Robert Burns Translation: Banks O' Doon

Banks o' Doon by Robert Burns modern English translation by Michael R. Burch Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon, How can you bloom so fresh and fair; How can you chant, ecstatic birds, When I'm so weary, full of care! You'll break my heart, small warblers, Flittering through the flowering thorn: Reminding me of long-lost joys, Departed, never to return! I've often wandered lovely Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And as the lark sang of its love, Just as fondly, I sang of mine. Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose, So fragrant upon its thorny tree; And my false lover stole my rose, But, ah!, he left the thorn in me. "The Banks o' Doon" is a 1791 Scots song written by Robert Burns. It's based on the story of Margaret (Peggy) Kennedy, a girl Burns knew, and the River Doon. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, air, song, Doon, banks, Scots, Scottish, Scotland, modernization To a Louse by Robert Burns translation by Michael R. Burch Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly? Your impudence protects you, barely; I can only say that you swagger rarely Over gauze and lace. Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely In such a place. You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder, Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner, How dare you set your feet upon her— So fine a lady! Go somewhere else to seek your dinner On some poor body. Off! around some beggar's temple shamble: There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble, With other kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now hold you there! You're out of sight, Below the folderols, snug and tight; No, faith just yet! You'll not be right, Till you've got on it: The very topmost, towering height Of miss's bonnet. My word! right bold you root, contrary, As plump and gray as any gooseberry. Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin, Or dread red poison; I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea, It'd dress your noggin! I wouldn't be surprised to spy You on some housewife's flannel tie: Or maybe on some ragged boy's Pale undervest; But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie! How dare you jest? Oh Jenny, do not toss your head, And lash your lovely braids abroad! You hardly know what cursed speed The creature's making! Those winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice-taking! O would some Power with vision teach us To see ourselves as others see us! It would from many a blunder free us, And foolish notions: What airs in dress and carriage would leave us, And even devotion!