Thrift's gude revenue.
Scottish proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Braid Claith
Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.
He that some ells o' this may fa,
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa',
Wi' a' this graith,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude Braid Claith.
Waesuck for him wha has na fek o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at,
A chiel that ne'er will be respekit
While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.
On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
When he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,
Gangs trigly, faith!
Or to the meadow, or the park,
In gude Braid Claith.
Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickly hair,
Wou'd be right laith,
Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air
In gude Braid Claith.
If only mettl'd stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He maunna care for being seen
Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean
O' gude Braid Claith.
For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,
And scald him baith.
Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare
Without Braid Claith.
Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Fergusson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Battle Of Harlaw--Evergreen Version
Frae Dunidier as I cam throuch,
Doun by the hill of Banochie,
Allangst the lands of Garioch.
Grit pitie was to heir and se
The noys and dulesum hermonie,
That evir that dreiry day did daw!
Cryand the corynoch on hie,
Alas! alas! for the Harlaw.
I marvlit what the matter meant;
All folks were in a fiery fariy:
I wist nocht wha was fae or freind,
Yet quietly I did me carrie.
But sen the days of auld King Hairy,
Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene,
And thair I had nae tyme to tairy,
For bissiness in Aberdene.
Thus as I walkit on the way,
To Inverury as I went,
I met a man, and bad him stay,
Requeisting him to mak me quaint
Of the beginning and the event
That happenit thair at the Harlaw;
Then he entreited me to tak tent,
And he the truth sould to me schaw.
Grit Donald of the Ysles did claim
Unto the lands of Ross sum richt,
And to the governour he came,
Them for to haif, gif that he micht,
Wha saw his interest was but slicht,
And thairfore answerit with disdain.
He hastit hame baith day and nicht,
And sent nae bodward back again.
But Donald richt impatient
Of that answer Duke Robert gaif,
He vow'd to God Omniyotent,
All the hale lands of Ross to half,
Or ells be graithed in his graif:
He wald not quat his richt for nocht,
Nor be abusit like a slaif;
That bargin sould be deirly bocht.
Then haistylie he did command
That all his weir-men should convene;
Ilk an well harnisit frae hand,
To melt and heir what he did mein.
He waxit wrath and vowit tein;
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Lass of Lochroyan
'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?
And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will bind my middle jimp
Wi' a lang, lang linen band?
'O wha will kame my yellow hair,
With a haw bayberry kame?
And wha will be my babe's father
Till Gregory come hame?'
'They father, he will shoe thy foot,
Thy brother will glove thy hand,
Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp
Wi' a lang, lang linen band.
'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,
Wi' a haw bayberry kame;
The Almighty will be thy babe's father
Till Gregory come hame.'
'And wha will build a bonny ship,
And set it on the sea?
For I will go to seek my love,
My ain love Gregory.'
Up then spak her father dear,
A wafu' man was he;
'And I will build a bonny ship,
And set her on the sea.
'And I will build a bonny ship,
And set her on the sea,
And ye sal gae and seek your love,
Your ain love Gregory.'
Then he 's gart build a bonny ship,
And set it on the sea,
Wi' four-and-twenty mariners,
To bear her company.
O he 's gart build a bonny ship,
To sail on the salt sea;
The mast was o' the beaten gold,
The sails o' cramoisie.
The sides were o' the gude stout aik,
The deck o' mountain pine,
The anchor o' the silver shene,
The ropes o' silken twine.
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Gil Morrice. A Scottish Ballad
Gil Morrice was an erles son,
His name it waxed wide:
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet was mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.
'Quhair sall I get a bonny boy,
That will win hose and shoen;
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha',
And bid his lady cum?
And ze maun rin my errand, Willie,
And ze may rin wi' pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.'
'O no! O no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld barons,
For to triest furth his wife.'
'My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie,' he sayd:
'How can ze strive against the stream?
For I shall be obeyd.'
'Bot, O my master dear!' he cry'd,
'In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze rede,
For fear ze should be tain.'
'Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha',
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
Ill gar zour body bleid.
'Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem;
Bid hir cum to the gude grene wode,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the sleive;
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice,
Speir nae bauld barons leave.'
