Robert Burns, Scotland's best known and dearly loved poet, was born Janaury 25th, 1759. In anticipation of the coming celebration of his birthdate, here is just one of his poems, To a Mouse.
Please feel free to post other poems by Robert Burns, and also, if you celebrate Burns Night, tell us how you do so.
To a Mouse,
by Robert Burns
(Written by Burns after he had turned over the nest of a tiny field mouse with his plough.)
Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
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Robert Burns is Celebrated January 25th
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Tae a Moose is one of my favourite Rabbie Burns poems. Here's another:
Traditionally, some, or all of this poem is recited before slashing open and serving the haggis, a wee beastie found in the Scottish highlands. It has long legs on one side of its body and short ones on the other, so that it can run up the sides of mountains. When you're having Burns night dinner, generally, a lot of whisky is consumed, often from different regions of Scotland, followed by a Ceilidh (pronounced cay-lee). I've never been to a proper Ceilidh with a proper Scottish band, traditional dancing, and much merriment, because it's really a very expensive party, but I'd love to. If someone would give me back my kilt, then I'd be jamming! I have a rather less than traditional celebration. I have my haggis, neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes) followed by whisky, then read a couple of Burns poems to myself. Maybe one day, I'll get going to a Ceilidh.
ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they strech an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit!' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o 'fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut ye up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they strech an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit!' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o 'fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
Traditionally, some, or all of this poem is recited before slashing open and serving the haggis, a wee beastie found in the Scottish highlands. It has long legs on one side of its body and short ones on the other, so that it can run up the sides of mountains. When you're having Burns night dinner, generally, a lot of whisky is consumed, often from different regions of Scotland, followed by a Ceilidh (pronounced cay-lee). I've never been to a proper Ceilidh with a proper Scottish band, traditional dancing, and much merriment, because it's really a very expensive party, but I'd love to. If someone would give me back my kilt, then I'd be jamming! I have a rather less than traditional celebration. I have my haggis, neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes) followed by whisky, then read a couple of Burns poems to myself. Maybe one day, I'll get going to a Ceilidh.
Ghosts, flamingos, guitars and vodka. Eclectic subjects, eccentric stories:
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Quote by Circle_Something
Traditionally, some, or all of this poem is recited before slashing open and serving the haggis, a wee beastie found in the Scottish highlands. It has long legs on one side of its body and short ones on the other, so that it can run up the sides of mountains. When you're having Burns night dinner, generally, a lot of whisky is consumed, often from different regions of Scotland, followed by a Ceilidh (pronounced cay-lee). I've never been to a proper Ceilidh with a proper Scottish band, traditional dancing, and much merriment, because it's really a very expensive party, but I'd love to. If someone would give me back my kilt, then I'd be jamming! I have a rather less than traditional celebration. I have my haggis, neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes) followed by whisky, then read a couple of Burns poems to myself. Maybe one day, I'll get going to a Ceilidh.
I love that one too, Andrew. What happened to your kilt?
I went searching for another Burns poem to put here, and discovered he wrote the following. I've known it since I was a child, when my grandmother would play the piano and sing it, but I didn't know it was Burns, I always thought it was an Irish song!
Sweet Afton
Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Forum Facilitator
Quote by gypsy
I love that one too, Andrew. What happened to your kilt?
After my gran died, there was a bit of a scuffle over who was taking what. A few months before she died, she told my mum that my grandpa's kilt was for me, but one of my aunties didn't want me having it, so took it. The annoying thing is, it won't be used, so it's sitting going to waste, when I could and should be wearing it. I'd wear it pretty regularly, too, just as my grandpa did.
Ghosts, flamingos, guitars and vodka. Eclectic subjects, eccentric stories:
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Quote by Circle_Something
After my gran died, there was a bit of a scuffle over who was taking what. A few months before she died, she told my mum that my grandpa's kilt was for me, but one of my aunties didn't want me having it, so took it. The annoying thing is, it won't be used, so it's sitting going to waste, when I could and should be wearing it. I'd wear it pretty regularly, too, just as my grandpa did.
Ah, that's unfortunate and annoying, what a waste of a good kilt, and of what should be yours by right.
How was your Burns evening?
Forum Facilitator
Quote by gypsy
Ah, that's unfortunate and annoying, what a waste of a good kilt, and of what should be yours by right.
How was your Burns evening?
It is, indeed, but maybe if I ask, I'll get.
My Burns nicht wasn't too bad. I didn't really do anything, though. I didn't even have haggis, which is ridiculous, but I'll perhaps have some on Friday.
Ghosts, flamingos, guitars and vodka. Eclectic subjects, eccentric stories:
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Humorous guide & Recommended Read =^.^= How To Make a Cup of Tea
A flash fiction series :) A Random Moment in Time
Editors' Pick! :D I Am The Deep, Dark Woods
And another EP!: The Fragility of Age
=^.^=
Divine Rapscallion
I didn't celebrate Burns Night, but I join the entire literary world in gratitude for his marvelous line about the best laid schemes of mice and men often going awry. 
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Like my Facebook fan pages: Maggie Rascal and M.P. Witwer • Friend me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/maggierascal • Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/Maggie1Rascal