the night
para mor
para dour
should the old soul
prepare the last bow
eterna non
non kira'll
nam hara
nothing's eternal
nothing can escape
from the fate of night
car vaval
nya hira
noha asai
the mist's thickening
glory was yesterday
tomorrow's unsure
para mor
para neir
should the old soul
raise a new star
eterna non
noin tira'll
dain matta
nothing's eternal
no darkness will stay
when morning comes
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Glowing is her Bonnet
72
Glowing is her Bonnet,
Glowing is her Cheek,
Glowing is her Kirtle,
Yet she cannot speak.
Better as the Daisy
From the Summer hill
Vanish unrecorded
Save by tearful rill—
Save by loving sunrise
Looking for her face.
Save by feet unnumbered
Pausing at the place.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Bludy Serk
THIS hinder yeir I hard be tald
Thair was a worthy King;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,
He had at his bidding.
The Lord was ancean and ald,
And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter fair to fald,
A lusty Lady ying.
Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,
And eik hir faderis air;
Off lusty laitis and he honour,
Meik bot and debonair:
Scho wynnit in a bigly bour,
On fold wes nane so fair,
Princis luvit hir paramour
In cuntreis our allquhair.
Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King
A foull Gyand of ane;
Stollin he has the Lady ying,
Away with hir is gane,
And kest her in his dungering
Quhair licht scho micht se nane;
Hungir and cauld and grit thristing
Scho fand into hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to luk
That on the grund mycht gang:
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;
Thair wes nane that he ourtuk,
In rycht or yit in wrang,
Bot all in schondir he thame schuk,
The Gyand wes so strang.
He held the Lady day and nycht
Within his deip dungeoun,
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht
For gold nor yit ransoun--
Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht,
To fecht with his persoun,
To fecht with him beth day and nycht,
Quhill ane wer dungin doun.
The King gart seik baith fer and neir,
Beth be se and land,
Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir
Wald fecht with that Gyand:
A worthy Prince, that had no peir,
Hes tane the deid on hand
For the luve of the Lady cleir,
And held full trew cunnand.
That Prince come prowdly to the toun
Of that Gyand to heir,
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun
Allane withouten feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full weill worthy weir.
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht
Unto her fadir fre.
Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht
That he behuvit to de;
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the world was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,
With all her mekill mycht--
'I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,
That dulfully now is dicht;
God sen my lyfe were fra me tane
Or I had seen yone sicht,
Or ellis in begging evir to gane
Furth with yone curtass knycht.'
He said 'Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow;
Take ye my serk that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow;
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow.'
The Lady said 'Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a vow.'
Quhen that scho lukit to the sark
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir hart
That lowsit hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk
Into that deip dungeoun;
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,
That was hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht
That no man wald scho tak:
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis sak,
Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir;
The manis saule to the Lady,
The Gyand to Lucefeir,
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre
And coft our synnis deir;
The pit to Hele with panis fell,
The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all sin away
That in our breist is bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,
For ws his blud that bled,
To be our help on domisday
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrayit with Lucefeir,
Quha sittis in hell full merk:
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
And for his lufe that bocht us deir
Think on the BLUDY SERK!
poem by Robert Henryson
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The Eve of Crecy
Gold on her head, and gold on her feet,
And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,
And a golden girdle round my sweet;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
Margaret's maids are fair to see,
Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;
Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
If I were rich I would kiss her feet;
I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,
And the golden kirtle round my sweet:
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;
When the arrière-ban goes through the land,
Six basnets under my pennon stand;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
And many an one grins under his hood:
Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men good,
Has neither food nor firewood;
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite.
If I were rich I would kiss her feet,
And the golden girdle of my sweet,
And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
Yet even now it is good to think,
While my few poor varlets grumble and drink
In my desolate hall, where the fires sink,--
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite,--
Of Margaret sitting glorious there,
In glory of gold and glory of hair,
And glory of glorious face most fair;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
Likewise to-night I make good cheer,
Because this battle draweth near:
For what have I to lose or fear?
