 Section 1 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alessandro Gelliardi. Ode by Robert Tannehill. Once on a time, Almighty Jove invited all the minor gods above to spend one day in social festive pleasure. His regal robes were laid aside, his crown his scepter and his pride, and winged with joy the hours did fly, the happiest ever time did measure. Of love and social harmony they sung, till heaven's high golden arches echoing rung, and as they quaffed the nectar flowing can, their toast was, universal peace, twixed man and man, their godship size beamed gladness with the wish, and Mars half reddened with the guilty blush. Jove swore he'd hurl each rascal to perdition, who dared to face his works with wild ambition, but poured in comiums on each patriot band, who, hating conquest, guard their native land. Loud thundering plaudits shook the brighter boats, till Mercury, solemn voiced, assailed their ears, informing that a stranger, all in tears, weeping implored an audience of the gods. Jove ever prone to succor that is stressed, a swell redressive glowed within his breast, he pitted much the stranger's sad condition, and ordered his immediate mission. The stranger entered, bowed respect to all, respectful silence reigned throughout the hall, his checkered robes excited their surprise, richly transversed with various glowing dyes, a target on his strong left arm he bore, broad as the shield, the mighty-fingled war, the glowing landscape on its center shined, and massy thistles round the borders twined. His brows were bound with yellow-blossomed broom, green birch and roses blending in perfume, his eyes beamed honor, though all red with grief, and thus Heaven's King spake comfort to the chief. My son, let speech unfold thy cause of woe, say, why does melancholy cloud thy brow, to his mind the wrongs of virtue to redress, speak for to his mind to succor deep distress, then thus he spake, O King, by thy command, I am the guardian of that far-famed land, named Caledonia, great in art and arms, and every worth that social fondness charms, with every virtue that the heart approve, warm in their friendships rapturous in their loves, profusely generous, obstinately just, inflexible as death their vows of trust, for independence fires their noble minds, scorning deceit as gods do scorn the fiends. For what avail the virtues of the North? No patriot barred to celebrate their worth, no heaven-taught minstrel with the voice of song, to hymn their deeds and make their names live long, and ah, should luxury with soft-winning wiles, spread her contagion over my subject aisles, my hearty sons no longer valour's boast, would sink despised their wanted greatness lost. Forgive my wish, O King, I speak with awe, thy will is fate, thy word is sovereign law, a woodstow dain thy suppliant to regard, and grant my country one true patriot barred, my sons would glory in thy blessing given, and virtuous deeds spring from the gift of heaven, to which the God, my son, cease to deplore, thy name and song shall sound the world all o'er, thy barred shall rise full-fraught with all the fire that heaven and free-born nature can inspire. Ye sacred nine, your golden harps prepare to instruct the favourite of my special care, that whether the song be raised to war or love, his soul-winged strains may equal those above. Now faithful to thy trust, from sorrow free, go wait the issue of our high decree. Speechless the genius stood, and glad surprise, adoring gratitude beamed in his eyes, the promised bard his soul with transport fills, and light with joy he sought his native hills. Twas in regard of Wallace and his worth, jove honoured Coyla with his birth, and on that mourn, when Burns was born, each muse with joy did hail the boy, and fame on tiptoe, fame would blow her horn, but fate forbade the blast to premature, till worth should sanction it beyond the critic's power. His merits proven, fame her blast hath blown, now Scotia's bard, or all the world is known, but trembling doubts hear check my unpolished lays, what can they add to a whole world's praise? Yet while revolving time this day returns, let's Scotchman glory in the name of Burns. End of Ode to Burns by Robert Tannehill, recording by Alessandro Galliardi, Brooklyn, New York. Section 2 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary Volume 1. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alan Winteroud. Robert Burns by Henry Wasworth Longfellow. I see amid the fields of air a plowman, who in foul and fair sings at his task so clear, we know not if it is the Lavrox song we hear or his, nor care to ask. For him the plowing of those fields a more ethereal harvest yields than sheaves of grain. Songs flush with purple bloom the rye, the plovers call, the curlews cry, sing in his brain. Touched by his hand the wayside weed becomes a flower. The lowliest reed beside the stream is clothed with beauty. Gorse and grass and heather where his footsteps pass the brighter seam. He sings of love whose flame allumes the darkness of lone cottage rooms. He feels the force, the treacherous undertow in stress of wayward passions and no less the keen remorse. At moments, wrestling with his fate, his voice is harsh but not with hate, the brushwood hung above the tavern door lets fall its bitter leaf, its drop of gall upon his tongue. But still the music of his song rises o'er all elate and strong, its master chords are manhood, freedom, brotherhood, its discords but an interlude between the words. And then to die so young and leave unfinished what he might achieve, yet better sure as this than wandering up and down an old man in a country