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Ashlar Home > Poems > Robert Burns

The Poetic Works of Robert Burns

Adieu, A Heart-Warm, Fond Adieu

Adieu, a heart warm, fond adieu,
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favored, ye enlightened few,
Companions of my social joy!
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, though far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,
An' spent the cheerful, festive night
Oft, honored with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light
And by that Hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but Craftsmen ever saw,
Strong memory on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes, when far awa'.

May freedom, harmony and love
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient Eye above,
The glorious Architect divine
That you may keep the unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my prayer when far awa'.

And you farewell, whose merits claim
Justly that highest badge to wear,
Heaven bless your honored, noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request, permit me here
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear
To him, the Bard, that's far awa'.

Masonic Song

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured station.
I′ve little to say, but only to pray,
As praying′s the ton of your fashion
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,
`Tis seldom her favorite passion.
Ye powers who preside o′er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element′s border,
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim
Whose sovereign statute is order,
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention,
Or withered envy ne′er enter,
May secrecy round be the mystical bound
And brotherly love be the center.

The Master's Apron

There's many a badge that's very grand
With ribbon, lace and tape on
Let kings and princes wear them all,
Give me the Master's apron!

The honest craftsman's apron,
The jolly Freemason's apron,
Be he at home or roam afar,
Before his touch fall bolt and bar,
The gates of fortune fly ajar,
When he but wears the apron!

For wealth and honor, pride and power
are crumbling stones to base on
Eternity should rule the hour,
and every worthy Mason!
Each Free Accepted Mason,
Each Ancient Crafted Mason.

Then Brethren, let a wholesome song
Arouse your friendly ranks along.
Good wives and children blithely sing
To the ancient badge with the apron string
That is worn by the Master Masons!

Address to a Haggis

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Well are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The roaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
``Bethankit!'' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricasse wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scorfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!
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