The Poetical Works of Robert Burns

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.

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.

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 ay shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o' barley.

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.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

MY NANIE, 0.

BEHIND yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa to Nanie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O: But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring | Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion;"

The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring

WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD.

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE-GILLICRANKIE.'

WHEN Guilford good our Pilot stood, | For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,

An' did our hellim thraw, man,

Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,

I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,

Was kept at Boston ha', man; Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe For Philadelphia, man: Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Guid Christian bluid to draw, man; But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir Loin he hacked sma', man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost his way, ae misty day,

In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, An' did the Buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,

He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville doure, wha stood the
stoure,

The German Chief to thraw, man:

Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game;
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up
cheek,

his

Conform to gospel law, man; Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks,

An' bore him to the wa', man.

Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charlie's cartes,

He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man: The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,

On Chatham's boy did ca', man; An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 'Up, Willie, waur them a', man!'

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man:
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly
graith,

(Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, 'Willie, rise! Would I hae fear'd them a', man?

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;
An' Caledon threw by the drone,

An' did her whittle draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood,
To make it guid in law, man.

CALEDONIA.

TUNE-CALEDONIAN HUNT's delight.'

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung:
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign,

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore,

'Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!' With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn:
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand;
Repeated, successive, for many long years,

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land.
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside;
She took to the hills, and her arrows let fly,
The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,

No arts could appease them, no arms could rebel :

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life :
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun :
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;

But brave Čaledonia's the hypothenuse;

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.

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, tho' ever so low;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are there,
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 the 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 waddled up stairs,
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.

A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.

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The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, Volume 1