town in firm and poor. For now he haunts his native land as an immortal youth. His hand guides every plow. He sits besides each inglenook. His voice is in each rushing brook, each rustling bow. His presence haunts this room tonight, a form of mingled mist and light from that far coast. Welcome beneath his roof of mind. Welcome, this vacant chair is thine, dear guest and ghost. End of Robert Burns. Recording by Alan Winteroud, boomcoach.blogspot.com. End of Robert Burns by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Section 3 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa. Robert Burns by William Topaz McGonigal. Immortal Robert Burns of air. There's but few poets can with you compare. Some of your poems and songs are very fine. To marry in heaven is most sublime. And then again in your cotter's Saturday night, your genius there does shine most bright, as pure as the dew drops of the night. Your Tamo Shanta is very fine, both funny, racy and divine. From Johnna Grotes to Dumfries all critics consider it to be a masterpiece. And also you have said the same, therefore they are not to blame. And in my own opinion, both you and they are right, for your genius there does sparkle bright, which I most solemnly declare to thee immortal bard of air. Your banks and braves of Bonnie Dune is sweet and melodious in its tune, and the poetry is moral and sublime, and in my opinion nothing can be more fine. Your scots were here with Wallace Bled is most beautiful to hear sung or read, for your genius there does shine as bright, like unto the stars of night. Immortal bard of air, I must conclude my muse to speak in praise of thee does not refuse. For you were a mighty poet, few could with you compare, and also an honour to Scotland, for your genius it is rare. End of Robert Burns. La Cunique Gar by George Gordon Lord Byron. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibraVox.org. This recording by Patty Brugman. La Cunique Gar by George Gordon Lord Byron from Hours of Idleness, 1807. Away ye gay lands, scapes ye gardens of roses, and you'll let the minions of luxury roll. Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes, though still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet Caledonia, beloved, are thy mountains. Round their white summits the elements war, though cataracts, foams, that of smooth flow and fountains, I cypher the valley, a dark, locked nagar. Ah, there my young footsteps in infancy wandered. My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid. Unchiefed and slung perished my memory pondered. As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade. A subtle at my home till the day's dying glory gave place to the rays of the bright polar star. For fancy was cheered by traditional story, disclosed by the natives of dark, locked nagar. Shades of the dead have I not heard your voices? Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, and rides on the wind or his own highland veil? Round, locked nagar, what the stormy mist gathers? Winter presides in his cold icy car. Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers. They dwell in the tempest of dark, locked nagar. Il stard, though brave, did no visions foreboden. Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? Ah, were ye destined to die at Culloden, victory crowned not your foal with applause. Still were ye happy in death's earthly slumber. You rest with your clan in the caves of Lemaar. The peabook resounds to the Piper's land number, your deeds on the echoes of dark, locked nagar. Years have rolled on, locked nagar, since I left you. Years must elapse ere I tread you again. Nature, a verter, and flowers has bereft you. Yet still you are dearer than Albion's plain. England, thy beauties are tame and domestic. To one who has rolled o'er the mountains afar, o'er the crags that are wild and majestic, the steep, frowning glories of dark, locked nagar. End of Lock Nagar. Read by Patty Brugman. The Haggis of Private McPhee by Robert W. Service This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. This recording by Patty Brugman. The Haggis of Private McPhee by Robert W. Service How you hurled with me o'er the mother's post-it tunnel? It fair makes me homesick, said Private McPhee. And what did she send? Says Private McFunn, as he cocked his rifle in, and blazed at a hun. A Haggis! A Haggis! says Private McPhee. The broadest big Haggis I ever did see. And think, it's the morn when fund memory turns to Haggis and Whiskey. The birthday of Burns. We man fine a drum, and then we'll cock in the rest. O'er the lads and will have Burns nicked with the best. Be ready at sun-loon, snapped Sergeant McCall. I want you two men for the Liston patrol. Then Private McPhee looked at Private McFunn. I'm thinkin' my lad workin' foundedly done. Then Private McFunn looked at Private McPhee. I'm thinkin' I'll chap. It's a off-with horse for him. But up spoke the crony we woolly McNar. It was Leobrah Haggis for me to prepare. And as for the drum, if I search the camp round, we may hard drop it to just hand it down. Say Rin lads, and think, then a nicked it to be black. O'er the Haggis that's waitin' you when you get back. My buddies was way assumein' nobody's land, and the dead they were rotten on every hand. And the rockets-like corpse candles hunted the sky, and the winds of destruction went shudderin' thy. There was scalpin' o' bullets and scurrilin' shells, and breegin' o' bombs and a thousand death-nails. But Corian Doan, in a Jack Johnson hole, li'l first the Twamin' or the Liston patrol. For sweeter than honey and bricked as a gem, whist the thought o' the Haggis that