The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn
     By early Winter’s ravage torn;
     Across her placid, azure sky,
     She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
     Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;
     I think upon the stormy wave,
     Where many a danger I must dare,
     Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

     ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,
     ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
     Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,
     The wretched have no more to fear: 
     But round my heart the ties are bound,
     That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;
     These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
     To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

     Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,
     Her healthy moors and winding vales;
     The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
     Pursuing past, unhappy loves! 
     Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! 
     My peace with these, my love with those: 
     The bursting tears my heart declare—­
     Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

Address To The Toothache

     My curse upon your venom’d stang,
     That shoots my tortur’d gums alang,
     An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang,
     Wi’ gnawing vengeance,
     Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
     Like racking engines!

     When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
     Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
     Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us,
     Wi’ pitying moan;
     But thee—­thou hell o’ a’ diseases—­
     Aye mocks our groan.

     Adown my beard the slavers trickle
     I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle,
     While round the fire the giglets keckle,
     To see me loup,
     While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
     Were in their doup!

     In a’ the numerous human dools,
     Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
     Or worthy frien’s rak’d i’ the mools,—­
     Sad sight to see! 
     The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’fools,
     Thou bear’st the gree!

     Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell,
     Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell,
     An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell,
     In dreadfu’ raw,
     Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell,
     Amang them a’!

     O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
     That gars the notes o’ discord squeel,
     Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
     In gore, a shoe-thick,
     Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal
     A townmond’s toothache!

Lines On Meeting With Lord Daer^1

     This wot ye all whom it concerns,
     I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
     October twenty-third,

     [Footnote 1:  At the house of Professor Dugald Stewart.]

     A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day,
     Sae far I sprackl’d up the brae,
     I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.