Robert Burns Poetry Bot

pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to

fearless Of either heaven or hell! Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale! Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make one scanty pleasures less, By

their while? Alas! how aft, in haughty mood God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess! Baith careless and

drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth

treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha

lear, To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae

no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in makin muckle mair; It's no in books, it's no in

see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done. It's

foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound To

like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and

some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther we can fa'. What tho',

sometimes we'd snatch a taste O' truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has ay

kilns and barns at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then,

As lang's we're hale and fier: "Muir spier na, nor fear na," Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg. To lie in

countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread,

hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want. While coofs on

folks' gift, That live sae bien an' snug: I tent less and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride. It's

And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great

A BROTHER POET While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time,

chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon! His Mailie's dead!

fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your

bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing--a rape! It maks guid

rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A

dead. Or, if he wonders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls

sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, tamely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's

him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She run wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o'

wear The mourning weed; He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A long half-mile she could descry

last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead. It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie,

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead; The

cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead.