Written by
Robert Burns |
O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely was I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said among them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”
Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
With belly like a poisoned pup
Said I: 'I must give bacon up:
And also, I profanely fear,
I must abandon bread and beer
That make for portliness they say;
Yet of them copiously today
I ate with an increasingly sense
Of grievous corpulence.
I like a lot of thinks I like.
Too bad that I must go on strike
Against pork sausages and mash,
Spaghetti and fried corn-beef hash.
I deem he is a lucky soul
Who has no need of girth control;
For in the old of age: 'Il faut
Souffrir pour etre bean.'
Yet let me not be unconsoled:
So many greybeards I behold,
Distinguished in affairs of state,
In culture counted with the Great,
Have tummies with a shameless bulge,
And so I think I'll still indulge
In eats I like without a qualm,
And damn my diaphragm!'
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Written by
Robert Burns |
WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie *****
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch,
Your bodkin’s bauld;
I didna suffer half sae much
Frae Daddie Auld.
What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An’ jag-the-flea!
King David, o’ poetic brief,
Wrocht ’mang the lasses sic mischief
As filled his after-life wi’ grief,
An’ bluidy rants,
An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief
O’ lang-syne saunts.
And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants,
I’ll gie auld cloven’s Clootie’s haunts
An unco slip yet,
An’ snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie’s hip yet!
But, fegs! the session says I maun
Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan
Than garrin lasses coup the cran,
Clean heels ower body,
An’ sairly thole their mother’s ban
Afore the howdy.
This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi’ the Session sort;
Auld Clinkum, at the inner port,
Cried three times, “Robin!
Come hither lad, and answer for’t,
Ye’re blam’d for jobbin!”
Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on,
An’ snoov’d awa before the Session:
I made an open, fair confession—
I scorn’t to lee,
An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o’ me.
A fornicator-loun he call’d me,
An’ said my faut frae bliss expell’d me;
I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me,
“But, what the matter?
(Quo’ I) I fear unless ye geld me,
I’ll ne’er be better!”
“Geld you! (quo’ he) an’ what for no?
If that your right hand, leg or toe
Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe,
You should remember
To cut it aff—an’ what for no
Your dearest member?”
“Na, na, (quo’ I,) I’m no for that,
Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t;
I’d rather suffer for my faut
A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t,
Tho’ I should rue it.
“Or, gin ye like to end the bother,
To please us a’—I’ve just ae ither—
When next wi’ yon lass I forgather,
Whate’er betide it,
I’ll frankly gie her ’t a’ thegither,
An’ let her guide it.”
But, sir, this pleas’d them warst of a’,
An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said “Gude night,” an’ cam’ awa’,
An’ left the Session;
I saw they were resolvèd a’
On my oppression.
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Written by
Guillaume Apollinaire |
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
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Written by
Robert Burns |
WHILE briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.
On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin,
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.
I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,
What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark?”
They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,
An’ sae about him there I speir’t;
Then a’ that kent him round declar’d
He had ingine;
That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,
It was sae fine:
That, set him to a pint of ale,
An’ either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches—
’Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith,
Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith,
Or die a cadger pownie’s death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith,
To hear your crack.
But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;
Tho’ rude an’ rough—
Yet crooning to a body’s sel’
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a sense;
But just a rhymer like by chance,
An’ hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?
Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, “How can you e’er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?”
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye’re maybe wrang.
What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools—
Your Latin names for horns an’ stools?
If honest Nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye’d better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o’ dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o’ Greek!
Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire,
That’s a’ the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a ***** o’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s the bauld an’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fu’,
I’se no insist:
But, gif ye want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts to tell;
But friends, an’ folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me;
Tho’ I maun own, as mony still
As far abuse me.
There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses—Gude forgie me!
For mony a plack they wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing they gie me,
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care,
If we forgather;
An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin-ware
Wi’ ane anither.
The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water;
Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish, war’ly race,
Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’ friendship should give place
To catch-the-plack!
I dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,
“Each aid the others,”
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
He stared at me with sad, hurt eyes,
That drab, untidy man;
And though my clients I despise
I do the best I can
To comfort them with cheerful chat;
(Quite comme il faut, of course)
And furnish evidence so that
Their wives may claim divorce.
But as this chap sobbed out his woes
I thought: How it's a shame!
His wife's a ***** and so he goes
And takes himself the blame.
And me behaving like a heel
To earn a filthy fee . . .
Said I: "You've had a dirty deal."
"What of yourself? said he.
And so I told him how I was
A widow of the war,
And doing what I did because
Two sons I struggled for.
As I sat knitting through the night
He eyed me from the bed,
And in the rosy morning light
Impulsively he said:
"Through in this sordid game we play,
To cheat the law we plan,
i do believe you when you say
You hold aloof from man;
Unto the dead you have been true,
And on the day I'm free,
To prove how I have faith in you -
Please, will you marry me?"
That's how it was. Now we are wed,
And life's a list of joys.
The old unhappy past is dead;
He's father to my boys.
And I have told him just to-day,
(Though forty, I confess,)
A little sister's on the way
To crown our happiness.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O WHA my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
O wha will own he did the faut?
O wha will buy the groanin maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
Chorus—O can ye labour lea, young man,
O can ye labour lea?
It fee nor bountith shall us twine
Gin ye can labour lea.
I FEE’D a man at Michaelmas,
Wi’ airle pennies three;
But a’ the faut I had to him,
He could na labour lea,
O can ye labour lea, &c.
O clappin’s gude in Febarwar,
An’ kissin’s sweet in May;
But my delight’s the ploughman lad,
That weel can labour lea,
O can ye labour lea, &c.
O kissin is the key o’ luve,
And clappin’ is the lock;
An’ makin’ o’s the best thing yet,
That e’er a young thing gat.
O can ye labour lea, &c.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light;
Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon,
And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun.
Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun fecht and fen’;
But here we’re a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.
Then gudewife, &c.
My coggie is a haly pool
That heals the wounds o’ care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton trout,
An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out.
Then gudewife, &c.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
He gives me such a bold and curious look,
That young American across the way,
As if he'd like to put me in a book
(Fancies himself a poet, so they say.)
Ah well! He'll make no "document" of me.
I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see. . . .
Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor,
Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled,
A vision of the beauty I adore,
My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled . . .
But now my money's gone, I paint no more.
For three days past I have not tasted food;
The jeweled colors run . . . I reel, I faint;
They tell me that my pictures are no good,
Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint.
I burned to throw on canvas all I saw --
Twilight on water, tenderness of trees,
Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas,
The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe:
Emotion swayed me at the thought of these.
I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw,
And that's the trouble. . . .
Ah well! here am I,
Facing my failure after struggle long;
And there they are, my croutes that none will buy
(And doubtless they are right and I am wrong);
Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die. . . .
This knife will do . . . and now to slash and slash;
Rip them to ribands, rend them every one,
My dreams and visions -- tear and stab and gash,
So that their crudeness may be known to none;
Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done. . . .
And now to close my little window tight.
Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set,
The evening star is like a beacon bright.
And see! to keep her tender tryst with night
How Paris veils herself in violet. . . .
Oh, why does God create such men as I? --
All pride and passion and divine desire,
Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire,
Foredoomed to failure though they try and try;
Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled;
Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world. . . .
And now to light my wheezy jet of gas;
Chink up the window-crannies and the door,
So that no single breath of air may pass;
So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor.
There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more. . . .
Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine;
See, the calm moon is launching into space . . .
There will be darkness in these eyes of mine
Ere it can climb to shine upon my face.
Oh, it will find such peace upon my face! . . .
City of Beauty, I have loved you well,
A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh;
I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to Hell.
Paris, I love you still . . . good-by, good-by.
Thus it all ends -- unhappily, alas!
It's time to sleep, and now . . . blow out the gas. . . .
Now there's that little midinette
Who goes to work each morning daily;
I choose to call her Blithe Babette,
Because she's always humming gaily;
And though the Goddess "Comme-il-faut"
May look on her with prim expression,
It's Pagan Paris where, you know,
The queen of virtues is Discretion.
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