* * * * *



CXVIII.

LOVELY DAVIES.

Tune—"Miss Muir."

[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davies.]

I.

O how shall I, unskilfu', try The poet's occupation, The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whispers inspiration? Even they maun dare an effort mair, Than aught they ever gave us, Or they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o' lovely Davies. Each eye it cheers, when she appears, Like Phoebus in the morning. When past the shower, and ev'ry flower The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is; Sae droops our heart when we maun part Frae charming lovely Davies.

II.

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes; A scepter'd hand, a king's command, Is in her darting glances: The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, Even he her willing slave is; He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My muse to dream of such a theme, Her feeble pow'rs surrender: The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour: I wad in vain essay the strain, The deed too daring brave is! I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms o' lovely Davies.

* * * * *



CXIX.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

Tune—"The weary Pund o' Tow."

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum; but it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many songs which he took without scruple from my edition, where they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet: I said "the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words." It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own handwriting.]

I.

The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow: I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. I bought my wife a stane o' lint As gude as e'er did grow; And a' that she has made o' that, Is ae poor pund o' tow.

II.

There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low, And ay she took the tither souk, To drouk the stowrie tow.

III.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o' tow! She took the rock, and wi' a knock She brak it o'er my pow.

IV.

At last her feet—I sang to see't— Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow.

* * * * *



CXX.

NAEBODY.

Tune—"Naebody."

[Burns had built his house at Ellisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.]

I.

I hae a wife o' my ain— I'll partake wi' naebody; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spend, There—thanks to naebody; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody.

II.

I am naebody's lord— I'll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody; Naebody cares for me, I'll care for naebody.

* * * * *



CXXI.

O, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM!

Tune—"The Moudiewort."

[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Burns says simply, "This song is mine." The air for a century before had to bear the burthen of very ordinary words.]

CHORUS.

An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

I.

They snool me sair, and haud me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tam! But three short years will soon wheel roun'— And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam.

II.

A gleib o' lan', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam, At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

III.

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam; But hear'st thou, laddie—there's my loof— I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam! An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' song, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

* * * * *



CXXII.

O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA.

Tune—"O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie."

[The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole was sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.]

I.

O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! O Kenmure's on and awa! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, That ever Galloway saw.

II.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! Success to Kenmure's band; There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand.

III.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! Here's Kenmure's health in wine; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

IV.

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie! O Kenmure's lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true— And that their faes shall ken.

V.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie! They'll live or die wi' fame; But soon wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame.

VI.

Here's him that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far awa; And here's the flower that I love best— The rose that's like the snaw!

* * * * *



CXXIII.

MY COLLIER LADDIE.

Tune—"The Collier Laddie."

[The Collier Laddie was communicated by Burns, and in his handwriting, to the Museum: it is chiefly his own composition, though coloured by an older strain.]

I.

Where live ye, my bonnie lass? An' tell me what they ca' ye; My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie. My name she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie.

II.

See you not yon hills and dales, The sun shines on sae brawlie! They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.

III.

Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel buskit up sae gaudy; And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.

IV.

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly; I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie. I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie.

V.

I can win my five pennies a day, And spen't at night fu' brawlie; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie.

VI.

Luve for luve is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie.

* * * * *



CXXIV.

NITHSDALE'S WELCOME HAME.

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum: the Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants of the Earls of Nithsdale.]

I.

The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o'er the border, And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, An' set them a' in order. And they declare Terreagles fair, For their abode they chuse it; There's no a heart in a' the land, But's lighter at the news o't.

II.

Tho' stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather: The weary night o' care and grief May hae a joyful morrow; So dawning day has brought relief— Fareweel our night o' sorrow!

* * * * *



CXXV.

AS I WAS A-WAND'RING.

Tune—"Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh."

[The original song in the Gaelic language was translated for Burns by an Inverness-shire lady; he turned it into verse, and sent it to the Museum.]

I.

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', The pipers and youngsters were making their game; Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him; I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

II.

I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin', The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain: Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, For, oh! luve forsaken's a tormenting pain.

III.

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, I dinna envy him the gains he can win; I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

* * * * *



CXXVI.

BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL.

Tune—"The sweet lass that lo'es me."

[There are several variations of this song, but they neither affect the sentiment, nor afford matter for quotation.]

I.

O leeze me on my spinning-wheel, O leeze me on the rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! I'll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— O leeze me on my spinning-wheel!

II.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest: The sun blinks kindly in the biel', Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel.

III.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays: The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.

IV.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great? Amid their flaring, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel?

* * * * *



CXXVII.

O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN.

Tune—"The Posie."

["The Posie is my composition," says Burns, in a letter to Thomson. "The air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice." It was first printed in the Museum.]

I.

O luve will venture in Where it daurna weel be seen; O luve will venture in Where wisdom ance has been. But I will down yon river rove, Among the wood sae green— And a' to pu' a posie To my ain dear May.

II.

The primrose I will pu', The firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, The emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, And blooms without a peer— And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.

III.

I'll pu' the budding rose, When Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss O' her sweet bonnie mou'; The hyacinth's for constancy, Wi' its unchanging blue— And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.

IV.

The lily it is pure, And the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity, And unaffected air— And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.

V.

The hawthorn I will pu' Wi' its locks o' siller gray, Where, like an aged man, It stands at break of day. But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away— And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.

VI.

The woodbine I will pu' When the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew Shall be her e'en sae clear; The violet's for modesty, Which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.

VII.

I'll tie the posie round, Wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, And I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught of life The band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a posie To my ain dear May.

* * * * *



CXXVIII.

COUNTRY LASSIE.

Tune—"The Country Lass."

[A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's handwriting, presents two or three immaterial variations of this dramatic song.]

I.

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says—I'll be wed, come o't what will; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild— O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

It's ye hae wooers mony ane, And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routhie ben: There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me: But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.

IV.

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, An hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend, and some will spare, An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

V.

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy; We may be poor—Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on; Content and luve brings peace and joy— What mair hae queens upon a throne?

* * * * *



CXXIX.

FAIR ELIZA.

A Gaelic Air.

[The name of the heroine of this song was at first Rabina: but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting something new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted; which was a positive fraud; for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.]

I.

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise!

II.

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? The offence is loving thee: Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for time wad gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe; Turn again, thou lovely maiden. Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

III.

Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me.

* * * * *



CXXX.

YE JACOBITES BY NAME.

Tune—"Ye Jacobites by name."

["Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first time in the Museum: it was sent in the handwriting of Burns.]

I.

Ye Jacobites by name, give and ear, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame— You shall hear.

II.

What is right, and what is wrang, by the law, by the law? What is right and what is wrang, by the law? What is right and what is wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm, and a strang For to draw.

III.

What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th' assassin's knife, Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war.

IV.

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; Then let your schemes alone in the state; Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone To his fate.

* * * * *



CXXXI.

THE BANKS OF DOON.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[An Ayrshire legend says the heroine of this affecting song was Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to her love for her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.]

I.

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

II.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause love was true.

III.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

IV.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.

V.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree: And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.

* * * * *



CXXXII.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

[SECOND VERSION.]

Tune—"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by adapting it to a new air, accidentally composed by an amateur who was directed, if he desired to create a Scottish air, to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve rhythm.]

I.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed—never to return!

II.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

* * * * *



CXXXIII.

WILLIE WASTLE.

Tune—"The eight men of Moidart."

[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer's wife of the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, who lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.]

I.

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie. Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie; He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.

II.

She has an e'e—she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller: A whiskin' beard about her mou', Her nose and chin they threaten ither— Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.

III.

She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn'd, A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter; She's twisted right, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther— Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.

IV.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin'; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water— Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.

* * * * *



CXXXIV.

LADY MARY ANN.

Tune—"Craigtown's growing."

