Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Poet and pioneer of the Romantic movement and after his death became an important source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism.
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
Misled by fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray
Was light from heaven.
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.
God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be.
The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley;
And leave us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy.
O Mary, at thy window be!
It is the wished, the trysted hour.
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings;
While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
Suspense is worse than disappointment.
An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended.
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow—
Let us do or die!
I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing:
But, och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn!
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.