waited for them. Yet alas, in our moments of sonious cheer, calamities often missed cull it near. And while the tway talked o' their puddin' divine, the books below them were hawkin' a mine. And while the tway cracked o' the feast they would have, the fuse it was burnin' and burnin' away, and a roar like a thunder o' Doon, a hail-deep o' flame, then the whist o' the Toon. Ha-jocka, ya heard, says Private McFan. Ye Gordy, they've got me. I'm fearin' I'm done. It's my leg, I'm just thinkin'. It's off at the knee. Ya best gang and leave me, says Private McPhee. Olivia, I wanna, said Private McFan. Olivia, I canna. For though I am meek to run, it's no far, a wood gang. It's no muckal I see. I'm blind. That's what's the matter with me. Then Private McPhee, sadly, shake it his head. If we bed year for long, we'd be bidin' for dead. And yet, Gordy lad, I could gang well content. If I tasted that haggis, my old mother sent. Let's drool, says McFan. You've just specked my mind. Oh, I can't, it's a terrible thing to be blind. And yet, it's no that that impitters me a lot. It's nisin' that brockal haggis you've got. For a while they were silent, then, up once again, spoke Private McPhee, though he whistled with pain. And why should we miss it between you and me? We've got legs for to run, we've got eyes for to see. You lend me a shanks, and I'll lend you my sickt. And we'll both have a cookful, a haggis, the nicked. Oh, the sky it was door-like, and dripin' a wee, when Private McFan gripped Private McPhee. Oh, the glard was flyin' and the curieshin' the grun, when Private McPhee guided Private McFan. Keep clear them corpses, there may be no dead. Hold on, there's a big muckal crater ahead. Look out, there's a sap, it'll be high in a coop. A store shell, for God's sake, don't lad on your dope. Bear off, tear-hicked, ah, you're just un-fine. Before the next finished, a haggis will dine. There was death and destruction on every hand, there was havoc and horror in nobody's land, and the shells beckoned down with a grump and a glare, and the harmless wee bullets were dingin' the air. Yet on they went staggerin', courin' down, in a sutterin' cluck, with a maxim crept round, and the legs of McFan, they were sturdy and stood, and McPhee, on his back, kept a bony look out. On, on, my brave lad, where no fair foe'd a gowl, I can hear the pro-swerin' of sorgent McColl. But strength has its limit in Private McFan, with a sab and a curse, barely's length, on the grun. Then Private McFee, shut it down in his ear'd, just think of a haggis, I smell it from here. It's quotient with juice, it's embalmin' the air, it's steamin' for us, and we juiced our boat there. Then Private McFan answers, Dometod club, for the sake of the haggis, I'll gang till I drop. And he gets on his feet with a heaviness drain, and onward he staggers in passion and pain, and the flair and the glare, the fury increase, till you'd think they'd just taken a hail on a leash. And on they go reeling in pitiful plight, and someone is shoutin' away on the right, and someone is runnin' and know they can hear. A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer, and swift to the crash and the flash and the din, the lads or the hail and the uproaring in them in. They're both sorely wounded, but it is no drawl. Who they rave about, haggis, says Sergeant McCall, when herplin' along comes we willy McNar, and they all warn it why he was grittin' sassar. He says, I just lifted it out of the pot, and there it laid steaming and savoury hot. One sudden I dooked at a flesh of the shell, and it dropped on the haggis and dimmed it to hail. And oh, but the lads were foretaken aback when sudden the order was passed to attack. And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, and on through the nict like a torn they were swept, on, on with their bayonets thirstin' before, on, on to the foe with a rush and a roar, and wild to the welkin' their battle cry ring, and dune on the butchers like tigers they sprang. And there wasn't a man but had debt in his e, for he thought of the haggis of private McPhee. And of the haggis of private McPhee. Section 6 of Robert Burns' 250th anniversary, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording from Andy from Inveron in Scotland. Addressed to a haggis by Robert Burns. Fair foe, you honest, sonsy face, great sheftin' of the paddin' reese, aboon them all you tack your place, paint, tripe, or theorem. We lar ye wordy of a grease as langs my erm, the groaning trencher there you fill, your hurdys like a distant hill, and then would help to mend a mill in time of need, while throw your pores the Jews distil, like amber bead. His knife, serastic labour-dicht, and cut you up with ready slicht, trenching your gushing entrails bricht, like ony ditch, and then, with a glorious sicht, warm, reekin' rich. Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive, deal, take the handmost on they drive, till all their wheel-swalled kites be-live, are bent like drums. Then all good man may slug to rive, but thank it, hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, or rollo that would staw a sew, or fricassee would make her spew with perfect sconner, looks down with sneering scornful view, on sick a dinner poor devil. See him o'er his tarash, as feckless as a withered rash, his spindle shank, a good whiplash, his neave a-knit. Throw bloody flid, or field to dash, o' how unfit. But mark the rustic, haggis-fade, the trembling earth resounds his tread, clappin' his woolly neave a-bled, hill make it whistle, and legs and arms and heads will snade, like taps of thristle. Ye poor's who make mankind yer care, and dish them out yer bill of fare, all Scotland wants ne' skin-king wear, that chops and luggies, but if ye wish her grateful prayer, gie her a haggis. End of address to a haggis. Recording from Andy, Inveron in Scotland, mlys.ws. There was a lad was born in Kyle by Robert Burns. