Poems & songs . I was the queen o bonny France, Where happy I hae been ;Fu lightly rase I in the morn, As blithe lay down at een:And Im the sovreign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there ;Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman !— My sister and my fae,Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro thy soul shall gae !The weeping blood in womans breast Was never known to thee;Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae womans pitying ee. My son ! My son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine !And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne
Poems & songs . I was the queen o bonny France, Where happy I hae been ;Fu lightly rase I in the morn, As blithe lay down at een:And Im the sovreign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there ;Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman !— My sister and my fae,Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro thy soul shall gae !The weeping blood in womans breast Was never known to thee;Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae womans pitying ee. My son ! My son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine !And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That neer wad blink on mine !God keep thee frae thy mothers faes, Or turn their hearts to thee :And where thou meetst thy mothers friend, Remember him for me ! THE TWA DOGS. Oh! soon to me may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn !Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave oer the yellow corn!And in the narrow house o death Let winter round me rave;And the next flowers that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave !. THE TWA A TALE. Twas in that place o Scotlands isle,That bears the name o auld King Coil, POEMS BY ROBERT BURNS. Upon a bonny day in June,When wearing thro the afternoon,Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,Forgatherd ance upon a time. The first Ill name, they cad him Caesar,Was keepit for his honours pleasure ;His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,Showd he was nane o Scotlands dogs ;But whalpit some place far abroad,Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letterd, braw brass collar Showd him the gentleman and scholar; But tho he was o high degree, The fient a pride—nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Even wi a tinkler-gypsys messan. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though eer sae duddie, But he wad stant, as glad to see him, And stroant on stanes and hillocks wi him. The tither was a ploughmans collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath cad him,
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