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
For, look you, my horse is good to prance
A right fair measure in this war-dance,
Before the eyes of Philip of France;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
And sometime it may hap, perdie,
While my new towers stand up three and three,
And my hall gets painted fair to see--
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite--
That folks may say: Times change, by the rood,
For Lambert, banneret of the wood,
Has heaps of food and firewood;
Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.
poem by William Morris
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Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
How sma' ze hae to vaunt.
'And sen I maun zour errand rin
Sae sair against my will,
I'se make a vow and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.'
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam;
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.
And quhen he came to Barnards ha',
Would neither chap nor ca';
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa'.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Bot straiht into the ha' he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.
'Hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod,
Before that it be late.
'Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
Tis a' gowd bot the hem:
Zou maun gae to the gude grene wode,
Ev'n by your sel alane.
'And there it is, a silken sarke,
Your ain hand sewd the sleive:
Ze maun gae speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
The lady stamped wi' hir foot,
And winked wi' her ee;
Bot a' that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.
'Its surely to my bow'r-woman;
It neir could be to me.'
'I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow that ze be she.'
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon hir knee):
'If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
It' deir welcum to mee.'
'Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud I heird ze lee;
I brocht it to Lord Barnards lady;
I trow ze be nae shee.'
Then up and spack the bauld baron,
An angry man was hee;
He's tain the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,
Till siller cup and 'mazer' dish
In flinders he gard flee.
'Gae bring a robe of zour cliding
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the gude grene wode,
And speik wi' zour lemman.
'O bide at hame, now, Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi' nane.'
Gil Morice sate in gude grene wode,
He whistled and he sang:
'O what mean a' the folk coming?
His hair was like the threeds of gold,
Drawne frae Minerva's loome;
His lipps like roses drapping dew;
His breath was a' perfume.
His browe was like the mountains snae
Gilt by the morning beam;
His cheeks like living roses glow;
His een like azure stream.
The boy was clad in robes of grene,
Sweete as the infant spring;
And like the mavis on the bush,
He gart the vallies ring.
The baron came to the grene wode,
Wi' mickle dule and care,
And there he first spied Gill Morice
Kameing his zellow hair
That sweetly wavd around his face,
That face beyond compare;
He sang sae sweet, it might dispel
A' rage but fell despair.
'Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
My lady loed thee weel;
The fairest part of my bodie
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now, Gill Morice,
For al' thy great beautie,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That head sall gae wi' me.'
Now he was drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice' fair body
He's gar cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice' head
And set it on a speir:
The meanest man in a' his train
Has gotten that head to bear.
And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,
And laid him on a bed.
The lady sat on castil wa',
Beheld baith dale and doun;
And there she saw Gill Morice' head
Cum trailing to the toun.
'Far better I loe that bluidy head,
Both and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard, and a' his lands,
As they lig here and thair.'
And she has tain her Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin:
'I was once as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip is o' the stean.
'I got ze in my father's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
I brocht thee up in gude grene wode,
Under the heavy rain.
Oft have I by thy cradle sitten
And fondly seen thee sleip;
But now I gae about thy grave,
The saut tears for to weip.'
And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin:
'O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a' my kith and kin!'
'Away, away, ze ill woman,
And an il deith mait ze dee:
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for mee.'
'Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard!
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi' that saim speir, O pierce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Since nothing bot Gill Morice' head
Thy jealous rage could quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.
'To me nae after days nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.'
'Enouch of blood by me's bin spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;
I rather lourd it had been my sel
Than eather him or thee.
'With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour tears, my winsome dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Ze see his head upon the speir,
His heart's blude on the ground.
'I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi' sik speid,
The comely zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were mine ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
On which the zouth was slain.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Ellen Irwin
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.
From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.
But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.
Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce
He launched a deadly javelin!
Fair Ellen saw it as it came,
And, starting up to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The Youth, her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms,
Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus, from the heart of her True-love,
The mortal spear repelling.
And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.