'Yes, I will gae zour blacke errand,
Though it be to zour cost;
Sen ze by me well nae be warn'd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The baron he is a man of might,
He neir could bide to taunt;
As ze will see before it's nicht,
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Cock and The Fox
Thogh brutal beestes be irrational,
That is to say, wantand, discretioun,
Yit ilk ane in their kindes natural
Has many divers inclinatioun:
The bair busteous, the wold, the wylde lyoun,
The fox fenyeit, craftie and cautelous,
The dog to bark on night and keep the hous.
Sa different they are in properteis
Unknawin unto man and infinite,
In kind havand sa fel diversiteis,
My cunning it excides for to dyte.
Forthy as now, I purpose for to wryte
Ane case I fand whilk fell this other yeer
Betwix ane fox and gentil Chauntecleer.
Ane widow dwelt intill ane drop they dayis
Whilk wan hir food off spinning on hir rok,
And na mair had, forsooth, as the fabill sayis,
Except of hennes scho had ane lyttel flok,
And them to keep scho had one jolie cok,
Right corageous, that to this widow ay
Divided night, and crew before the day.
Ane lyttel fra this foresaid widow's hous,
Ane thornie schaw there was of greet defence,
Wherein ane foxe, craftie and cautelous,
Made his repair and daylie residence,
Whilk to this widow did greet violence
In pyking off pultrie baith day and night,
And na way be revengit on him scho might.
This wylie tod, when that the lark couth sing,
Full sair and hungrie unto the toun him drest,
Were Chauntecleer, in to the gray dawing,
Werie for night, was flowen fra hist nest.
Lowrence this saw and in his mind he kest
The jeperdies, the wayes, and the wyle,
By what menis he might this cok begyle.
Dissimuland in to countenance and cheer,
On knees fell and simuland thus he said,
'Gude morne, my maister, gentil Chantecleer!'
With that the cok start bakwart in ane braid.
'Schir, by my saul, ye need not be effraid,
Nor yit for me to start nor flee abak;
I come bot here service to you to mak.'
'Wald I not serve to you, it wer bot blame,
As I have done to your progenitouris.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Henryson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Johnnie Armstrang
Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And sic like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Some time call'd Laird of Gilnockie.
The king he writes a loving letter,
With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To come and speak with him speedilie.
The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant companie:
'We'll ride and meet our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie.
'Make kinnen and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plentie;
We'll welcome here our royal king;
I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!'
They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,
And brake their spears with meikle main;
The ladies lookit frae their loft windows--
'God bring our men weel hame again!'
When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men sae brave to see,
The king he moved his bonnet to him;
He ween'd he was a king as well as he.
'May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,
And a subject of yours, my liege,' said he.
'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I'll gi'e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,
Were all foal'd in ae year to me.
'I'll gi'e thee all these milk-white steeds,
That prance and nicher at a spear;
And as meikle gude Inglish gilt,
As four of their braid backs dow bear.'
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Johnny Armstrong (original)
Sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds,
And siclyke men of hie degrie;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Sumtyme calld Laird of Giluockie.
The king he wrytes a laving letter,
With his ain hand see tenderly:
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To cum and speik with him speidily.
The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant company:
'We'ill ryde and meit our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockiel'
'Make kinnen(1) and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plenty;
We'ill welcome hame our royal king;
I hope he'ill dyne at Gilnockiel'
They ran their horse on the Langum howm(2)
And brake their speirs with mekle main;
The ladys lukit free their loft-windows,
'God bring our men weil back again!'
When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men see brave to see,
The King he movit his bonnet to him;
He weind he was a king as well as he.
'May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,
And subject of yours, my liege,' said he.
'Away, away, thou traytor, strang!
Out of my sicht thou mayst sune be!
I grantit nevir a traytors lyfe,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'
'Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king,
And a bony gift I will give to thee:
Full four-and-twenty milk-whyt steids.
Were a' foald in a yeir to me.
'I'll gie thee all these milk-whyt steids,
that prance and nicher at a speir,
With as mekle gude Inglis gilt
As four of their braid backs dow beir.'
[...] Read more
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Auld Maitland
There lived a king in southern land,
King Edward hight his name;
Unwordily he wore the crown,
Till fifty years were gane.
