Poems and Songs of Robert Burns | Page 9

retired to rest,
While
here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it's O,
fickle Fortune, O!
The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;

But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it's O,
fickle Fortune, O!
There lies the dear partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment at
rest:
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low!

And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little
hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a
bitter throe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
I once was by Fortune carest:
I once could relieve the distrest:
Now
life's poor support, hardly earn'd
My fate will scarce bestow:
And

it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!

But then my wife and children dearO,
wither would they go!
And
it's O, fickle Fortune, O!
O whither, O whither shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!

For, in this world, Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it's
O, fickle Fortune, O!
Tragic Fragment
All devil as I am-a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn,
unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;

And with sincere but unavailing sighs
I view the helpless children of
distress:
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in
the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his
crime. -
Ev'n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the
seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned
vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
Oh! but for
friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth like you
forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured
God! Thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my
compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abusedAs
far surpassing
other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
Tarbolton Lasses, The
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens
her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:

Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin'.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's

dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye'll
dispense wi' want o' senseShe
kens hersel she's bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;
She'll gie ye
a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.
There's few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
In a' King George' dominion;

If ye should doubt the truth o' thisIt'
s Bessy's ain opinion!
Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear
Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.
Ah, woe is me, my mother dear!
A man of strife ye've born me:
For
sair contention I maun bear;
They hate, revile, and scorn me.
I ne'er could lend on bill or band,
That five per cent. might blest me;

And borrowing, on the tither hand,
The deil a ane wad trust me.
Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how
I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!
Montgomerie's Peggy
Tune - "Galla Water."
Altho' my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie;

Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.
When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and
rainy;
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear
Montgomerie's Peggy.
Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready;


Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, -
The sharin't with Montgomerie's
Peggy.
Ploughman's Life, The
As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young
ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin', thir words he
did say, -
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet
May.
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount i' the
air wi' the dew on her breast,
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll
whistle and sing,
And at night she'll return to her nest back again.
Ronalds Of The Bennals, The
In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young
lasses and a', man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,

They carry the gree frae them a', man.
Their father's laird, and weel he can spare't,
Braid money to tocher
them a', man;
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd
guineas a hunder or twa, man.
There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as
braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And
a conduct that beautifies a', man.
The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration
they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,

They fade and they wither awa, man,
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival