Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns

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my son an' heir,

       O, bid him breed him up wi' care!

       An' if he live to be a beast,

       To pit some havins in his breast!

       “An' warn him—what I winna name—

       To stay content wi' yowes at hame;

       An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,

       Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

       “An' neist, my yowie, silly thing,

       Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

       O, may thou ne'er forgather up,

       Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;

       But aye keep mind to moop an' mell,

       Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!

       “And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,

       I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:

       An' when you think upo' your mither,

       Mind to be kind to ane anither.

       “Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail,

       To tell my master a' my tale;

       An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

       An' for thy pains thou'se get my blather.”

       This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,

       And clos'd her een amang the dead!

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      Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,

       Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;

       Our bardie's fate is at a close,

       Past a' remead!

       The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes;

       Poor Mailie's dead!

       It's no the loss o' warl's gear,

       That could sae bitter draw the tear,

       Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

       The mourning weed:

       He's lost a friend an' neebor dear

       In Mailie dead.

       Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;

       A lang half-mile she could descry him;

       Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,

       She ran wi' speed:

       A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,

       Than Mailie dead.

       I wat she was a sheep o' sense,

       An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:

       I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

       Thro' thievish greed.

       Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence

       Sin' Mailie's dead.

       Or, if he wanders up the howe,

       Her living image in her yowe

       Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,

       For bits o' bread;

       An' down the briny pearls rowe

       For Mailie dead.

       She was nae get o' moorland tips,

       Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;

       For her forbears were brought in ships,

       Frae 'yont the Tweed.

       A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips

       Than Mailie's dead.

       Wae worth the man wha first did shape

       That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip!

       It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

       Wi' chokin dread;

       An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

       For Mailie dead.

       O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!

       An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!

       Come, join the melancholious croon

       O' Robin's reed!

       His heart will never get aboon—

       His Mailie's dead!

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      Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.”

      It was upon a Lammas night,

       When corn rigs are bonie,

       Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

       I held awa to Annie;

       The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,

       Till, 'tween the late and early,

       Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed

       To see me thro' the barley.

       Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

       An' corn rigs are bonie:

       I'll ne'er forget that happy night,

       Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

       The sky was blue, the wind was still,

       The moon was shining clearly;

       I set her down, wi' right good will,

       Amang the rigs o' barley:

       I ken't her heart was a' my ain;

       I lov'd her most sincerely;

       I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

       Amang the rigs o' barley.

       Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

       I lock'd her in my fond embrace;

       Her heart was beating rarely:

       My blessings on that happy place,

       Amang the rigs o' barley!

       But by the moon and stars so bright,

       That shone that hour so clearly!

       She aye shall bless that happy night

       Amang the rigs o' barley.

       Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

       I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;

       I hae been merry drinking;

       I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;

       I hae been happy thinking:

       But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

       Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,

       That happy night was worth them a',

       Amang the rigs o' barley.

       Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

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      Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

      Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns

      

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