Robert Burns

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.
from the poem
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray,
read more

Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,
By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray,
Was light from Heaven.

To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
read more

To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
read more

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' through the rye
. . . .
Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?

My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy read more

My dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!