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. This recording by Patty Brugman. There was a lad was born in Kyle by Robert Burns, 1785. There was a lad was born in Kyle, but won a day and won a style. I doubt it's hardly worth the while to be so nice with Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. Our monarch's hind most year, but any, was five and twenty days begun. It was then a blast, or January wind, blew Hansel in on Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. The gossip to kick it in his loof, quashore what lives, will see the proof, this waily boy will be in a koof, I think we'll call him Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. He'll have his fortunes great and small, but they are hard to boon them all. He'll be a credit to his art, will be a proud of Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. But here's three times three, McNine, I see by el cascore and line, this chap will dearly like our kin. So lease me on the Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. Kou feith koushore, doubt you stir, ye guard the lesses lie as far, but twenty fats ye may hay war, so blessens on thee, Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', renton, rovin', Robin was a rovin' boy, renton, rovin', robin'. End of there was a lad born in Kyle. The Cotter's Saturday Night by Robert Burns. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. This recording by Patty Brugman. The Cotter's Saturday Night by Robert Burns. Inscribed to R. Akin ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, their homely joys and destiny obscure. No grandeur here with a disdainful smile, the short and simple annals of the poor. Gray. My loved and honoured much-respected friend, no mercenary barred his homage-pays, with honest pride I scorn each selfish end. My dearest Amid are friends esteemed and praised, to you I sing in simple Scottish lays. The lowly train in life's sequestered scene, the native feeling strong, the guileless ways, what Akin in a cottage would have been. Ah, though his worth unknown far happier there, I win. November chill blows loud with angry soot, the short and winter day is near close, the miry beasts retreat and fry the play. The blackening trains across to their repose. The toil-worn cottage for his labour goes. This night his weekly moorl is at an end, collects his spades, his mattocks and his hose, hoping the morn in ease and the rest to spend, and weary o'er the moor his course does homered bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view beneath the shelter of an aged tree, the expectant weathings totaled in such a through to meet their dad with fliture and noise and glee, his wee bit-ingle blinking bonally, his clean hearth-stein, his thrifty wifey smile, his lisping infants prattling on his knee. Does ah his weary carl couldn't carry his beguile and makes him quite forget his labours and his toil. Barely the elder barns come draping in at service out among the farm as round. Some pay the plow, some herd, some tend to it in. A cane-y errand to a neighbour town. The eldest hope their jenny, woman-grown and youthful bloom love sparkling in her eye comes home perhaps to show a broad new gown or depositors are worn penny-free to help her parents dear if they in hardship be. With joy and feigned brothers and sisters meet and each father's will fair kindly spears, the social hours swift winged unnoticed fleet, each tells the uncles that he sees or hears, the parents partial eye their hopeful ears, anticipation forward points the view. The mother with her needle and her shears garselled clasks look amongst as wheels the new. The father mixes with all admonition do. Their masters and their mistresses command the young girls are worn to obey and mind their labours with an ironed hand and near though out of sight to do jacquo play and oh be sure to fear the Lord always and mind your duty duly morn and night lest temptations path ye gang astray implore his counsel and assisting might they never sought in vain that sought the Lord our right. But hark our up comes gently to the door Jenny wakens the meaning of the same tells how a neighbor lot came or the more to do some errands and convey her home the wily mother sees the conscious flame sparkle in Jenny's eye and flesh or cheeks with heart-struck anxious care inquires his name well Jenny Hoftons is afraid to speak he'll please the mother hears its knee-wild worthless rake. With kindly welcome Jenny brings him Ben a straw-up on youth he takes the mother's eye Blythe Jenny sees the visits no il-tain the father cracks of horses blows and chi the youngsters heartless heart or flows with joy but blight the latheful scarce can we'll behave the mother without women's wiles can spy what makes the youth sabeshful and so grave we'll please to think her barns respected like the lathe oh happy love where love like this is found oh heartfelt raptures bliss beyond compare I've paced much this weary mortal realm and sage experience bids me this declare if heaven at route of heavenly pleasures spare one cordial in this melancholy veil it is when a youthful loving modest pair in the other's arms breath out the tender tale beneath the milk white borne that sensed the evening gale is there in human form that bears a heart a wrench a villain lost to love and truth that can with studied sly