Poetry Thursday: Robert Burns

Robert Burns was born January 25th in 1759. We all know some of Burns’ poems, especially this one —

Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint stoup!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Chorus

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

Chorus

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

Chorus

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie’s a hand o thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.

***

And I think most of that is pretty clear even if you’re not Scots, but on the other hand, maybe not all of it. So here is a translation:

***

Days Long Ago

Should old acquaintances be forgotten
And never be remembered?
Should old acquaintances be forgotten
and days long ago.

For days long ago, my dear,
For days long ago
We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For days long ago!

And surely you’ll have your pint tankard
And surely I’ll have mine.
And we’ll drink a cup of kindness yet
For days long ago.

Chorus

We two have run about the hills
And pulled the daisies fine
But we’ve wandered many a weary mile
Since the days long ago.

Chorus

We two have paddled in the stream
From morning sun till dinner-time
But the broad seas have roared between us
Since the days long ago.

Chorus

And here’s my hand, my trusty friend,
And give me your hand too,
And we will take an excellent good-will drink
For the days of long ago.

***

Here’s another that’s short and needs, I think, no translation:

***

John Anderson, My Jo

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.