Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

“Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay;

       “In my bower if ye should stay”—

       “Let me stay,” quo' Findlay;

       “I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;”

       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.

       “Here this night if ye remain”—

       “I'll remain,” quo' Findlay;

       “I dread ye'll learn the gate again;”

       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.

       “What may pass within this bower”—

       “Let it pass,” quo' Findlay;

       “Ye maun conceal till your last hour:”

       “Indeed will I,” quo' Findlay.

1784

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Remorse: A Fragment

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      Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

       That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish

       Beyond comparison the worst are those

       By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:

       In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind

       Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”

       But, when to all the evil of misfortune

       This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”

       Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,

       The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—

       Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involved others,

       The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;

       Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!

       O burning hell! in all thy store of torments

       There's not a keener lash!

       Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

       Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

       Can reason down its agonizing throbs;

       And, after proper purpose of amendment,

       Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

       O happy, happy, enviable man!

       O glorious magnanimity of soul!

Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton

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      Here Souter Hood in death does sleep;

       To hell if he's gane thither,

       Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;

       He'll haud it weel thegither.

Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton

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      Here lies Boghead amang the dead

       In hopes to get salvation;

       But if such as he in Heav'n may be,

       Then welcome, hail! damnation.

Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father's Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill

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      An honest man here lies at rest

       As e'er God with his image blest;

       The friend of man, the friend of truth,

       The friend of age, and guide of youth:

       Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,

       Few heads with knowledge so informed:

       If there's another world, he lives in bliss;

       If there is none, he made the best of this.

Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father

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      O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

       Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend!

       Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

       The tender father, and the gen'rous friend;

       The pitying heart that felt for human woe,

       The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;

       The friend of man—to vice alone a foe;

       For “ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.”^1

       [Footnote 1: Goldsmith.—R.B.]

Ballad On The American War

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      Tune—“Killiecrankie.”

      When Guilford good our pilot stood

       An' did our hellim thraw, man,

       Ae night, at tea, began a plea,

       Within America, man:

       Then up they gat the maskin-pat,

       And in the sea did jaw, man;

       An' did nae less, in full congress,

       Than quite refuse our law, man.

       Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,

       I wat he was na slaw, man;

       Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,

       And Carleton did ca', man:

       But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,

       Montgomery-like did fa', man,

       Wi' sword in hand, before his band,

       Amang his en'mies a', man.

       Poor Tammy Gage within a cage

       Was kept at Boston—ha', man;

       Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe

       For Philadelphia, man;

       Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin

       Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;