and snaring art betrays which any's unsuspecting youth curse on his perjured art dissemblin smooth our honor virtue conscience all exiled is there no pity no relenting roof points to the parents fondling or their child then paints the ruined maid and their distraction wild but now the supper crowns their simple board to heal some paycheck chief for Scotia's food the soup their only hockey does afford that you want the Holland snuggly chow's her could the dame brings forth in compliment on mood to grace the lad her wheel hand kibok fell and after his breast and after his casette's good the frugal wife gary was hotel how it was a Talmud old St. Lint was in the bell the cheerful supper done with serious face they round the ingle form a circle weed and sire turns oar with patriarchal grace the bigger Bible on his father's pride his bonnet reverently is laid aside his liard hats wearing thin and bar those trains that wants its wheat and Zion kept glide he wails a portion of judicious care and let us worship God he says with solemn air they chunked their artless notes in simple guise they torn their hearts by far the noblest aim perhaps dandy's wild warbling measures rise or plaintive martyrs worthy of the name or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame the sweetest far of scotches holy lizz compared with the Italian trills our tame the trickled ear no heart to felt rapture's rays neunison hey there with our creator's praise the priest like a father reads the sacred page how Abraham was the friend of God on high or Moses paid eternal warfare wage with our next ungracious progeny or how the royal bar did groaning lie beneath the stroke of heavens avenging our or Job's pathetic plant the wailing cry or rapt Isaiah's wild syrophic fire or other holy seers that toon the sacred lyre perhaps the Christian volume is the theme how guiltless blood for guilty man was shed how he who bore in heaven the second name had not unearthed where on to lay his head how his first followers and servants have sped how precepts age they wrote to Minieland how he who lawn in Patmos banished saw in the sun a mighty angel stand and heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by heaven's command then kneeling down to heaven's eternal king the saint the father and the husband prays hope springs exulting on triumphant wings that thus they all shall meet in future days there ever bask in uncreated rays no more to sigh or shed the bitter tear together hymning their creator's praise in such society yet steal more dear while circling time moves round in an internal sphere compared with this how poor religions pride in all the pomp of method and of art when men display to congregations wide devotions every grace except the heart the power incensed the pageant will desert the pompous strain the sacerdotal stall but happily in some cottage far apart may hear well pleased the language of the soul and of his book of life the inmates poor enrol then homeward I'll take off their several way and youngling cottages retire to rest the parent pair their secret homage pay then proffer up to heaven the warm request that he who steals the raven's clamour's nest and decks the lily fair in flowery pride would in the way his wisdom sees the best for them and for their little ones provide but chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside from scenes like these old Scotch's Grander Springs that makes her loved at home revered abroad princes and lords are but the breath of kings an honest man's the noblest work of God and certs in fair virtuos heavenly road the cottage leaves the palace far behind what is a Lording's pump a cumbrous load disguising off the rage of humankind studied in the arts of hell in wickedness refined oh Scotcher my dear my native soil for whom my warmest wish to heavens is sent long may thy hearty sons of rustic toil be blessed with health and peace and sweet content and oh may heaven their simplest lives prevent from luxuries contagion weak and vile than how air crowns and coronets be rent our virtuous populace may rise the while and stand a wall of fire round their much loved isle oh thou who poured the patriotic tide that steamed through Wallace's undaunted heart who dared to nobly stem tyrannic prey or nobly die the second glorious part the Patriots God particularly thou art his friend inspired guardian and reward oh never never Scotch's realm desert but still the Patriot and the Patriot Bard in bright succession raised her ornament and guard end of the Cotter's Saturday night read by Patty Brugman To A Mountain Daisy by Robert Burns this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please go to LibriVox.org this recording by Patty Brugman To A Mountain Daisy by Robert Burns we modest crimson tipped flower thou's met me in an evil hour for I'm on crush among the store thyslender's dam to spare thee now is past my power thou bonnie gem alas it's nor thy neighbor's sweet the bonnie lark companion meet bendingly among the dewy wheat we speckled the breast we'll upward singing blithe to greet the purpleing east called blue the bitter biting north upon thy early humble birth yet cheerfully thou glinted forth amid the storm scarce reared above the parent earth thy tender form the flaunting flowers our garden zeal high sheltering woods and was mown shield but thou beneath the random blithe oak lot or stem adorns the hissel's dibble field unseen alone there in thy scanty mantre clad thy snowy bosom sunward spread thou lifts thy unassuming head in humble guise met now the share up tears thy bed and lo thou lies such is the fate of artless maid flowered of the