Viser arkivet for stikkord burns

Og godt øl kom

Og godt øl kom, og godt øl dro,
for godt øls skyld har jeg pantsatt sko
og solgt mine strømper – skitt la gå! –
for godt øl holder meg ovenpå.

Seks okser hadde jeg før til å dra
min plog, og de dro den passelig bra;
jeg solgte dem en efter en – og nå
må godt øl holde meg ovenpå.

Og godt øl gjorde meg konk som et såld
og drev meg en tjenestejente i vold;
i gapestokk måtte jeg siden stå,
men godt øl holder meg ovenpå.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Up in the Morning Early

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud shrill`s I hear the blast,
I`m sure it`s winters fairly.

CHORUS:Up in the morning`s no for me,
Up in the mornings early;
When a` the hills are cover`d wi` snaw,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering on the the thorn,
A` day they fare but sparely;
And lang`s the night frae e`en to morn,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.

CHORUS: Up in the morning`s no for me,
Up in the mornings early;
When a` the hills are cover`d wi` snaw,
I`m sure it`s winter fairly.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

To The Wood-Lark

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art,
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but lobve and sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe could wauken.

Thou tells o’ never-ending care;
O’ speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

O, Were My Love

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 mysel 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!

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

My Heart's In The Highlands

Ben Nevis, Scottish Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Address to a Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my airm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dicht,
An cut you up wi ready slicht,
Trenching your gushing entrails bricht,
Like onie ditch;
And then, Oh what a glorious sicht,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
‘Bethankit’ hums.

Is there that ower his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his wallie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Haggis servert med neeps and tattles – kålrabistappe og potetstappe

Dette er den originale teksten til Talen til Haggis’en. De som vil lese den på “vanlig engelsk” og på Burns’ eget mål, Central West Scots, kan gjøre det her.