But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkconnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn "Hie jacet"!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Wee Willie Gray
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet,
Peel a willow wand to be him boots and jacket;
The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet,
The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet,
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet,
Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and cravat;
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet,
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet.
poem by Robert Burns
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Let's Drink to our next Meeting
Let's drink to our next meeting, lads,
Nor think on what's atwixt;
They're fools wha spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
Chorus
Then here's to Meg o' Morningside,
An Kate o' Kittlemark;
The taen she drank her hose and shoon,
The tither pawned her sark.
A load o' wealth, an' wardly pelf,
They say is sair to bear;
Sae he's a gowk would scrape an' howk
To make his burden mair
Chorus
Gif Care looks black the morn, lads,
As he's come doon the lum,
Let's ease our hearts by swearing, lads,
We never bade him come.
Chorus
Then here's to our next meeting, lads,
Ne'er think on what's atwixt;
They're fools who spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
Chorus
poem by Hew Ainslie
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The Land Of Kisses
Where is the Land of Kisses,
Can you tell, tell, tell?
Ah, yes; I know its blisses
Very well!
'Tis not beneath the swinging
Of the Jessamine,
Where gossip-birds sit singing
In the vine!
Where is the Land of Kisses,
Do you know, know, know?
Is it such a land as this is?
No, truly no!
Nor is it 'neath the Myrtle,
Where each butterfly
Can brush your lady's kirtle,
Flitting by!
Where is the Land of Kisses,
Can you say, say, say?
Yes; there a red lip presses
Mine ev'ry day!
But 'tis not where the Pansies
Open purple eyes,
And gossip all their fancies
To the skies!
I know the Land of Kisses
Passing well, well, well;
Who seeks it often misses--
Let me tell.
Fly, lover, like a swallow,
Where your lady goes;
You'll find it if you follow,
'Neath the Rose.
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thy Nightly Gown, Thy Shoes, Thy Shows and Bed of Roses
Thy nightly gown, thy shoes, thy shows and bed of roses
Bring back thy cap, thy kirtle and the thousands of poises
Soon, too soon they break, too soon wither, hast to be forgotten
In folly ripe, in dash to edge, in madness or reason rotten
Belt of straw and ivy meadows with sprouting buds
Coral clasps and spring with amber studs
All these in me no means can tarnish or move
To come to thy and be thy eternal love
But can youth last, and love still breed
Have joys no date, no limits no age no need
The shades and memories of these delights of love
Will prove any age or time's blemish of you my precious dove
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Sic a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel to e'en our Scottish name
Sae fam'd in sang and story.
Now Sark rins tae th' Solway sands,
An' Tweed runs t' th' ocean..
Tae mark whaur England's Province stands:
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station.
But English gold has been our bane:
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!
Oh, would or had I seen the day
That treason thus could sell us!
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But, pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll make this declaration:
We were bought and sold for English gold!
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fareweel To A'Our Scottish Fame
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story!
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue
Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;
But English gold has been our bane—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O, would or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration:
We're bought and sold for English gold—
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tam Glen
1 My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
2 Some counsel unto me come len';
3 To anger them a' is a pity,
4 But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
5 I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,
6 In poortith I might mak a fen':
7 What care I in riches to wallow,
8 If I mauna marry Tam Glen?
9 There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller,
10 "Guid-day to you,"--brute! he comes ben:
11 He brags and he blaws o' his siller,
12 But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
13 My minnie does constantly deave me,
14 And bids me beware o' young men;
15 They flatter, she says, to deceive me;
16 But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?
17 My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
18 He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
19 But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
20 O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
21 Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,
22 My heart to my mou gied a sten:
23 For thrice I drew ane without failing,
24 And thrice it was written, "Tam Glen"!
25 The last Halloween I was waukin
26 My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken:
27 His likeness cam up the house staukin,
28 And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!
29 Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;
30 I'll gie ye my bonie black hen,
31 Gif ye will advise me to marry
32 The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Passionate Shepherd to his Love
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
poem by Christopher Marlowe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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