Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns

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While his mate sits nestling in the bush;

       An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.

       But it's not her air, her form, her face,

       Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;

       'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,

       An' chiefly in her roguish een.

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      Tune—“The Braes o' Balquhidder.”

      Chor.—And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

       And I'll kiss thee o'er again:

       And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

       My bonie Peggy Alison.

       Ilk care and fear, when thou art near

       I evermair defy them, O!

       Young kings upon their hansel throne

       Are no sae blest as I am, O!

       And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

       When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,

       I clasp my countless treasure, O!

       I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share

       Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

       And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

       And by thy een sae bonie blue,

       I swear I'm thine for ever, O!

       And on thy lips I seal my vow,

       And break it shall I never, O!

       And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

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      Tune—“Bide ye yet.”

       O Mary, at thy window be,

       It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

       Those smiles and glances let me see,

       That make the miser's treasure poor:

       How blythely was I bide the stour,

       A weary slave frae sun to sun,

       Could I the rich reward secure,

       The lovely Mary Morison.

       Yestreen, when to the trembling string

       The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

       To thee my fancy took its wing,

       I sat, but neither heard nor saw:

       Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

       And yon the toast of a' the town,

       I sigh'd, and said among them a',

       “Ye are na Mary Morison.”

       Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

       Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

       Or canst thou break that heart of his,

       Whase only faut is loving thee?

       If love for love thou wilt na gie,

       At least be pity to me shown;

       A thought ungentle canna be

       The thought o' Mary Morison.

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      The wintry west extends his blast,

       And hail and rain does blaw;

       Or the stormy north sends driving forth

       The blinding sleet and snaw:

       While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

       And roars frae bank to brae;

       And bird and beast in covert rest,

       And pass the heartless day.

       “The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,”

       The joyless winter day

       Let others fear, to me more dear

       Than all the pride of May:

       The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

       My griefs it seems to join;

       The leafless trees my fancy please,

       Their fate resembles mine!

       Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

       These woes of mine fulfil,

       Here firm I rest; they must be best,

       Because they are Thy will!

       Then all I want—O do Thou grant

       This one request of mine!—

       Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

       Assist me to resign.

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      O Thou Great Being! what Thou art,

       Surpasses me to know;

       Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

       Are all Thy works below.

       Thy creature here before Thee stands,

       All wretched and distrest;

       Yet sure those ills that wring my soul

       Obey Thy high behest.

       Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act

       From cruelty or wrath!

       O, free my weary eyes from tears,

       Or close them fast in death!

       But, if I must afflicted be,

       To suit some wise design,

       Then man my soul with firm resolves,

       To bear and not repine!

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      The man, in life wherever plac'd,

       Hath happiness in store,

       Who walks not in the wicked's way,

       Nor learns their guilty lore!

       Nor from the

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