[The poet sent this song to the Museum, in his own handwriting: yet part of it is believed to be old; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made his interpolations and changes.]

I.

O, Lady Mary Ann Looks o'er the castle wa', She saw three bonnie boys Playing at the ba'; The youngest he was The flower amang them a'— My bonnie laddie's young, But he's growin' yet.

II.

O father! O father! An' ye think it fit, We'll send him a year To the college yet: We'll sew a green ribbon Round about his hat, And that will let them ken He's to marry yet.

III.

Lady Mary Ann Was a flower i' the dew, Sweet was its smell, And bonnie was its hue; And the langer it blossom'd The sweeter it grew; For the lily in the bud Will be bonnier yet.

IV.

Young Charlie Cochran Was the sprout of an aik; Bonnie and bloomin' And straught was its make: The sun took delight To shine for its sake, And it will be the brag O' the forest yet.

V.

The simmer is gane, When the leaves they were green, And the days are awa, That we hae seen; But far better days I trust will come again, For my bonnie laddie's young, But he's growin' yet.

* * * * *



CXXXV.

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION.

Tune.—"A parcel of rogues in a nation."

[This song was written by Burns in a moment of honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of the south the independence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.]

I.

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

II.

What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few For hireling traitor's wages. The English steel we could disdain; Secure in valour's station; But English gold has been our bane— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

III.

O would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could sell us, My auld gray head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour, I'll mak' this declaration; We've bought and sold for English gold— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

* * * * *



CXXXVI.

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES.

Tune—"Kellyburn Braes."

[Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her finger over the long list of lyrics which her husband had written or amended for the Museum, "Robert gae this one a terrible brushing." A considerable portion of the old still remains.]

I.

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

II.

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He met wi' the devil; says, "How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

III.

"I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

IV.

"It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

V.

"O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), "But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

VI.

The devil has got the auld wife on his back; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

VII.

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). Syne bade her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

VIII.

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

IX.

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

X.

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa'; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), "O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

XI.

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He pitied the man that was tied to a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

XII.

The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

XIII.

Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And to her auld husband he's carried her back: And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

XIV.

"I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."

* * * * *



CXXXVII.

JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS.

Tune—"Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss."

[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its origin: and he is silent about it in his memoranda.]

I.

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gane; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain.

II.

When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blithe his waukening be! He will think on her he loves, Fondly he'll repeat her name; For where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame.

* * * * *



CXXXVIII.

LADY ONLIE.

Tune—"The Ruffian's Rant."

[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not much, is believed to be old.]

I.

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak' a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.

II.

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, I wat she is a dainty chucky; And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.

* * * * *



CXXXIX.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

Tune—"Captain O'Kean."

["Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at the desire of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air and subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to be Robert Cleghorn: he loved the air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.]

I.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

II.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none; But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn: My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial— Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!

* * * * *



CXL.

SONG OF DEATH.

Air—"Oran an Aoig."

["I have just finished the following song," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."]

Scene—A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:

I.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties— Our race of existence is run!

II.

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe! Go frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!

III.

Thou strik'st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero—a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame!

IV.

In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save— While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, Oh! who would not die with the brave!

* * * * *



CXLI.

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

Tune—"Afton Water."

[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.]

I.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream— Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

II.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear— I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

III.

How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

IV.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

V.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

VI.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream— Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.

* * * * *



CXLII.

THE SMILING SPRING.

Tune—"The Bonnie Bell."

["Bonnie Bell," was first printed in the Museum: who the heroine was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it is a pity.]

I.

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonnie blue are the sunny skies; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; All creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

II.

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonnie Bell.

* * * * *



CXLIII.

THE CARLES OF DYSART.

Tune—"Hey ca' thro'."

[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part of it is his composition, and some believe the whole.]

I.

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the kimmers o' Largo, And the lasses o' Leven. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado; Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado.

II.

We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies to spend, And we hae pints to bring.

III.

We'll live a' our days, And them that come behin', Let them do the like, And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado, Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado.