rural shade by love simplicity betrayed and guileless trust till she like thee all solid is laid low in the dust such is the fate of simple bard unlife's rough ocean lockless starred unskillful he to note the card of prudent lore till billows rage and gales blow hard and well him or such fate to a suffering worth is given who long with wants and wars has driven by human pride or cunning driven to misery's brink till wretched of every stay but heaven he ruined sink even though who mournced the daisy's fate that fate is thine a distant date stern ruins plough share drives elate full on thy bloom to crushed beneath the furrow's weight shall be thy doom End of Two A Mountain Daisy by Robert Burns read by Patty Brugman for more information or to volunteer please visit labrivox.org recording by Peter Bloomfield epistle to A Young Friend by Robert Burns a lang he thought my youthful friend a something to hisent ye though it should serve me either end than just a kind memento but how the subject theme megang let time and chance determine perhaps it may turn to sang perhaps turn to sermon ye'll try the world soon meland and Andrew dear believe me ye'll find mankind an uncool squad and muckle they may grieve ye for care and trouble set your thought even when your end's attained and all your views may come to naught where every nerve is strained I'll no say men are villains are the real hardened wicket what he may check but human law are too a few restrict it but oh man kinder uncool week and little to be trusted if self the wavering balance shake it's really right adjusting yet they will fall in fortune strife their fate we shouldn't censure for still the important end of life they equally may enter a man may he an honest hurt though poor to thoroughly stir him a man may tack a neighbor's purse yet he may cash to spare him I free half hand your story tell when we a bosom crony but still keep something to your cell you scarcely tell the only conceal your cell as wheels you can free critical dissection but kick through every other man with sharp and sly inspection the sacred law will place love luxuriously indulge it but never tempt the illicit robe though nothing should divulge it I waive a quantum odyssin the hazard of concealing but oh it hardens all within and petrifies the feeling to catch dame fortune's golden smile a seduce wait upon her and gather gear by every while that's justified by honor not for to hide it in a hedge nor for a train attendant but for the glorious privilege of being independent the furrow hells a hangman's whip to hod the wretch in order but where you feel your honor grip let that I be your border its slightest touch its instant pause debar or side pretenses and resolutely keep its laws and caring consequences the great creator to revere must sure become the creature but still the preaching can't forbear an even rigid feature yet narrow wits profane to range be complacent extend it an atheist laughs a poor exchange for deity offended when ranting round in pleasures ring religion may be blind it or if she gear and them sting it may be little mind it but when on life were tempestern a conscience but a canker a correspondence fixedly hidden is sure a noble anchor adieu dear amiable youth your hearth can never be wanton may prudence, fortitude and truth erect your brow and daunting in ploughman phrase God send you speed still daily to grow wiser and may you better wreck the reed than err did the advisor end of epistle to a young friend Recording by Peter Bloomfield from Paisley, Scotland Holy Willy's Prayer by Robert Burns O thou that in the heavens does dwell O as it pleases best thyself sends ye into heaven and tend to hell all for thy glory and know for any good or ill they've done before thee I bless and praise thy matchless might when thousands thou has left in night that I am here before thy sight for gifts and grace a burning and a shining light to awe this place what was I or my generation that I should get sick exultation I what deserved most just damnation for broken laws sacks thousand years ere my creation through Adam's cause when from my mother's womb I fell thou might he plunged me deep in hell to gnash my goons and weep and wail in burning lakes where damned devils roar and yell chained to their stakes yet I am here a chosen sample to show thy grace is great and ample I'm here a pillar of thy temple strong as a rock a guide, a buckler and example to awe thy flock but yet, O Lord, confess I must at times I'm fast with fleshy lust and sometimes too in worldly trust vile self gets in but thou remember we are dust defiled we sin O Lord, ye stream thou kens we meg thy pardon I sincerely beg O mate, near be a living plague to my dishonour and I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg again upon her besides, I furtherment of thou will ease his lass three times but, O Lord, that Friday I was foo when I come near her or else thou kens I serve it through would never steer her maybe thou lets this fleshy thorn bough it, thy servant, enanmoren lest he our proud or high should turn that he say gifted thy hand won ene be borne until thou lift it Lord, bless thy chosen in this place for here thou has a chosen race but God confound their stubborn face and blast their name while bring thy elders to disgrace and open shame Lord, mind go in Hamilton's desserts he drinks and swears and plays at curts yet has so many taken herts with great and small for he God's ene priest the people's herts he steals a wall and when we chasing him therefor thou kens how he bred sicker splore and set the world in a roar or laugh at us cursed thou his basket and