Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns

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Yestreen I met you on the moor,

       Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour;

       Ye geck at me because I'm poor,

       But fient a hair care I.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       When coming hame on Sunday last,

       Upon the road as I cam past,

       Ye snufft and ga'e your head a cast—

       But trowth I care't na by.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,

       Because ye hae the name o' clink,

       That ye can please me at a wink,

       Whene'er ye like to try.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,

       Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,

       Wha follows ony saucy quean,

       That looks sae proud and high.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,

       If that he want the yellow dirt,

       Ye'll cast your head anither airt,

       And answer him fu' dry.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       But, if he hae the name o' gear,

       Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,

       Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,

       Be better than the kye.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:

       Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;

       The deil a ane wad speir your price,

       Were ye as poor as I.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

       There lives a lass beside yon park,

       I'd rather hae her in her sark,

       Than you wi' a' your thousand mark;

       That gars you look sae high.

       O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

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      I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing

       Gaily in the sunny beam;

       List'ning to the wild birds singing,

       By a falling crystal stream:

       Straight the sky grew black and daring;

       Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;

       Tress with aged arms were warring,

       O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

       Such was my life's deceitful morning,

       Such the pleasures I enjoyed:

       But lang or noon, loud tempests storming

       A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.

       Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me—

       She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill,

       Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me—

       I bear a heart shall support me still.

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      Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.”

      The sun he is sunk in the west,

       All creatures 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 dear—

       O, 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!

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      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

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