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Poem by Robert Burns


The Tarbolton Lasses


IN Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
  And proper young lasses and a, man;
But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
  They carry the gree frae them a, man.

Their fathers a laird, and weel he can sparet,
  Braid money to tocher them a, man;
To proper young men, hell clink in the hand
  Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

Theres ane they ca Jean, Ill warrant yeve seen
  As bonnie a lass or as braw, man;
But for sense and guid taste shell vie wi the best,
  And a conduct that beautifies a, man.

The charms o the min, the langer they shine,
  The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
  They fade and they wither awe, man.

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien,
  A hint o a rival or twa, man;
The Laird o Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
  If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o Braehead has been on his speed,
  For mair than a towmond or twa, man;
The Laird o the Ford will straught on a board,
  If he canna get her at a, man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o her kin,
  The boast of our bachelors a, man:
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
  She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
  O lasses that live here awe, man,
The fault wad be mine, if they didna shine,
  The sweetest and best o them a, man.

I loe her mysel, but darena weel tell,
  My poverty keeps me in awe, man;
For making o rhymes, and working at times,
  Does little or naething at a, man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,
  Nor hae t in her power to say na, man;
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
  My stomachs as proud as them a, man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
  And flee oer the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi the best o the breed,
  Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o the best,
  O pairs o guid breeks I hae twa, man,
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
  And neer a wrang steek in them a, man.

My sarks they are few, but five o them new,
  Twal hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
  There are no mony poets sae brew, man.

I never had friens, weel stockit in means,
  To leave me a hundred or twa, man;
Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants,
  And wish them in hell for it a, man.

I never was canny for hoarding o money,
  Or claughtint together at a, man,
Ive little to spend, and naething to lend,
  But deevil a shilling I awe, man.



                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Tam Samsons Elegy
  2. Could Aught of Song
  3. O Whare Bid Ye Get
  4. Prayer For Mary
  5. Jockeys Taen the Parting Kiss


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