Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns

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      O raging Fortune's withering blast

       Has laid my leaf full low, O!

       O raging Fortune's withering blast

       Has laid my leaf full low, O!

       My stem was fair, my bud was green,

       My blossom sweet did blow, O!

       The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,

       And made my branches grow, O!

       But luckless Fortune's northern storms

       Laid a' my blossoms low, O!

       But luckless Fortune's northern storms

       Laid a' my blossoms low, O!

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      O why the deuce should I repine,

       And be an ill foreboder?

       I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine,

       I'll go and be a sodger!

       I gat some gear wi' mickle care,

       I held it weel thegither;

       But now it's gane, and something mair—

       I'll go and be a sodger!

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      Tune—“Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly.”

      No churchman am I for to rail and to write,

       No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,

       No sly man of business contriving a snare,

       For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

       The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;

       I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;

       But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,

       And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

       Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;

       There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;

       But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?

       There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

       The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;

       for sweet consolation to church I did fly;

       I found that old Solomon proved it fair,

       That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

       I once was persuaded a venture to make;

       A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;

       But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd upstairs,

       With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

       “Life's cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down

       By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

       And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,

       For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.

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      Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,

       And honours masonic prepare for to throw;

       May ev'ry true Brother of the Compass and Square

       Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.

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      Tune—“The weaver and his shuttle, O.”

      My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,

       And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;

       He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;

       For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

       Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;

       Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;

       My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:

       Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

       In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune's favour, O;

       Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;

       Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;

       And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

       Then sore harass'd and tir'd at last, with Fortune's vain delusion, O,

       I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;

       The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;

       But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

       No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;

       So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;

       To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

       For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

       Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,

       Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:

       No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;

       I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.

       But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,

       Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:

       I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O:

       But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

       When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,

       Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, O;

       Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd folly, O:

       But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy,

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