Happy Birthday, Rab!

Burns Night!

Yes, today is Robert Burns' birthday. He was born in Alloway, Scotland, in 1759, and started writing poetry for the oldest reason: to get girls. Now he's Scotland's national poet. Everyone sings Auld Lang Syne at New Year, and we all know at least part of To a Mouse and maybe To a Louse, too... Two years ago I gave you "Is there for honest Poverty" (also known as "A Man's a Man For A' That"), last year, "Talk of Him That's Far Awa' " . This year, something less well known, "Craigieburn Wood"

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the morrow;
But a' the pride o' Spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And Care his bosom wringing!

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.