his store kale and potatoes Lord, here my earnest cry in prayer against that presbytery o'er thy strong right hand Lord, make it bare upon their heeds Lord, visit them and dinna spare for their misdeeds O Lord, my God that glib-tongued akin my very herp and flesher quake and to think how we stood sweeten, shaken and pished with dreat while he with hingin' lip and snakin' held up his heed Lord, in thy day of engines try him Lord, visit them woided employ him and pass not in thy mercy by them nor hear their prayer but for thy people's sake destroy them and dinna spare but, Lord, remember me and mine it we mercies temporal and divine that I, for grace and gear may shine excelled by mean and all the glory shall be thine Amen, amen Epitaph on Holy Willy Here Holy Willy's ser-worn clay tacks up its last abode his soul has tain some other way I fear the left-hand road stop, there he is, assures a gun poor, silly body see him nay wonder he's as black as the grun observe whos standin' way him your brun-stained divilship I see has got him there before ye but hod yer nine-tailed cat away til yence you've had my story your pity I will not implore for pity ye have nain justice alas has gain him o'er and mercies day is gain but hear me, sir, deal as you are look something to your credit a kiff like him would stain your name if it were Kent ye did it End of Holy Willy's Prayer Recording by Charles MacDonald Edinburgh, Scotland Email Charles.McDonaldatvirgin.net MacDonald starts MAC Robert Burns, 250th Anniversary Volume 1 Addressed to the Unca-Gid This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Charles MacDonald Addressed to the Unca-Gid or the rigidly righteous O ye who are se-gid yer cell se-pias and se-holy ye have not to do but mark and tell yer neighbors' thoughts and folly whey's life is like a wheel-gone mill supplied we store a water the heap it hapers ebbing still and still the clap plays clatter Hear me ye venerable core as counsel for poor mortals that frequent past deuce wisdom's door for glaket folly's portals I for their thoughtless careless sakes would hear proponed defences their doncy tricks, their black mistakes, their failings and mischances ye see your state with airs compared and shudder at the niffer but cast a moment's fair regard What makes the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave that purity ye pride in and what's aft mere than o'er the lathe your better art o' hidein' Think when your castigated pulse skis now and then a wallop what raging's must his veins convulse that's still eternal gallop we wind and tide fare yer tail right on ye scud yer sea-way but in the teeth obeyth to sail it makes an unka leeway see social life and glee sit down all joyous and unthinking till quite transmugrified they're grown debauchery and drinking o' would they stay to calculate the eternal consequences or your more dreaded health estate damnation of expenses ye high exalted virtuous dames tied up in godly laces before ye gee poor frailty names suppose a change of cases a dear-loved lad, convenience snug a treacherous inclination but let me whisper at yer lug yer ablen's nay temptation then gently scan your brother-man still gentler sister-woman though they may gang a canon rang to step aside is human one point must still be greatly dark the moving why they do it and just as lamely can ye mark how far perhaps they root it who made the heart does he alone decidedly contrius he knows each chord its various tone each spring its various bias then at the balance let's be mute we never can adjust it what's done we partly may compute but no not what's resisted end of address to the unca-gid recording by Charles McDonald Edinburgh Scotland email charles.mcdonaldatvirgin.net mcdonaldstarts.m-a-c Robert Burns 250th Anniversary Volume 1 To A Mouse on turning her up in her nest with the plough November 1785 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Charles McDonald To A Mouse by Robert Burns we sleek it coo-rin timorous beastie all with a panic in thy breastie now needn't start a wassy hasty with bicker and brattle I would be late to run and chase thee with murder and paddle I'm truly sorry man's dominion has broken nature's social union and justifies that ill opinion which makes thee startle at me thy poor earth-born companion and fellow mortal I doot in a wiles but thine one thieve what then poor beastie thine one leave a daemon icker in a thraves a smory quest I'll get a blessing with a lave and never miss it thy wee bit hoosey too in ruin it's silly was the winds are strewn and Nathan knew to beg a new inn of foggage green and bleak December's winds ensuing bathes snail and keen thou saw the fields laid bare in waste and weary winter coming fast and cosy here beneath the blast thou thought to dwell till crash the cruel coulter past out through thy cell that wee bit heap of leaves and stibble has cost thee money a weary nibble now thou's turned out for all thy trouble but hoose are hauled to thole the winter sleety dribble and cranruch called but moosey, thou art no thine lane in proving foresight, may be vain the best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft aglae and lee is not but grief and pain for promise joy still, thou art blessed compared with me the present only toucheth thee but, oh, I backwardcast my eon prospects drear and forward, though I cannot see I guess and fear End of To a Mouse Recording by Charles MacDonald Edinburgh, Scotland Email Charles.McDonaldatVirgin.net MacDonald starts MAC Robert Burns, 250th Anniversary, Volume 1 To a Louse On Seeing One on a Lady's Bonnet at Church This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Charles