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.
The fear o' hell 's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border.
Some hae meat and cann eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause
And bide by the buff and the blue.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, forever!
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve is like the melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune.
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God" he says, with solemn air.
The golden Hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how monie counsels sweet,
How monie lengthened, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just—nae better than he should be.
The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate'er he be,
'Tis he fulfills great Nature's plan,
And none but he!
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it;
A chield's aman you takin' notes,
And faith he'll prent it.
As Tammie glow'red, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
But pleasures are like poppies spread—
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river—
A moment white—then melts forever.