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(1759- 1796 .)  .    ,     ,    .     15 .       ,      ( 1789 .).  .               .   ,          .

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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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Robert Burns Red Red Rose

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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O Mallys Meek, Mallys Sweet



As I was walking up the street,

A barefit maid I chanced to meet;

But O the road was very hard

For that fair maidens tender feet.



It were mair meet that those fine feet

Were weel laced up in silken shoon,

And twere more fit that she should sit

Within yon chariot gilt aboon.



Her yellow hair, beyond compare,

Comes trinkling down her swan-like neck,

And her two eyes, like stars in skies,

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.



O Mallys meek, Mallys sweet,

Mallys modest and discreet,

Mallys rare, Mallys fair,

Mallys every way complete.

1795

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The Lass That Made The Bed Tae Me

When Januar' wind was blawin cauld,

As to the North I took my way,

The mirksome night did me enfauld,

I knew na where to lodge till day.



By my guid luck a maid I met

Just in the middle o' my care,

And kindly she did me invite

To walk into a chamber fair.



I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

And thank'd her for her courtesie;

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

An' bade her mak a bed to me,



She made the bed baith larger and wide,

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down,

She put the cup to her rosy lips,

And drank : ' Young man, now sleep ye soun'.'



She snatch'd the candle in her hand,

And frae my chamber went wi' speed,

But I call'd her quickly back again

To lay some mair below my head:



A cod she laid below my head,

And served me with due respeck,

And, to salute her wi' akiss,

I put my arms about her neck.



' Haud aff your hands, young man,' she said,

' And dinna sae uncivil be;

Gif ye hae onie luve for me,

O, wrang na my virginitie!'



Her hair was like the links o' gowd,

Her teeth were like the ivorie,

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,

The lass that made the bed to me!



Her bosom was the driven snaw,

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,

The lass that made the bed to me!



I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again,

And ay she wist na what to say.

I laid her 'tween me an' the wa' -

The lassie thocht na lang till day.



Upon the morrow, when we raise,

I thank'd her for her courtesie,

But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigh'd,

And said: ' Alas, ye've ruin'd me!'



I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,

While the tear stood twinklin in her e'e.

I said: ' My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me.'



She took her mither's holland sheets,

An' made them a' in sarks to me.

Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me!



The bonie lass made the bed to me,

The braw lass made the bed to me!

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,

The lass that made the bed to me.

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Sonnet on Hearing a Thrush Sing in a Morning Walk in January

written January 25, 1793, the birth-day of the author.



SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain:

See aged Winter, mid his surly reign,

At thy blythe carol clears his furrowd brow.



So in lone Povertys dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.



I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!



Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestowd, that mite with thee Ill share.

1793

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IN vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,

Point out a censring world, and bid me fear;

Above that world on wings of love I rise,

I know its worst-and can that worst despise.

Wrongd, injured, shunnd, unpitied, unredrest,

The mockd quotation of the scorners jest-

Let Prudence direst bodements on me fall,

Clarinda, rich reward, oerpays them all!

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To a Kiss

Humid seal of soft affections,

Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,

Dearest tie of young connections,

Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.



Speaking silence, dumb confession,

Passion's birth, and infants' play,

Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,

Glowing dawn of brighter day.



Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,

Ling'ring lips, no more to join!

What words can ever speak affection

Thrilling and sincere as thine!

***




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I BURN, I burn, as when thro ripend corn

By driving winds the crackling flames are borne.

Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night;

Now bless the hour which charmd my guilty sight.

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose:

Chaind at his feet they groan, Loves vanquishd foes;

In vain religion meets my sinking eye;

I dare not combat-but I turn and fly;

Conscience in vain upbraids th unhallowd fire;

Love grasps his scorpions-stifled they expire!

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,

Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone:

Each thought intoxicated homage yields,

And riots wanton in forbidden fields!



By all on high adoring mortals know!

By all the conscious villain fears below!

By your dear self!-the last great oath I swear;

Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear!

***








(1795-1821)  -

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




 


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On The Sea

It keeps eternal whispering aroun

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell

Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell

Of Hacate leaves them their old sound.



Often tis in such gentle temper found,

That scarcely will the very smallest shell

Be movd for days from where it sometime fell,

When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.



O ye! who have your eye-balls vaxd and tird ,

Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;

O ye! whose ears are dinnd with uproar rude,

Or fed too much with cloying melody 

Sit ye near some old Caverns Mouth, and brood

Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!

 

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Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again:

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,

E'en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:



But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,

Heavens! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces; to be thy defender

I hotly burn  to be a Calidore -

A very Red Cross Knight  a stout Leander -

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

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Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixed eyes forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd

They be of what is worthy, though not drest

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.



Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;

These lures I straight forget, e'en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark

Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

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Ah! who can eer forget so fair a being?

Who can forget her half retiring sweets?

God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats

For mans protection. Surely the All-seeing,

Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,

Will never give him pinions, who intreats

Such innocence to ruin, who vilely cheats

A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing

Ones thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear

A lay that once I saw her hand awake,

Her form seems floating palpable, and near;

Had I eer seen her from an arbour take

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,

And oer my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

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To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.



Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.



Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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On peace

O Peace! And dost thou with thy presence bless

The dwelling of this war-surrounded Isle;

Soothing with placid brow our late distress,

Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?



Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail

The sweet companions that await on thee;

Complete my joy  let not my first wish fail,

Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favorite be,



With England's happiness proclaim Europa's liberty.

O Europe! Let not sceptred tyrants see

That thou must shelter in thy former state;

Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou are free;

Give thy kings law  leave not uncurbed the great;

So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!

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THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET



The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper's  he takes the lead

In summer luxury, he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.



The poetry of earth is ceasing never;

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.



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The human seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:



He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Springs honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves



His soul has  in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists   in idleness  to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else would forego his mortal nature.

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Modern love

AND what is love? It is a doll dress'd up

For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;

A thing of soft misnomers, so divine

That silly youth doth think to make itself

Divine by loving, and so goes on

Yawning and doting a whole summer long,

Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,

And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;

Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,

And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.

Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,

If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,

It is no reason why such agonies

Should be more common than the growth of weeds.

Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl

The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say

That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.



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