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 quite barefac'd.

       Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;

       Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;

       Mysel', I've even seen them greetin

       Wi' girnin spite,

       To hear the moon sae sadly lied on

       By word an' write.

       But shortly they will cowe the louns!

       Some auld-light herds in neebor touns

       Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,

       To tak a flight;

       An' stay ae month amang the moons

       An' see them right.

       Guid observation they will gie them;

       An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,

       The hindmaist shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them

       Just i' their pouch;

       An' when the new-light billies see them,

       I think they'll crouch!

       Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter

       Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;

       But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter

       In logic tulyie,

       I hope we bardies ken some better

       Than mind sic brulyie.

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      Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”

      One night as I did wander,

       When corn begins to shoot,

       I sat me down to ponder

       Upon an auld tree root;

       Auld Ayr ran by before me,

       And bicker'd to the seas;

       A cushat crooded o'er me,

       That echoed through the braes

      … . …

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      Tune—“The Northern Lass.”

      Tho' cruel fate should bid us part,

       Far as the pole and line,

       Her dear idea round my heart,

       Should tenderly entwine.

       Tho' mountains, rise, and deserts howl,

       And oceans roar between;

       Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

       I still would love my Jean.

      … . …

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      [Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.]

       Tune—“Daintie Davie.”

      There was a lad was born in Kyle,

       But whatna day o' whatna style,

       I doubt it's hardly worth the while

       To be sae nice wi' Robin.

       Chor.—Robin was a rovin' boy,

       Rantin', rovin', rantin', rovin',

       Robin was a rovin' boy,

       Rantin', rovin', Robin!

       Our monarch's hindmost year but ane

       Was five-and-twenty days begun^2,

       'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'

       Blew hansel in on Robin.

       Robin was, &c.

       [Footnote 2: January 25, 1759, the date of my

       bardship's vital existence.—R.B.]

       The gossip keekit in his loof,

       Quo' scho, “Wha lives will see the proof,

       This waly boy will be nae coof:

       I think we'll ca' him Robin.”

       Robin was, &c.

       “He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',

       But aye a heart aboon them a',

       He'll be a credit till us a'—

       We'll a' be proud o' Robin.”

       Robin was, &c.

       “But sure as three times three mak nine,

       I see by ilka score and line,

       This chap will dearly like our kin',

       So leeze me on thee! Robin.”

       Robin was, &c.

       “Guid faith,” quo', scho, “I doubt you gar

       The bonie lasses lie aspar;

       But twenty fauts ye may hae waur

       So blessins on thee! Robin.”

       Robin was, &c.

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