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    Декабрь 2016


    A Red, Red Rose
    by Robert Burns
    O my luve's like a red, red rose.
    That's newly sprung in June;
    O my luve's like a melodie
    That's sweetly play'd in tune.
    As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
    So deep in luve am I;
    And I will love thee still, my Dear,
    Till a'the seas gang dry.
    Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
    And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
    I will luve thee still, my Dear,
    While the sands o'life shall run.
    And fare thee weel my only Luve!
    And fare thee weel a while!
    And I will come again, my Luve,
    Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

    To To a Kiss
    ~ Robert Burns
    Humid seal of soft affections,
    Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
    Dearest tie of young connections,
    Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
    Speaking silence, dumb confession,
    Passion's birth, and infants' play,
    Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
    Glowing dawn of brighter day.
    Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
    Ling'ring lips, -- no more to join!
    What words can ever speak affection
    Thrilling and sincere as thine!

    by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
    F 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 may 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.

    by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
    EE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
    Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
    Wi' bickering brattle!
    I was be laith to rin an' chase thee,
    Wi' murd'ring pattle!
    I'm truly sorry man's dominion
    Has broken Nature's social union,
    An' justifies that ill opinion
    Which makes thee startle
    At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
    An' fellow-mortal!
    I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
    A daimen-icker in a thrave
    'S a sma' request;
    I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
    And never miss't!
    Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
    Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
    An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
    O' foggage green!
    An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
    Baith snell an' keen!
    Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
    An' weary winter comin fast,
    An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
    Thou thought to dwell,
    Till crash! the cruel coulter past
    Out thro' thy cell.
    That wee bit heap o' leaves an stibble,
    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
    Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
    But house or hald,
    To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
    An' cranreuch cauld!
    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain:
    The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
    Gang aft a-gley,
    An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
    For promis'd joy!
    Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
    The present only toucheth thee:
    But och! I backward cast my e'e,
    On prospects drear!
    An' forward, tho' I cannot see,
    I guess an' fear!

    John Anderson, my Jo
    by Robert Burns
    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 snaw,
    But blessings on your frosty pow,
    John Anderson, my Jo!
    John Anderson, my Jo, John,
    We clamb the hill thegither,
    And monie a cantie day, John,
    We've had wi' ane anither;
    Now we maun totter down, John,
    And hand in hand we'll go,
    And sleep thegither at the foot,
    John Anderson, my Jo!

    The Banks Of Bonnie Doon
    by Robert Burns
    Yon banks and hills of bonnie Doon,
    How can you bloom so fresh and fair?
    And little birds, how can you chaunt
    With me so weary... full o' care?
    You'll break my heart, you warbling birds
    That wanton thru the flow'ry thorns
    You remind me of departed joys
    Departed... never to return.
    Oft did I rove by bonnie Doon
    To see the rose and woodbine twine
    And every bird sang of its love
    As fondly once I sang of mine.
    With lightsome heart I pulled a rose
    Full sweet from off its thorny tree
    But my first lover stole that rose
    And, ah! has left its thorns with me.

    The Banks O' Doon
    by Robert Burns
    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'll 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 wood - bine twine,
    And ilka bird sang o' its love,
    And sae did I o' mine.
    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
    Frae aff its thorny tree,
    And my fause luver saw the rose,
    But left the thorn wi' me,
    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
    Upon a morn in June,
    And sae I flourish'd on the morn,
    And sae was pu'd or noon!

    My Heart's in the Highlands
    My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
    My heart's in the Highkands, a chasing the deer;
    A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe -
    My heart in the Highlands wherever I go.
    Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
    The birthplace of valour, the country of worth:
    Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
    The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
    Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
    Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
    Farewell to the forests and wild-handing 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 Highkands, a chasing the deer;
    A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe -
    My heart in the Highlands wherever I go.
    Robert Burns (1739 - 1796)

    Rudyard Kipling "If"
    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
    If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And-which is more-you'll be a Man, my son!

    The Lover's Morning Salute To His Mistress
    tune-"Deil tak the wars."
    Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature?
    Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
    Numbering ilka bud which Nature
    Waters wi' the tears o' joy.
    Now, to the streaming fountain,
    Or up the heathy mountain,
    The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
    In twining hazel bowers,
    Its lay the linnet pours,
    The laverock to the sky
    Ascends, wi' sangs o' joy,
    While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
    Phoebus gilding the brow of morning,
    Banishes ilk darksome shade,
    Nature, gladdening and adorning;
    Such to me my lovely maid.
    When frae my Chloris parted,
    Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
    The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky:
    But when she charms my sight,
    In pride of Beauty's light-
    When thro' my very heart
    Her burning glories dart;
    'Tis then-'tis then I wake to life and joy!
    Robert Burns

    Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves
    tune-"My lodging is on the cold ground."
    Behold, my love, how green the groves,
    The primrose banks how fair;
    The balmy gales awake the flowers,
    And wave thy flowing hair.
    The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
    And o'er the cottage sings:
    For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
    To Shepherds as to Kings.
    Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string,
    In lordly lighted ha':
    The Shepherd stops his simple reed,
    Blythe in the birken shaw.
    The Princely revel may survey
    Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
    But are their hearts as light as ours,
    Beneath the milk-white thorn!
    The shepherd, in the flowery glen;
    In shepherd's phrase, will woo:
    The courtier tells a finer tale,
    But is his heart as true!
    These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
    That spotless breast o' thine:
    The courtiers' gems may witness love,
    But, 'tis na love like mine.
    Robert Burns

    My Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing
    Air-"My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing."
    Chorus.-She is a winsome wee thing,
    She is a handsome wee thing,
    She is a lo'esome wee thing,
    This dear wee wife o' mine.
    I never saw a fairer,
    I never lo'ed a dearer,
    And neist my heart I'll wear her,
    For fear my jewel tine,
    She is a winsome, &c.
    The warld's wrack we share o't;
    The warstle and the care o't;
    Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,
    And think my lot divine.
    She is a winsome, &c.
    Robert Burns