I’m dwindled down to mere existence,
     Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,
     Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes,
     Jenny, my Pegasean pride! 
     Dowie she saunters down Nithside,
     And aye a westlin leuk she throws,
     While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose! 
     Was it for this, wi’ cannie care,
     Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? 
     At howes, or hillocks never stumbled,
     And late or early never grumbled?—­
     O had I power like inclination,
     I’d heeze thee up a constellation,
     To canter with the Sagitarre,
     Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
     Or turn the pole like any arrow;
     Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,
     Down the zodiac urge the race,
     And cast dirt on his godship’s face;
     For I could lay my bread and kail
     He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.—­
     Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief,
     And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief,
     And nought but peat reek i’ my head,
     How can I write what ye can read?—­
     Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June,
     Ye’ll find me in a better tune;
     But till we meet and weet our whistle,
     Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

     Robert Burns.

Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw^1

     Tune—­“Miss Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.”

     Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
     I dearly like the west,
     For there the bonie lassie lives,
     The lassie I lo’e best: 

     [Footnote 1:  Written during a separation from Mrs. Burns in their
     honeymoon.  Burns was preparing a home at Ellisland; Mrs. Burns
     was at Mossgiel.—­Lang.]

     There’s wild-woods grow, and rivers row,
     And mony a hill between: 
     But day and night my fancys’ 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 bonie flower that springs,
     By fountain, shaw, or green;
     There’s not a bonie bird that sings,
     But minds me o’ my Jean.

Song—­I Hae a Wife O’ My Ain

     I Hae a wife of my ain,
     I’ll partake wi’ naebody;
     I’ll take Cuckold frae nane,
     I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody.

     I hae a penny to spend,
     There—­thanks to naebody! 
     I hae naething to lend,
     I’ll borrow frae naebody.

     I am naebody’s lord,
     I’ll be slave to naebody;
     I hae a gude braid sword,
     I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.

     I’ll be merry and free,
     I’ll be sad for naebody;
     Naebody cares for me,
     I care for naebody.

Lines Written In Friars’-Carse Hermitage