Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns
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Название: Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

Автор: Robert Burns

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

Серия:

isbn: 4057664117434

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ of Contents

      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, СКАЧАТЬ