ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796), “the Bard of Ayrshire” and Sweet Afton the National Poet of Scotland, was born in Alloway, Scotland. A poor farmer's son, he received little formal education and Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes, hills published Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish dialect in 1786. The Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; success of this volume allowed him to join Edinburgh's literary My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, elite and marry his mistress Jean Armour who bore his Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. legitimate children (he also fathered illegitimate children with various women). He also began to collect and write songs (over Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 500 in number, many still sung today including “Auld Lang Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Syne” and “Scots Wae Hae”) which he contributed to The Scots Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, Musical Museum and The Melodies of Scotland. Burns lost I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair. many friends in the 1790s for his support of the French Revolution and political radicalism (prefiguring modern How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, socialism). Always a drinker, he began to drink more heavily Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; and died at the premature age of 37. Burns is often considered There daily I wander as noon rises high, merely a “proto-Romantic” because his poetic style in some My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. ways looks back to earlier 18th Century verse; but his iconoclastic vision and immersion in Scottish folk culture and How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, language make him more authentically “romantic” than many Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow; others so styled. There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. birch Song--Green Grow The Rashes Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; Chor.--Green grow the rashes, O; rushes [pondweeds] How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, Green grow the rashes, O; As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave. The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O. Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; There's nought but care on ev'ry han', My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, In ev'ry hour that passes, O: Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, &c. John Anderson, My Jo The war'ly race may riches chase, John Anderson, my jo, John, An' riches still may fly them, O; When we were first acquent; acquainted An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Your locks were like the raven, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Your bonie brow was brent; handsome; steep Green grow, &c. But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But gie me a cannie hour at e'en, snug But blessings on your frosty pow, poll (head) My arms about my dearie, O; John Anderson, my jo. An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! head over heels John Anderson, my jo, John, Green grow, &c. We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a cantie day, John, many a lively For you sae douce, ye sneer at this; sober We've had wi' ane anither: Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: Now we maun totter down, John, must The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, And hand in hand we'll go, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. And sleep thegither at the foot, together Green grow, &c. John Anderson, my jo. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: A Man's A Man For A' That Her prentice han' she try'd on man, apprentice hand An' then she made the lasses, O. Is there for honest Poverty Green grow, &c. That hings his head, an' a' that; The coward slave--we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that. 1 Our toils obscure an' a' that, Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 21 shilling coin Your thick plantations. The Man's the gowd for a' that. gold Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight; What though on hamely fare we dine, Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right, Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; homespun Till ye've got on it- Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; The verra tapmost, tow'rin height A Man's a Man for a' that: O' Miss' bonnet. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, As plump an' grey as ony groset: Is king o' men for a' that. O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, gallant fellow I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Wad dress your droddum. Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: dolt I wad na been surpris'd to spy For a' that, an' a' that, You on an auld wife's flainen toy; His ribband, star, an' a' that: Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, The man o' independent mind On's wyliecoat; He looks an' laughs at a' that. But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye! A prince can mak a belted knight, How daur ye do't? A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's abon his might, O Jeany, dinna toss your head, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! must not fail [to have] An' set your beauties a' abread! For a' that, an' a' that, Ye little ken what cursed speed Their dignities an' a' that; The blastie's makin: The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, importance Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, Are higher rank than a' that. Are notice takin. Then let us pray that come it may, O wad some Power the giftie gie us (As come it will for a' that,) To see oursels as ithers see us! That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, It wad frae mony a blunder free us, Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. attain degree An' foolish notion: For a' that, an' a' that, What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, It's coming yet for a' that, An' ev'n devotion! That Man to Man, the world o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785 To A Louse On Seeing One On A Lady's Bonnet, At Church Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, sleek O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Your impudence protects you sairly; Wi' bickering brattle! scampering I canna say but ye strunt rarely, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, unwilling to run Owre gauze and lace; Wi' murd'ring pattle! spade Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken nature's social union, Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, An' justifies that ill opinion, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, Which makes thee startle How daur ye set your fit upon her- At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, Sae fine a lady? An' fellow-mortal! Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! must Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle; A daimen icker in a thrave odd stalk in a shock of wheat There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, 'S a sma' request; Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, rest In shoals and nations; An' never miss't! 2 That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door kind Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! For glaikit Folly's portals: stupid It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! poor walls I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, An' naething, now, to big a new ane, build; one Would here propone defences-- O' foggage green! grass left standing after mowing Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, mean An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Their failings and mischances. Baith snell an' keen! Both harsh Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, And shudder at the niffer; An' weary winter comin fast, But cast a moment's fair regard, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, What maks the mighty differ; Thou thought to dwell-- Discount what scant occasion gave, Till crash! the cruel coulter past plowblade That purity ye pride in; Out thro' thy cell. And (what's aft mair than a' the lave), oft more; all the rest Your better art o' hidin.