The Blue Poetry Book

Автор

Andrew Lang

Жанр

Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2017

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O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste
Of earth and air, of earth and air,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The only jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

    R. Burns.

I LOVE MY JEAN

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie 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 bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.

    R. Burns.

THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

A SONG

By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say’t but we ken wha’s to blame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

    R. Burns.

THE BANKS O’ DOON

Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care.

Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.

Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae off its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.

    R. Burns.