To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November 1785 by Robert Burns

        Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
        O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
        Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
            Wi' bickering brattle!
        I wad 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 and 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 and pain,
            For promis'd joy.

        Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
        The present only toucheth thee:
        But, Och! I backward cast my e'e,
            On prospects drear!
        An' forward, tho' I canna see,
            I guess an' fear.

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns

Tune - "Graham's Strathspey."


I.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
'Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

'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.

IV.

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.

My Heart's In The Highlands by Robert Burns

Tune - "Failte na Miosg."


I.

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 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.

II.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd 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;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.