He had a sister's son o's ain,
Was large of blood and bane;
And afterward, when he came up,
Young Edward hight his name.
One day he came before the king,
And kneel'd low on his knee:
'A boon, a boon, my good uncle,
I crave to ask of thee!
'At our lang wars, in fair Scotland,
I fain ha'e wish'd to be,
If fifteen hundred waled wight men
You'll grant to ride with me.'
'Thou shall ha'e thae, thou shall ha'e mae;
I say it sickerlie;
And I myself, an auld gray man,
Array'd your host shall see.'
King Edward rade, King Edward ran--
I wish him dool and pyne!
Till he had fifteen hundred men
Assembled on the Tyne.
And thrice as many at Berwicke
Were all for battle bound,
[Who, marching forth with false Dunbar,
A ready welcome found.]
They lighted on the banks of Tweed,
And blew their coals sae het,
And fired the Merse and Teviotdale,
All in an evening late.
As they fared up o'er Lammermoor,
They burn'd baith up and down,
Until they came to a darksome house,
Some call it Leader-Town.
'Wha hauds this house?' young Edward cried,
'Or wha gi'est o'er to me?'
A gray-hair'd knight set up his head,
And crackit right crousely:
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Sir Patrick Spens
The king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blude-red wine;
'O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o' mine?'
O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee;
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail'd the sea.'
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal'd it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud, loud laugh'd he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e'e.
'O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o' me,
To send us out, at this time o' year,
To sail upon the sea?
'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.
'I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm.'
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon;
But lang or a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.
[...] Read more
poem by anonym
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Robin and Makyne
ROBIN sat on gude green hill,
Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
'Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
Doutless but dreid I de.'
Robin answerit 'By the Rude
Na thing of luve I knaw,
But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:
Lo, quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thou shaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wad I leir that law.'
'At luvis lair gif thou will leir
Tak thair ane A B C;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, and free:
So that no danger do thee deir
Quhat dule in dern thou dre;
Preiss thee with pain at all poweir
Be patient and previe.'
Robin answerit hir agane,
'I wat nocht quhat is lufe;
But I haif mervel in certaine
Quhat makis thee this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fain;
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald prey us in this plane,
They wald us baith reproif.'
'Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thou sall haif my heart all haill,
Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill,
And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with thee bot gif I daill
Dowtles I am bot deid.'
'Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde
And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;
But mawgre haif I, and I byde,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Henryson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Kinmont Willie
O have ye na heard o the fause Sakelde?
O have ye na heard o the keen Lord Scroop?
How they hae taen bauld Kinmont Willie,
On Hairibee to hang him up?
Had Willie had but twenty men,
But twenty men as stout as be,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont taen
Wi eight score in his companie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,
They tied his hands behind his back;
They guarded him, fivesome on each side,
And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.
They led him thro the Liddel-rack.
And also thro the Carlisle sands;
They brought him to Carlisle castell.
To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.
'My hands are tied; but my tongue is free,
And whae will dare this deed avow?
Or answer by the border law?
Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?'
'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!
There's never a Scot shall set ye free:
Before ye cross my castle-yate,
I trow ye shall take farewell o me.'
'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo Willie:
'By the faith o my body, Lord Scroope,' he said,
'I never yet lodged in a hostelrie--
But I paid my lawing before I gaed.'
Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,
In Branksome Ha where that he lay,
That Lord Scroope has taen the Kinmont Willie,
Between the hours of night and day.
He has taen the table wi his hand,
He garrd the red wine spring on hie;
'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said,
'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be!
'O is my basnet a widow's curch?
Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree?
Or my arm a lady's lilye hand,
That an English lord should lightly me?
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Testament of Cressida (excerpt)
...
Thus chydand with her drerie destenye,
Weiping, scho woik the nicht fra end to end;
Bot all in vane; hir dule, hir cairfull cry,
Micht not remeid, nor yit hir murning mend.
Ane lipper lady rais, and till hir wend,
And said, "Quhy spurnis thow aganis the wall,
To sla thyself, and mend nathing at all?
"Sen thy weiping dowbillis bot thy wo,
I counsall the mak vertew of ane neid;
To leir to clap thy clapper to and fro,
And leir efter the law of lipper leid."
