Robert Burns

let me frankly admit to begin with that the attractiveness and probable selling qualities of the title of this little book the hundred best english poems proved when it had been once thought of too powerful arguments for it to be abandoned i am fully conscious of the presumption such a title implies in an unknown selector but at the same time i submit that only a plebiscite of duly qualified lovers of poetry could make a selection that could claim to deserve this title beyond all question and such a plebiscite is of course impossible i can claim no more than that my attempt to realize this title is an honest one and i can assert without fear of contradiction that every one of the poems i have included is a gem of purest ray serene that none can be too often read or too often repeated to one's self that every one of them should be known by heart by every lover of good literature so that each may become as it were a part of his inner being i have not inserted any poems by living authors i have taken the greatest care with the texts of the poems the editions followed have been mentioned in every case i have scrupulously retained the punctuation of these original editions and only modernized the spelling of the old copies while i have not ventured to omit any part of any poem i have not supplied titles of my own but have adopted those i found already employed in the editions used as models or in some of the cases in which i found none have merely added a descriptive one such as song from don juan in conclusion my very warmest thanks are due to messrs macmillan co ltd for permission to include tennyson's crossing the bar to mr d nutt for permission to insert w e henley's to r th b and margarita to messrs smith elder co for a like privilege in regard to browning's epilogue and to mr lloyd osborne and messrs chatto windus for permission to reproduce stevenson's requiem without these poems the volume would have had a much smaller claim to its title than it does possess slight as that may be My thanks are also due to the following gentlemen who have kindly allowed me to reproduce copyright texts of non-copyright poems from editions published by them.

Messrs. Bickers and Son, Ben Johnson, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, Ltd., Landor, Messrs. Chatto and Windus, Herrick, Mr. Buxton Foreman, Keats and Shelley, Mr. Henry Froud, Wordsworth, Mr. Alex Gardner and the Reverend George Henderson, B.D., Lady Nairn, Messrs. T.C. and E.C. Jack, Burns, Messrs. Macmillan and Company, Limited, Clough and Tennyson, Mr. John Murray, Byron, Messrs. Smith Elder and Company, Browning, Messrs.

Ward Locke and Company, Limited, Coleridge and Hood.

Adam L. Gowans End of prefatory note.

Bid him forward, breast and back, as either should be.

Strive and thrive, cry, speed, fight on, fare ever, there as here.

The Silver Tassie by Robert Burns Read for LibriVox.org go fetch to me a pint o wine and fill it in a silver tassie that i may drink before i goo a service to my bonnie lassie the boat rocks at the pier a-leath through loud the wind blows frae the ferry the ship rides by the berwick law and i maun leave my bonnie mary the trumpets sound the banners fly the glittering spears are rankd ready the shouts o war are heard afar the battle closes deep and bloody it's not the roar o sea or shore what mak me languor wish to tarry nor shouts o war that's heard afar it's leaving thee my bonnie mary End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

I didn't know him.

Anyway, at his funeral, they read out the Robbie Burns, Here Lies an Honest Man.

And I read that, I thought, no, that's not me.

You know, I didn't want to do that.

During the witch mania, the world was treated to a great deal of curious information about Old Nick.

What Robert Burns says of him in Tam o' Shanter is only a faint reminiscence of the wealth of demonology which existed a few generations earlier.

Old Nick used to appear at the witches' sabbaths in the form of a goat or a brawny black man who courted all the pretty young witches and made them submit to his embraces.

Some of these crazy creatures under examination or torture gave the most circumstantial accounts of their intercourse with Satan, their revelations being of such an obscene character that they must be left under the veil of a dead tongue.

But, lassie, thou art no thy lane; This heart is also break in twane, And like to burst with grief and pain, To think I'll see thee ne'er again.

"Hmm, he might have signed Robbie Burns at the end of it," commented Gowan.

"Seems to take for granted I'm doing half the grieving.

No, thanks.

let me frankly admit to begin with that the attractiveness and probable selling qualities of the title of this little book the hundred best english poems proved when it had been once thought of too powerful arguments for it to be abandoned i am fully conscious of the presumption such a title implies in an unknown selector but at the same time i submit that only a plebiscite of duly qualified lovers of poetry could make a selection that could claim to deserve this title beyond all question and such a plebiscite is of course impossible i can claim no more than that my attempt to realize this title is an honest one and i can assert without fear of contradiction that every one of the poems i have included is a gem of purest ray serene that none can be too often read or too often repeated to one's self that every one of them should be known by heart by every lover of good literature so that each may become as it were a part of his inner being i have not inserted any poems by living authors i have taken the greatest care with the texts of the poems the editions followed have been mentioned in every case i have scrupulously retained the punctuation of these original editions and only modernized the spelling of the old copies while i have not ventured to omit any part of any poem i have not supplied titles of my own but have adopted those i found already employed in the editions used as models or in some of the cases in which i found none have merely added a descriptive one such as song from don juan in conclusion my very warmest thanks are due to messrs macmillan co ltd for permission to include tennyson's crossing the bar to mr d nutt for permission to insert w e henley's to r th b and margarita to messrs smith elder co for a like privilege in regard to browning's epilogue and to mr lloyd osborne and messrs chatto windus for permission to reproduce stevenson's requiem without these poems the volume would have had a much smaller claim to its title than it does possess slight as that may be My thanks are also due to the following gentlemen who have kindly allowed me to reproduce copyright texts of non-copyright poems from editions published by them.

Messrs. Bickers and Son, Ben Johnson, Messrs. Chapman and Hall, Ltd., Landor, Messrs. Chatto and Windus, Herrick, Mr. Buxton Foreman, Keats and Shelley, Mr. Henry Froud, Wordsworth, Mr. Alex Gardner and the Reverend George Henderson, B.D., Lady Nairn, Messrs. T.C. and E.C. Jack, Burns, Messrs. Macmillan and Company, Limited, Clough and Tennyson, Mr. John Murray, Byron, Messrs. Smith Elder and Company, Browning, Messrs.

Ward Locke and Company, Limited, Coleridge and Hood.

Adam L. Gowans End of prefatory note.

Bid him forward, breast and back, as either should be.

Strive and thrive, cry, speed, fight on, fare ever, there as here.

The Silver Tassie by Robert Burns Read for LibriVox.org go fetch to me a pint o wine and fill it in a silver tassie that i may drink before i goo a service to my bonny lassie the boat rocks at the pier a-leath through loud the wind blows frae the ferry the ship rides by the berwick law and i moan leave my bonny mary the trumpets sound the banners fly the glittering spears are rankd ready the shouts o war are heard afar the battle closes deep and bloody it's not the roar o sea or shore what mak me languor wish to tarry nor shouts o war that's heard afar it's leaving thee my bonnie mary End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Yeah, I mean, there's so many examples of brilliant people in the past who had to spend time making a living rather than doing what they were good at.

The national poet of Scotland, Robbie Burns, he had to work on farms and clear sewers, whereas he could have been writing some of the world's most amazing poetry instead.

To liberate people to do that is kind of a good thing.

And the other thing with the food in Uganda is the price fluctuates an awful lot.

It is representative of an entire category of songs of where their origins are lost to history, and I adore those.

The text we have comes from a Scots language poem written by the illustrious Robert Burns, wonderful quintessential Scottish poet.

I do know him.

Back in 1788.