Poem by Robert Burns

The Tree of Liberty

1.

Heard ye o’ the Tree o’ France, 
	And wat ye what’s the name o’t? 
Around it a’ the patriots dance – 
	Weel Europe kens the fame o’t! 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood – 
	A prison built by kings, man, 
When Superstition’s hellish brood 
	Kept France in leading-strings, man. 

2.

Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit, 
	Its virtues a’ can tell, man: 
It raises man aboon the brute, 
	It mak’s him ken himsel’, man! 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 
	He’s greater than a lord, man, 
And wi’ the beggar shares a mite 
	O’ a’ he can afford, man. 

3.

This fruit is worth a’ Afric’s wealth: 
	To comfort us ‘twas sent, man: 
To gie the sweetest blush o’ health, 
	And mak us a’ content, man! 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 
	Mak’s high and low guid friends, man, 
And he wha acts the traitor’s part, 
	It to perdition sends, man. 

4.

My blessings ay attend the chiel, 
	Wha pitied Gallia’s slaves, man, 
And staw a branch, spite o’ the Deil, 
	Frae ‘yont the western waves, man! 
Fair Virtue water’d it wi’ care, 
	And now she sees wi’ pride, man, 
How weel it buds and blossoms there, 
	Its branches spreading wide, man. 

5.

But vicious folk ay hate to see 
	The works o’ Virtue thrive, man. 
The courtly vermin’s bann’d the tree, 
	And grat to see it thrive, man! 
King Louis thought to cut it down, 
	When it was unco sma’, man; 
For this the watchman crack’d his crown, 
	Cut aff his head and a’, man. 

6.

A wicked crew syne, on a time, 
	Did tak’ a solemn aith, man, 
It ne’er should flourish to its prime – 
	I wat they pledg’d their faith, man! 
Awa they gaed wi’ mock parade, 
	Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o’ the trade, 
	And wish’d they’d been at hame, man. 

7.

Fair Freedom, standing by the tree, 
	Her sons did loudly ca’, man. 
She sang a sang o’ Liberty, 
	Which pleas’d them ane and a’, man. 
By her inspir’d, the new-born race 
	Soon drew the avenging steel, man. 
The hirelings ran – her foes gied chase, 
	And bang’d the despot weel, man. 

8.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak, 
	Her poplar, and her pine, man! 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, 
	And o’er her neighbours shine, man! 
But seek the forest round and round, 
	And soon ’twill be agreed, man, 
That sic a tree can not be found 
	’Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 

9.

Without this tree alake this life 
	Is but a vale o’ woes, man, 
A scene o’ sorrow mix’d wi’ strife, 
	Nae real joys we know, man; 
We labour soon, we labour late, 
	To feed the titled knave, man, 
And a’ the comfort we’re to get, 
	Is that ayont the grave, man. 

10.

Wi’ plenty o’ sic trees, I trow, 
	The warld would live in peace, man. 
The sword would help to mak’ a plough, 
	The din o’ war wad cease, man. 
Like brethren in a common cause, 
	We’d on each other smile, man; 
And equal rights and equal laws 
	Wad gladden every isle, man. 

11.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 
	Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man! 
I’d gie the shoon frae aff my feet, 
	To taste the fruit o’t here, man! 
Syne let us pray, Auld England may 
	Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; 
And blythe we’ll sing, and herald the day 
	That gives us liberty, man.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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