Thair was na buit, bot furth with thame scho yeid,
Fra place to place, quhill cauld and hounger sair
Compellit hir to be ane rank beggair.
That samin tyme of Troy the garnisoun,
Quhilk had to chiftane worthie Troylus,
Throw jeopardie of weir had strikken down
Knichtis of Grece in number marvellous:
With greit tryumphe and laude victorious
Agane to Troy richt royallie they raid,
The way quhair Cresseid with the lipper baid.
Seing that companie, thai come all with ane stevin;
Thay gaif ane cry, and schuik coppis gude speid;
Said, "Worthie lordis, for Goddis lufe of hevin,
To us lipper part of your almous deid."
Than to thair cry nobill Troylus tuik heid,
Having pietie, neir by the place can pas
Quhair Cresseid sat, not witting quhat scho was.
Than upon him scho kest up baith her ene,
And with ane blenk it come into his thocht
That he sumtime hir face befoir had sene;
But scho was in sic plye he knew hir nocht;
Yit than hir luik into his mynd it brocht
The sweit visage and amorous blenking
Of fair Cresseid, sumtyme his awin darling.
Na wonder was, suppois in mynd that he
Tuik hir figure sa sone, and lo! now quhy!
The idole of ane thing in cace may be
Sa deip imprentit in the fantasy,
That it deludis the wittis outwardly,
And sa appeiris in forme and lyke estait
Within the mynd, as it was figurait.
Ane spark of lufe than till his hart culd spring,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Henryson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Tam o' Shanter
"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke." - Gawin Douglas
When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm.
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L[or]d's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:— Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a verra brither—
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Burns (1790)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Brus Book II
[Bruce escapes to Lochmaben]
The Bruys went till his innys swyth,
Bot wyt ye weile he wes full blyth
That he had gottyn that respyt.
He callit his marschall till him tyt
5 And bad him luk on all maner
That he ma till his men gud cher,
For he wald in his chambre be
A weile gret quhile in prevate,
With him a clerk foroutyn ma.
10 The marschell till the hall gan ga
And did hys lordys commanding.
The lord the Bruce but mar letting
Gert prevely bryng stedys twa,
He and the clerk foroutyn ma
15 Lap on foroutyn persavyng,
And day and nycht but sojournyng
Thai raid quhill on the fyften day
Cummyn till Louchmaben ar thai.
Hys broder Edward thar thai fand
20 That thocht ferly Ic tak on hand
That thai come hame sa prevely.
He tauld hys brodyr halyly
How that he thar soucht was
And how that he chapyt wes throu cas.
[The killing of Comyn and his uncle]
25 Sa fell it in the samyn tid
That at Dumfres rycht thar besid
Schir Jhone the Cumyn sojornyng maid.
The Brus lap on and thidder raid
And thocht foroutyn mar letting
30 For to quyt hym his discovering.
Thidder he raid but langer let
And with Schyr Jhone the Cumyn met
In the Freris at the hye awter,
And schawyt him with lauchand cher
35 The endentur, syne with a knyff
Rycht in that sted hym reft the lyff.
Schyr Edmund Cumyn als wes slayn
And othir mony off mekill mayn.
Nocht-for-thi yeit sum men sayis
40 At that debat fell other-wayis,
Bot quhat-sa-evyr maid the debate
Thar-throuch he deyt weill I wat.
He mysdyd thar gretly but wer
That gave na gyrth to the awter,
[...] Read more
poem by John Barbour
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election - Ballad Second
Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin' there;
For Murray's light horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An he get na Hell for his haddin',
The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
We'll e'en let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton's new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what's become o' the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
The Devil the prey will despise.
And there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christening towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissin' the-o' a Peer:
And there will be folk frae Saint Mary's
A house o' great merit and note;
The deil ane but honours them highly-
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name in the Firm.
And there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead wha's as gude as he's true;
And there will be Buittle's Apostle,
Wha's mair o' the black than the blue.