MacDonald To a Louse by Robert Burns Ha! Where are you going, you crowlin' fairly? Your impudence protects you, sirly I cannot say but he's stunt-rarely or gauze and lace though, faith, I fear you'll dine but sparely when sick o' place ye ugly, creepin' blasted winner detested, shunned by stunt and sinner near door you set your fit upon her, say, final lady gay somewhere else and seek your dinner on some poor buddy swift in some beggar's hoff at squirtle there you may creep and sprawl and spratle with other kindred jumpin' cattle and shoals in nations where horn or bane near door and settle your thick plantations now, hud you there, ye're out of sight below the fattral snug and tight oh, faith ye yet, ye'll no be right till ye've got on it the very topmost tower in height of Mrs. Bonnet my sooth right bald ye set yer nose out as plump and grey as any grosset oh, for some rank mercurial rosette or fel red smed'em I'd give ye sick a hearty doset with dress yer druddem I wouldn't have been surprised to spy ye on an old wife's flaning toy or ablen's some bit duddy boy on his wily coat but Mrs. Fine Lunardi, fie, how dare ye do it oh, Jenny, dinna toss yer heat and set yer beauties all abreed ye little Kenwick cursed speed the blast he's makin' the winks and finger ends I'd dreed am notice takin' oh, with some power the gift ye is to see ur cells as others see is it would free money a blunder, free is and foolish notion what airs in dress and gate what li is an Eden devotion End of To a Louse Recording by Charles MacDonald Edinburgh, Scotland Email Charles.McDonald at virgin.net MacDonald starts MAC Section 17 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary, Volume 1 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org My Love is Like a Red Red Rose by Robert Burns My Love is Like a Red Red Rose that's newly sprung in June My Love is Like the Melody that's sweetly played in tune as fair art thou my Bonnie lasts so deep in love am I and I will love thee still my dear till all the seas gang dry till all the seas gang dry my dear and the rocks melt with the sun and I will love thee still my dear while the sands of life shall run and fare thee wheel my only love and fare thee wheel a while and I will come again my love for ten thousand mile and of my love is like a red red rose Section 19 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary, Volume 1 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org John Barleycorn, A Ballad about it, by Robert Burns. There were three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they had sworn on a solemn oath, John Barleycorn should die. They took a plow and plowed him down, put clods upon his head, and they had sworn on a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall. John Barleycorn got up again, and so resupprised them all. The sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong. His head was armed with pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. The sober autumn entered mild, when he grew wan and pale. His beating joints and drooping head showed he began to fail. His colours sickened more and more. He faded into age, and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. They obtained a weapon, long and sharp, and cut him by the knee, then tied him fast upon a cart, like a rogue for forgery. They laid him down upon his back, and cudgled him full sore. They hung him up before the storm, and turned him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit, with water to the brim. They heaved in John Barleycorn, and let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still as signs of life appeared, they tossed him to and fro. They wasted all the scorching flame, the marrow of his bones, but the miller used him worst of all. He crushed him between the stones. And they had taken his very part's blood, and drank it round and round, and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise, but if you do but taste his blood, it will make your courage rise. It will make a man forget his woe, it will heighten all his joy, it will make the widows heart to sing, though the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, each man a glass in hand, and may his great posterity never fail in old Scotland. End of John Barleycorn, a ballad, recorded by David Lawrence, January the 10th, 2009, in Brampton, Ontario. In 22 of Robert Burns, 250th anniversary, volume one. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Paradise Camouflage, Andy from Inveron in Scotland. My Heart's in the Highlands by Robert Burns. My heart's in the Highlands. My heart is not here. My heart's in the Highlands, a chase in the deer. A chase in the wild deer and fall in the row. My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North. The birthplace of Valor, the country of worth. Wherever I wander, wherever I roam. The hills of the Highlands, forever I love. Farewell to the mountains, high covered with snow. Farewell to the strats and green valleys below. Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods. Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring fluids. My heart's in the Highlands. My heart is not here. My heart's in the Highlands, a chase in the deer. A chase in the wild deer and fall in the row. My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. End of My Heart's in the Highlands, recording by Andy from Inveron in Scotland, mlys.ws. Section 23 of Robert Burns' 250th Anniversary, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded and sung by Carol Struppling. Flow Gently, Sweet Afton by Robert Burns. End of Song. Flow Gently, Sweet Afton.