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Uploaded by Twenty-One Apr 01, 2013 at 07:51PM EDT

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Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O what panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa we bickering brattle! 1 wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi murd'ring pattle! 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! sae hasty, But Mousie, thou are 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! no thy-lane, I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee otartle, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! 1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request r'u get a blessin wi the lave, An', never miss't! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! 1 backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' 1 canna 1 guess an' fear! se 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. Sookiesooker@deviantart.com
A Bottle And Friend There's nane that's blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Robert Burns
ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS POEM BY ROBERT BURNS Fair fá your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain ó the Puddin-race! Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Aboon them á ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang 's m y arm. Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner Looks down wi'sneering, scornfú view On sic a dinner? The groaning trencher there ye fil! Your hurdies like a distant hill Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time ó need, While thró your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a withed rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thró bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! His knife see Rustic-labour dight, Ań cut ye up wi' ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Hé ll make it whissle; An legs, an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps ó thrissle. And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Ye Powrs wha mak mankind your care, Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till á their weel-swall'd kytes belyve And dish them out their bill ó fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; wish her gratefú prayer Are bent like drums; But, if ye wish her gratefú pra yer Gie her a Haggis! Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums.
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Uploaded Apr 01, 2013 at 07:51PM EDT

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