To a Mountain Daisy

 - Robert Burns

                                               On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

            Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

            Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

The bonie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

            Wi' spreck'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

            The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

            Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

            Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield

High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:

But thou, beneath the random bield

            O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field

            Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

            In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

            And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd

            And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

            Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

            Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage and gales blow hard,

            And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

            To mis'ry's brink;

Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

            He ruin'd sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine—no distant date;

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

            Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

            Shall be thy doom.

[O were my love yon Lilac fair]

 - Robert Burns

O were my love yon Lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';
And I myself a drap o' dew,
Into her bonie breast to fa'!
O there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!

May the new year be filled with love, security, and happiness - for you and yours.

    
Auld Lang Syne
- Robert Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

O were my love yon Lilac fair

   by Robert Burns

O were my love yon Lilac fair,  
  Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,  
  When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn         
  By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,  
  When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 
O gin my love were yon red rose,  
  That grows upon the castle wa';    
And I myself a drap o' dew,  
  Into her bonie breast to fa'!
O there, beyond expression blest,  
  I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
  Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!

Winter: A Dirge

by Robert Burns

The wintry west extends his blast,   And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth   The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,   And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest,   And pass the heartless day. “The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”   The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear   Than all the pride of May: The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,   My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please,   Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme   These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest; they must be best,   Because they are Thy will! Then all I want—O do Thou grant   This one request of mine!— Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,   Assist me to resign.

A Red, Red Rose

by Robert Burns

O my luve's like a red, red rose,
    That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
    That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
    So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
    And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
O I will love thee still, my dear,
    While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
    And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
    Though it were ten thousand mile.

My Favorite Color

A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns

O my luve's like a red, red rose.
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like a melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till a'the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o'life shall run.

And fare thee weel my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!