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(1759 1796 .)



 .    ,     ,    .     15 .       ,      ( 1789 .).  .               .   ,          .



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  (  .)    ,       .    , , , ,            , ,        .       .   21  1796   .    37 .



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"John Barleycorn"



There was three kings unto the east, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.





They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head,



And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.





But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall;



John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.





The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong;



His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.





The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale;



His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he bagan to fail.





His colour sicken'd more and m He faded into age;



And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.





They've taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee;



Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.





They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore;



They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.



They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim;



They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.





They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe;



And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.





They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones;



But a miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones.





And they hae taen his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round;



And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.





John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise;



For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.





'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy;



'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.





Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand;



And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!





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" Standard English Translation





Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast, O, what a panic is in your breast!



You need not start away so hasty With hurrying scamper!



I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough-staff.





I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle



At me, thy poor, earth born companion And fellow mortal!





I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal; What then? Poor beast, you must live!



An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request;



I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it.





Your small house, too, in ruin!



It's feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse grass green!



And bleak December's winds coming, Both bitter and keen!





You saw the fields laid bare and wasted, And weary winter coming fast,



And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell,



Till crash! the cruel plough past Out through your cell.





That small bit heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble!



Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding,



To endure the winter's sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold.





But Mouse, you are not alone,In proving foresight may be vain:



The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew,



And leaves us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy!





Still you are blest, compared with me! The present only touches you:



But oh! I backward cast my eye, On prospects dreary!



And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear







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O, my love is like a red, red rose,



That's newly sprung in June.



O, my love is like a melody,



That's sweetly played in tune.





As fear art thou, my bonny lass,



So deep in love am I,



And I will love thee still, my dear,



Till all the seas go dry.





Till all the seas go dry, my dear,



And the rocks melt with the son!



And I will love thee still, my dear,



While the sands of life shall run.





And fare thee well, my only love,



And fare thee well a while!



And I will come again, my love,



Through it were ten thousand mile!





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My hearts in the Highlands, my heart is not here;



My hearts in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;



A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,



My hearts in the Highlands wherever I go.





Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,



The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;



Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,



The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.





Farewell to the mountains high coverd with snow;



Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;



Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;



Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods:





My hearts in the Highlands, my heart is not here;



My hearts in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;



A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,



My hearts in the Highlands wherever I go.





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(1795-1821)  -



      .  ,       .  1817      ,        .      .           .  1818     ,    .  1819     .      ,        .        .  .   .                    .  1820   ,  ,   .     1821 .




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