Highland Mary

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
         The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
         Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
         And there the langest tarry:
For there I took the last Fareweel
         O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
         How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath their fragrant shade,
         I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden Hours, on angel wings,
         Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
         Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
         Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
         We tore oursels asunder:
But Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
         That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
         That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
         I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance,
         That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
         That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
         Shall live my Highland Mary.

--Robert Burns (1759-1796), national poet of Scotland. Today is Burns's birthday, and tonight is Burns' Night. 

This is one of three songs Burns wrote to honor Mary Campbell, whom he loved. It is sung to the tune of "Katherine Ogie." 

The bronze statue above was unveiled on 21 July 1896, the centenary of Burns' death, and made of bronze, was sculpted by David Watson Stephenson. It stands, facing southeast, on a round ashlar pedestal with an octagonal cap and base. It is inscribed Burns Highland Mary.

brae= steep hillside

drumlie=rough and muddy

birk=birch tree

Lullaby

The upland falls behind the house, 

live and scrub oak, barbed wire 

firmly implanted stringing unlikely 

trees together, terrace by terrace, 

down and down, white rock
gleaming through the green. 

The art of memory, they say, 

is to forget. So sleep now, 

smile and sleep and let me 

think, sleep past the molecules 

of grief, let me kneel and believe,

believe and submit. 

Soon enough you'll know hunger, 

then sweetness, then a sweet 

hunger for what reaches 

out to touch. Soon, too, 

those poor, nerveless times,

those times when you curse 

and strike out at yourself, 

when you count up wrongs 

and feed them as if they were 

one prairie fire. As I sit 

and watch you sleep,
I grow angry, too, 

at my abstraction of your sorrow, 

at its necessity, at the very idea 

of what I cannot speak,
it's so unspeakable.

So sleep and smile,
sleep deep.

--Ralph Burns (1949- ), Oklahoma-born American poet and former professor at the University of Arkansas- Little Rock, from Poetry magazine, November 1988.

For a' That and a' That

Is there, for honest poverty,
     That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
     We dare be poor for a' that!
          For a' that, an' a' that,
               Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
          The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
               The man's the gowd for a' that,

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
     Wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
     A man's a man for a' that.
          For a' that, an' a' that,
               Their tinsel show an' a' that;
          The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
               Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord
     Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
     He's but a coof for a' that:
          For a' that, an' a' that,
               His riband, star, an' a' that,
          The man o' independent mind,
               He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
     A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
     Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
          For a' that, an' a' that,
               Their dignities, an' a' that,
          The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
               Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
     As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
     May bear the gree, an' a' that.
          For a' that, an' a' that,
               It's coming yet, for a' that,
          That man to man, the warld o'er,
               Shall brothers be for a' that.

--Robert Burns (1759-1796), national poet of Scotland. January 25 is his birthday, and tonight is "Burns' Night," in which he is remembered and his work (and all things Scots) are celebrated. Image is a typical tenant farmer, or cottar, house. This poem, written in 1795, was one of Burns's last.

hings=hangs

guinea's stamp= face on a guinea coin, worth 21 shillings, or 1.05 pounds; a guinea was paid to gentlemen, while pounds were paid to tradesmen

gowd=gold

hamely=homely

hodden grey=rough woolen cloth

sae=so

yon birkie=arrogant dude over there

ca'd=called

coof=fool

aboon=above

guid=good

mauna fa'=must not come by

pith=strength, vigor

bear the gree=win first place

Epitaph on a Friend

An honest man here lies at rest,
The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age, the guide of youth;
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d;
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

--Robert Burns (1759-1796)