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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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A Flower To Auroville Mother-86
Canna(Canna spp.)
Wild canna(Indian Shot,
Canna indica)
How can I forget those days
That still string golden
Of your beaded persona
Be beaded around my memoir
A treasury of your seeds
Lily-like but not lily
Plantain-like but not
Pink and orange and red
Catchy flora even sprayed
Childhood friend really
And of your use profuse
Of your bright staminodia
Green sepals tri-petaled
Indeed colourful friendship
A flowery field still sparkles
Will I ever forget those days
That still string golden
Of your beaded persona
Be beaded around my memoir
A treasury of your seeds
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Mary, the Maid o' the Tay
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
Whaur me and my Mary oft did stray;
But noo she is dead and gone far away,
Sae I maun mourn for lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay,
The first time I met her 'twas in the month of May,
And the sun was shining bricht on the Silvery Tay;
I asked her name and she modestly did say,
"Some fouks ca's me lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay."
Oh, charming Mary o' the Tay,
Queen o' my soul by nicht and day;
But noo thou'rt gane and left me here
To weep for you, sweet Mary dear.
Oh, bonnie Mary o' the Tay,
Joy o' my heart and Queen o' May;
With thee I aye felt happy and gay
While rambling with thee on the banks o' the Tay.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Tay,
With my Mary ye seemed ever gay;
But noo ye seem baith dark and drear,
For my puir heart ye canna cheer.
My Mary was handsome and fair to be seen,
She bad bonnie fair hair and twa blue een;
And she was, aye happy while we carelessly did stray
Alang the banks o' the Silvery Tay.
Oh, Mary dear, I mourn thy loss,
To me the world seems nought but dross;
Sae I maun mourn baith nicht and day
For my lovely Mary, the Maid o' the Tay.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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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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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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Edom o' Gordon
IT fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
'We maun draw to a hauld.
'And what a hauld sall we draw to,
My merry men and me?
We will gae to the house o' the Rodes,
To see that fair ladye.'
The lady stood on her castle wa',
Beheld baith dale and down;
There she was ware of a host of men
Cam riding towards the town.
'O see ye not, my merry men a',
O see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel wha they be.'
She ween'd it had been her lovely lord,
As he cam riding hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,
Wha reck'd nae sin nor shame.
She had nae sooner buskit hersell,
And putten on her gown,
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men
Were round about the town.
They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men
Were lighted about the place.
The lady ran up to her tower-head,
Sae fast as she could hie,
To see if by her fair speeches
She could wi' him agree.
'Come doun to me, ye lady gay,
Come doun, come doun to me;
This night sall ye lig within mine arms,
To-morrow my bride sall be.'
'I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,
I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.'
'Gie owre your house, ye lady fair,
Gie owre your house to me;
Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
But and your babies three.'
'I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon,
To nae sic traitor as yee;
And if ye brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sall mak ye dree.
'Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,
And charge ye weel my gun;
For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes, we been undone!'
She stood upon her castle wa',
And let twa bullets flee:
She miss'd that bluidy butcher's heart,
And only razed his knee.
'Set fire to the house!' quo' fals Gordon,
All wud wi' dule and ire:
'Fals lady, ye sall rue this deid
As ye brenn in the fire!'
Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your fee;
Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane,
Lets in the reek to me?
'And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your hire;
Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane,
To me lets in the fire?'
'Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,
Ye paid me weel my fee:
But now I'm Edom o' Gordon's man--
Maun either do or die.'
O then bespake her little son,
Sat on the nurse's knee:
Says, 'Mither dear, gie owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.'
'I wad gie a' my gowd, my bairn,
Sae wad I a' my fee,
For ae blast o' the western wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.'
O then bespake her dochter dear--
She was baith jimp and sma':
'O row me in a pair o' sheets,
And tow me owre the wa'!'
They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,
And tow'd her owre the wa';
But on the point o' Gordon's spear
She gat a deadly fa'.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheiks,
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red blood dreips.
Then wi' his spear he turn'd her owre;
O gin her face was wane!
He said, 'Ye are the first that e'er
I wish'd alive again.'
He turn'd her owre and owre again;
O gin her skin was white!
'I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man's delight.
'Busk and boun, my merry men a',
For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna look in that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass.'
'Wha looks to freits, my master dear,
It 's freits will follow them;
Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.'
But when the lady saw the fire
Come flaming owre her head,
She wept, and kiss'd her children twain,
Says, 'Bairns, we been but dead.'
The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said, 'Awa', awa'!
This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame;
I hauld it time to ga'.'
And this way lookit her ain dear lord,
As he cam owre the lea;
He saw his castle a' in a lowe,
As far as he could see.
The sair, O sair, his mind misgave,
And all his heart was wae:
'Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can gae.
'Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can drie!
For he that 's hindmost o' the thrang
Sall ne'er get good o' me.'
Then some they rade, and some they ran,
Out-owre the grass and bent;
But ere the foremost could win up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.
And after the Gordon he is gane,
Sae fast as he might drie;
And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude
He 's wroken his dear ladye.
Blaw the wind ne'er so fast, it will lower at last.
Blaw the wind ne'er sae fast, it will lown at the last.
Blaw the wind nere so saft, it will lowen at the last.
If I canna do't by might, I'll do't by sleight.
The Daft-days
Now mirk December's dowie face
Glours our the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun
Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.
From naked groves nae birdie sings,
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings,
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave,
And dwyning nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.
Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth;
While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou
O' gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
Sin Fairn-year.
Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then come and gie's the tither blaw
Of reaming ale,
Mair precious than the well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.
Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,
As lang's there's pith into the barrel
We'll drink and 'gree.
Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddle-sticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks
From out your quorum,
Nor fortes wi' pianos mix,
Gie's Tulloch Gorum.
For nought can cheer the heart sae weil
As can a canty Highland reel,
It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he what canna feel
Its influence.
Let mirth abound, let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy,
Nor envy wi' sarcastic sneer
Our bliss destroy.
And thou, great god of Aqua Vitæ!
Wha sways the empire of this city,
When fou we're sometimes capernoity,
Be thou prepar'd
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City-Guard.
poem by Robert Fergusson
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