O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. stour] dust, turmoil. Robert Burns. 1759-1796 494. Jean OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There 's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. airts] points of the compass. row] roll. Robert Burns. 1759-1796 495. Auld Lang Syne SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. And here '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. 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. gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught. Robert Burns. 1759-1796 496. My Bonnie Mary GO fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie, That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it 's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar-- It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary! tassie] cup. Robert Burns. 1759-1796 497. John Anderson, my Jo JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo! John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.