First Lines of Robert Burns

Accept the gift a friend sincereAll hail! inexorable lord!An' somebody were come again,Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,Fairest maid on Devon banks,Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly,Gude'en to you, kimmer,Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,Here Holy Willie's sair worn clayHere's a health to ane I lo'e dear!How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing,It was upon a Lammas night,Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen,Let not ambition mock their useful toil;Let other poets raise a fracasMy curse upon thy venom'd stang,My father was a farmerMy heart is wae, and unco wae,My heart was ance as blithe and freeMy heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,Now spring has clad the grove in green,O a' ye pious godly flocks,O bonnie was yon rosy brier,O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above!O thou unknown, Almighty CauseO wha my babie-clouts will buy?O, my luve's like a red, red rose,O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass,O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear;Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,Sensibility, how charming,Should auld acquaintance be forgot,Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies,The man, in life wherever plac'd,The wintry west extends his blast,There was three kings into the east,There's nought but care on ev'ry han',Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,Thou of an independent mind,Though fickle fortune has deceived me,Thou's welcome, wean! mischanter fa' me,'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,Wee, modest crimson-tipped flow'r,Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,When biting Boreas, fell and doure,When first I came to Stewart Kyle,When first my brave Johnnie ladWhile winds frae off Ben Lomond blaw,Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,Ye banks, and braes, and streams around