10 Best Famous Rede Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Rede poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rede poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rede poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rede poems.

• All Famous Rede Poems

 May—, 1786.I LANG hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
 A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
 Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang,
 Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang:
 Perhaps turn out a sermon.


Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad;
 And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
 And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
 Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought,
 Where ev’ry nerve is strained.


I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
 The real, harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
 Are to a few restricked;
But, Och! mankind are unco weak,
 An’ little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
 It’s rarely right adjusted!


Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
 Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still, th’ important end of life
 They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
 Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor’s part,
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him.


Aye free, aff-han’, your story tell,
 When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel’,
 Ye scarcely tell to ony:
Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
 Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
 Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.


The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,
 Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
 Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
 The hazard of concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a’ within,
 And petrifies the feeling!


To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
 Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev’ry wile
 That’s justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
 Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
 Of being independent.


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;
Its slightest touches, instant pause—
 Debar a’ side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
 Uncaring consequences.


The great Creator to revere,
 Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
 And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
 Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
 For Deity offended!


When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
 Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
 It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re tempest driv’n—
 A conscience but a canker—
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
 Is sure a noble anchor!


Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
 Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
 Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,”
 Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede,
 Then ever did th’ adviser!

 HEAR, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat’s;—
If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,
 I rede you tent it:
A chield’s amang you takin notes,
 And, faith, he’ll prent it:


If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,
O’ stature short, but genius bright,
 That’s he, mark weel;
And wow! he has an unco sleight
 O’ cauk and keel.


By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in
 Some eldritch part,
Wi’ deils, they say, L—d save’s! colleaguin
 At some black art.


Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar,
 Warlocks and witches,
Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,
 Ye midnight bitches.


It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;
But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,
 And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the—Antiquarian trade,
 I think they call it.


He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
 A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
 Before the flood.


Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
 O’ Balaam’s ass:
A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor,
 Weel shod wi’ brass.


Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg
The cut of Adam’s philibeg;
The knife that nickit Abel’s craig
 He’ll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
 Or lang-kail gullie.


But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
 Gude fellows wi’ him:
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
 And THEN ye’ll see him!


Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!—
Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,
 They sair misca’ thee;
I’d take the rascal by the nose,
 Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”

 At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft,
Ffor that a romping wench was shee--
"Now marke this rede," they bade her oft,
"Forsooken sholde your folly bee!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried,
"Oho, oho," in girlish glee,
And noe thing mo replied.

II

No griffe she had nor knew no care,
But gayly rompit all daies long,
And, like ye brooke that everywhere
Goes jinking with a gladsome song,
Shee danct and songe from morn till night,--
Her gentil harte did know no wrong,
Nor did she none despight.

III

Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle
Did trend his path a somer's daye,
And to ye hoyden he did call
And these ffull evill words did say:
"O wolde you weare a silken gown
And binde your haire with ribands gay?
Then come with me to town!"

IV

But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,--
"I'le be no lemman unto thee
For all your golde and gownes," shee said,
"ffor Robin hath bespoken mee."
Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight,
And back unto his hall went hee
With face as ashen white.

V

"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl,
Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?"
So spak ffull many an envious churle
Unto that curteyse countrie wight.
But Robin did not pay no heede;
And they ben wed a somer night
& danct upon ye meade.

VI

Then scarse ben past a yeare & daye
Whan Robin toke unto his bed,
And long, long time therein he lay,
Nor colde not work to earn his bread;
in soche an houre, whan times ben sore,
Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread
& knockit at ye doore.

VII

Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know
how that you once despighted me?
But He forgiff an you will go
my swete harte lady ffor to bee!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more,--
straightway upon her heele turnt shee,
& shote ye cottage doore.

VIII

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte
whiles that ye years did come and go;
't was somer allwais in her harte,
tho' winter strewed her head with snowe.
She toilt and span thro' all those years
nor bid repine that it ben soe,
nor never shad noe teares.

IX

Whiles Robin lay within his bed,
A divell came and whispered lowe,--
"Giff you will doe my will," he said,
"None more of sickness you shall knowe!"
Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul--
Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe,
an that you make me whoale!"

X

That day, upp rising ffrom his bed,
Quoth Robin: "I am well again!"
& backe he came as from ye dead,
& he ben mickle blithe as when
he wooed his doxy long ago;
& Madge did make ado & then
Her teares ffor joy did flowe.

XI

Then came that hell-born cloven thing--
Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life,
and I hencefoorth shall be your king,
and you shall do my evill strife.
Look round about and you shall see
sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe--
a comely dame is shee!"

XII

Ye divell had him in his power,
and not colde Robin say thereto:
Soe Robin from that very houre
did what that divell bade him do;
He wooed and dipt, and on a daye
Sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe
a many leagues away.

XIII

Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore,
And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake
and knockit at ye cottage door
and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake:
Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own,
So come with mee & bee my make,
syn tother birds ben flown."

XIV

But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe;
Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still,
And, tho' he doth despight me soe,
I mean to do him good for ill.
So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way;
ffor whiles I bee on live I will
ffor Robin's coming pray!"

XV

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed
that Godde sholde send her Robin backe.
And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made,
and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke,
And tho', as moneths dragged away,
ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack
With griff, she still did praye.

XVI

Sicke of that divell's damnèd charmes,
Aback did Robin come at last,
And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms
and gave a cry and held him fast;
And as she clong to him and cried,
her patient harte with joy did brast,
& Madge, ye hoyden, died.

 MY heart was ance as blithe and free
 As simmer days were lang;
But a bonie, westlin weaver lad
 Has gart me change my sang.


Chorus.—To the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids,
 To the weaver’s gin ye go;
I rede you right, gang ne’er at night,
 To the weaver’s gin ye go.


My mither sent me to the town,
 To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o’t
 Has gart me sigh and sab.
 To the weaver’s, &c.


A bonie, westlin weaver lad
 Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi’ a net,
 In every knot and thrum.
 To the weaver’s, &c.


I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
 And aye I ca’d it roun’;
But every shot and evey knock,
 My heart it gae a stoun.
 To the weaver’s, &c.


The moon was sinking in the west,
 Wi’ visage pale and wan,
As my bonie, westlin weaver lad
 Convoy’d me thro’ the glen.
 To the weaver’s, &c.


But what was said, or what was done,
 Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But Oh! I fear the kintra soon
 Will ken as weel’s myself!
 To the weaver’s, &c.

 THE HEATHER was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,
O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen.


Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,
I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men;
Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.


Sweet-brushing the dew from the brown heather bells
Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring
And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing.
 I rede you, &c.


Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;
He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae—
His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay.
 I rede you,&c.


They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.
 I rede you, &c.

 WOULDST thou be free? I think it not, indeed;
But if thou wouldst, attend this simple rede:
When quite contented }thou canst dine at home
Thou shall be free when }
And drink a small wine of the march of Rome;
When thou canst see unmoved thy neighbour's plate,
And wear my threadbare toga in the gate;
When thou hast learned to love a small abode,
And not to choose a mistress A LA MODE:
When thus contained and bridled thou shalt be,
Then, Maximus, then first shalt thou be free.

 YE gallants bright, I rede you right,
 Beware o’ bonie Ann;
Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,
 Your heart she will trepan:
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
 Her skin sae like the swan;
Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist,
 That sweetly ye might span.


Youth, Grace, and Love attendant move,
 And pleasure leads the van:
In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,
 They wait on bonie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
 But love enslaves the man:
Ye gallants braw, I rede you a’,
 Beware o’ bonie Ann!