Poems & songs . Never Eurus poisnous breath,Never baleful stellar lights,Taint thee with untimely blights !Never, never reptile thiefRiot on thy virgin leaf!Nor even Sol too fiercely viewThy bosom blushing still with dew I Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,Richly deck thy native stem :Till some evning, sober, calm,Dropping dews, and breathing balm,While all around the woodland rings,And evry bird thy requiem sings ;Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,Shed thy dying honours round,And resign to parent earthThe loveliest form she eer gave birth. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. Wae worth thy power, thou
Poems & songs . Never Eurus poisnous breath,Never baleful stellar lights,Taint thee with untimely blights !Never, never reptile thiefRiot on thy virgin leaf!Nor even Sol too fiercely viewThy bosom blushing still with dew I Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,Richly deck thy native stem :Till some evning, sober, calm,Dropping dews, and breathing balm,While all around the woodland rings,And evry bird thy requiem sings ;Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,Shed thy dying honours round,And resign to parent earthThe loveliest form she eer gave birth. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! Fell source o a my woe and grief! For lack o thee Ive lost my lass! For lack o thee I scrimp my glass. I see the children of affliction Unaided, thro thy cursd restriction. Ive seen the oppressors cruel smile, Amid his hapless victims spoil, And, for thy potence, vainly wishd To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o thee, I leave this much-lovd shore, Never, perhaps, to greet auld Scotland ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BYTHAT DISORDER. My curse upon thy venomd stang,That shoots my torturd gums alang;And thro my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi gnawing vengeance jTearing my nerves wi bitter pang, Like racking engines! 32 POEMS BY ROBERT BURNS. When fevers burn, or ague freezes,Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ;Our neighbours sympathy may ease us, Wi pitying moan;But thee—thou hell o a diseases, Aye mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle !I kick the wee stools oer the mickle,As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup ;While, raving mad, I wish a heckle * Were in their doup. O a the numrous human dools, 111 harsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rakd i the mools, Sad sight to see!The tricks o knaves, or fash o fools, Thou bearst the gree. Whereer that place be priests ca hell,Whence a the tones o misry yell,And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu raw,Thou, Toothache
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