And there will be Logan M'Dowall,
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot o' Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowder Blair.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Burns
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland
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, Lord 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
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Burns
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
When Princes and Prelates
When Princes and Prelates and het-headed zealots
All Europe hae set in a lowe,
The poor man lies down, nor envies a crown,
And comforts himsel with a mowe.—
And why shouldna poor folk mowe, mowe, mowe,
And why shouldna poor folk mowe:
The great folk hae siller, and houses and lands,
Poor bodies hae naething but mowe.—
When Brunswick's great Prince cam a cruising to France
Republican billies to cowe,
Bauld Brunswick's great Prince wad hae shawn better sense
At hame with his Princess to mowe.—
And why shouldna, &c.
Out over the Rhine proud Prussia wad shine,
To spend his best blood he did vow;
But Frederic had better ne'er forded the water,
But spent as he docht in a mowe.—
And why, &c.—
By sea and by shore! the Emperor swore,
In Paris he'd kick up a row;
But Paris saw ready just leugh at the laddie
And bad him gae tak a mowe.—
And why, &c.—
And Kate laid her claws on poor Stanislaus,
And Poland has bent like a bow:
May the deil in her arse ram a huge prick of brass!
And damn her in hell with a mowe!
And why, &c.—
But truce with commotions and new-fangled notions,
A bumper I trust you'll allow:
Here's George our gude king and Charlotte his queen,
And lang may they tak a gude mowe!
poem by Robert Burns
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Edward, Edward
'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude
And why sae sad gang ye, O?'
'O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my hawk sae gude,
And I hae nae mair but he, O.'
'Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk's blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.'
'O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my red-roan steed,
That was sae fair and free, O.'
'Your steed was auld, and ye've plenty mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye've plenty mair;
Some ither dule ye dree, O.'
'O I hae killed my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae killed my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!'
'And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.'
'I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll fare over the sea, O.'
'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha',
That were sae fair to see, O?'
'I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
Mither, mither;
I'll let them stand till they doun fa',
For here never mair maun I be, O.'
'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang ower the sea, O?'
'The warld's room: let them beg through life,
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Gordon Of Brackley
Down Deeside cam Inveraye
Whistlin' and playing,
An' called loud at Brackley gate
Ere the day dawning--
'Come, Gordon of Brackley.
Proud Gordon, come down,
There's a sword at your threshold
Mair sharp than your own.'
'Arise now, gay Gordon,'
His lady 'gan cry,
'Look, here is bold Inveraye
Driving your kye.'
'How can I go, lady,
An' win them again,
When I have but ae sword,
And Inveraye ten?'
'Arise up, my maidens,
Wi' roke and wi' fan,
How blest had I been
Had I married a man!
Arise up, my maidens,
Tak' spear and tak' sword,
Go milk the ewes, Gordon,
An' I will be lord.'
The Gordon sprung up
Wi' his helm on his head,
Laid his hand on his sword,
An' his thigh on his steed,
An' he stooped low, and said,
As he kissed his young dame,
'There's a Gordon rides out
That will never ride hame.'
There rode with fierce Inveraye
Thirty and three,
But wi' Brackley were nane
But his brother and he;
Twa gallanter Gordons
Did never blade draw,
But against three-and-thirty
Wae's me! what are twa?
Wi' sword and wi' dagger
They rushed on him rude;
The twa gallant Gordons
Lie bathed in their blude.
Frae the springs o' the Dee
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Jamie Telfer
It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey.
The first ae guide that they met wi',
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi',
It was laigh down in Borthwick water.
'What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?'
'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see.'
And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a',
And ranshackled the house right weel.
Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair,
The tear aye rowing in his e'e;
He pled wi' the captain to hae his gear,
Or else revenged he wad be.
The captain turned him round and leugh;
Said--'Man, there's naething in thy house,
But ae auld sword without a sheath,
That hardly now wad fell a mouse!'
The sun was na up, but the moon was down,
It was the gryming o' a new fa'n snaw,
Jamie Telfer has run three myles a-foot,
Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'
And whan he cam to the fair tower yate,
He shouted loud, and cried weel hie,
Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot--
'Wha's this that brings the fraye to me?'
'It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be!
There's naething left at the fair Dodhead,
But a waefu' wife and bairnies three.
'Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha'.
For succour ye'se get nane frae me!
Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail,
For, man! ye ne'er paid money to me.'
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Lang
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!