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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
VERSES
WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF.
Accept the gift a friend sincere
Wad on thy worth be pressin';
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
Wad on thy worth be pressin';
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
My morning raise sae clear and fair,
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare
My peace, my hope, for ever!
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare
My peace, my hope, for ever!
You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude—then, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal
My deeply-ranklin' sorrow.
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude—then, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal
My deeply-ranklin' sorrow.
Farewell within thy bosom free
A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee,
For Scotia's son—ance gay like thee—
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken!
A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee,
For Scotia's son—ance gay like thee—
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken!
EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME,
ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY.
17th December, 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cook'ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.
And cook'ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.
TO MR. SYME,
WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.
O, had the malt thy strength of mind.
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
'Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
'Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
SONNET,
ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R.B. AGED 34.
Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.