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.

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.

I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing:
But, och! it hardens a' within,
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I waive the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing:
But, och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, read more

Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

Some wee short hour ayont the twal.

Some wee short hour ayont the twal.