But on her bosom left his life, The lords and nobles when they saw Thus have you seen the fall of pride, TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT This winters weather itt waxeth cold, He. 175 Wee have brought them up to women and 180 5 10 15 to the men; In the feare of God I trow they bee; And why wilt thou thyselfe misken? Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 40 He. O Bell my wiffe, why dost thou 'floute!' Now is nowe, and then was then: Seeke now all the world throughout, Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen. They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or 'gray,' Soe far above their owne degree: Once in my life Ile 'doe as they,' For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She. King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a crowne, He held them sixpence all too deere; Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne. He was a wight of high renowne. 45 50 And thouse but of a low degree: Bell my wife she loves not strife, And oft, to live a quiet life, I am forced to yield, though Ime good Itt's not for a man with a Woman to threape, Unlesse he first gave oer the plea: As wee began wee now will leave, mee. SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST. There came a ghost to Margaret's door, And ay he tirled at the pin; Is this my father Philip? 'Tis not thy father Philip; Nor yet thy brother John: O sweet Margret! O dear Margret! 10 Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, Of me shalt nevir win,' If I should come within thy bower, And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, O sweet Margret, O dear Margret, Give me my faith and troth, Margret, Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,' Till thou take me to yon kirk yard, My bones are buried in a kirk yard She stretched out her lily-white hand, Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest. ROBERT ROBERT BURNS, Scotland's national bard, the son of a poor farmer, was born in 1759 in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr. His father gave him what education he could afford, but that was very slight indeed; when he left school he possessed only a few books, among which were The Spectator,' Pope's Works, Allan Ramsay, and a collection of English songs: but these few he studied thoroughly. In 1786 Burns published his first volume, which created a great sensation, and the impatience of the public could scarcely be kept within bounds for the third edition. After this success he took the farm of Ellisland near Dumfries, and married. In 1788 he obtained the situation of 60 O stay, my only true love, stay, Exciseman, in which, however, on account of his convivial habits, he had no chance of promotion, rather 1791 he retired to Dumfries, where he managed to live upon his paltry salary of L. 70 a year. He then published a third edition of his works, with the new poem of "Tam O'Shanter' and other pieces composed on his farm at Ellisland. He died in 1796, aged 37 years. His best known productions are his 'Cotter's Saturday Night' and 'Tam O'Shanter,' but the feeling of the author is not so well expressed in them as in his poem "To a mouse on turning up her nest with a plough, and some of his smaller and less known productions, in which his pathos and original inspiration are strongly marked. Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, They filled up a darksome pit They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted o'er a scorching flame For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, 45 And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, Twill make your courage rise. "Twill make a man forget his woe; "Twill heighten all his joy: 20 Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by yon murmuring stream, 50 Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her "Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 55 Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, And may his great posterity AFTON WATER. 60 dream. The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, Farewell to the mountains high cover'd Farewell to the Farewell to the Farewell to the 10 forests and wild-hanging woods; torrents and loud-pouring floods: Highlands, my heart is not here; Highlands, a-chasing the deer; My heart's in the My heart's in the Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. John Anderson my jo, John, BANNOCHburn. Robert Bruce's address to his army. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour- Wha will be a traitor-knave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Liberty's in every blow! Forward! let us do, or die! LORD GREGORY. O mirk, (3) mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar; A waefu' (4) wanderer seeks thy tow'r, An exile frae (5) her father's ha',(6) At least some pity on me shaw, 10 15 5 10 To you I sing in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene: The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 15 20 Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied? 5 10 (1) So. (2) To fall. (3) Dark. (4) Woeful. (5) From. (6) Hall. (7) All. What Aikin in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning train o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20 Th'expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher (1) thro' To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee, His wee-bit ingle, (2) blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. (1) Stagger. (2) Hearth, fireplace. |