* * * * *



CXLIV.

THE GALLANT WEAVER.

Tune—"The Weavers' March."

[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms, in the west of Scotland.]

I.

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine; And I was fear'd my heart would tine, And I gied it to the weaver.

II.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, To gie the lad that has the land; But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; While bees delight in op'ning flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver.

* * * * *



CXLV.

THE BAIRNS GAT OUT.

Tune—"The deuks dang o'er my daddie."

[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of the words of this song in a strain, rather rough and home-spun, of Scotland's elder day. He communicated it to the Museum.]

I.

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O! The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin body, O! He paidles out, an' he paidles in, An' he paidles late an' early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O!

II.

O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O! I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wadna been sae donsie, O! I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, And cuddled me late and early, O! But downa do's come o'er me now, And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!

* * * * *



CXLVI.

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

Tune—"She's fair and fause."

[One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of the North: the air is almost as happy as the words.]

I.

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle and lang; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang. A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear; But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

II.

Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind. O woman, lovely woman fair! An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair— I mean an angel mind.

* * * * *



CXLVII.

THE EXCISEMAN.

Tune—"The Deil cam' fiddling through the town."

[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the excisemen of the Dumfries district.]

I.

The deil cam' fiddling through the town, And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, And ilka wife cries—"Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man!" The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman; He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman!

II.

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

III.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land Was—the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman: He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

* * * * *



CXLVIII.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

Tune—"Lass of Inverness."

[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden, in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose on his fancy: the first four lines are partly old.]

I.

The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn, she cries, alas! And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e: Drumossie moor—Drumossie day— A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

II.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou host made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

* * * * *



CXLIX.

A RED, RED ROSE.

Tune—"Graham's Strathspey."

[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments of this song in certain street ballads: it resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a drop-ripe damson.]

I.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

IV.

And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a-while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

* * * * *



CL.

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Tune—"Louis, what reck I by thee."

[The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.]

I.

Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean? Dyvor, beggar loons to me— I reign in Jeannie's bosom.

II.

Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me. Kings and nations—swith, awa! Reif randies, I disown ye!

* * * * *



CLI.

HAD I THE WYTE.

Tune—"Had I the wyte she bade me."

[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.]

I.

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, Had I the wyte she bade me; She watch'd me by the hie-gate side. And up the loan she shaw'd me; And when I wadna venture in, A coward loon she ca'd me; Had kirk and state been in the gate, I lighted when she bade me.

II.

Sae craftilie she took me ben, And bade me make nae clatter; "For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman Is out and owre the water:" Whae'er shall say I wanted grace When I did kiss and dawte her, Let him be planted in my place, Syne say I was the fautor.

III.

Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refused her? And wadna manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly used her? He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, And blue and bluidy bruised her; When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but had excused her?

IV.

I dighted ay her een sae blue, And bann'd the cruel randy; And weel I wat her willing mou', Was e'en like sugar-candy. A gloamin-shot it was I wot, I lighted on the Monday; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, To wanton Willie's brandy.

* * * * *



CLII.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

Tune—"Coming through the rye."

[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, when it was first printed.]

I.

Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

II.

Gin a body meet a body— Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?

III.

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body— Need the world ken? Jenny's a' wat, poor body; Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.

* * * * *



CLIII.

YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN.

Tune—"The carlin o' the glen."

[Sent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part only is thought to be his]

I.

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, And reign'd resistless king of love: But now wi' sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and briers; Or in the glens and rocky caves His sad complaining dowie raves.

II.

I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang'd with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear: The slighted maids my torment see, And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, Forbids me e'er to see her mair!

* * * * *



CLIV.

OUT OVER THE FORTH.

Tune—"Charlie Gordon's welcome hame."

[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th March 1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.]

I.

Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

II.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I Io'e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

* * * * *



CLV.

THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN.

Tune—"Jacky Latin."

[Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan was amused with a rough old district song, which some one sung: he rendered, at a leisure moment, the language more delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it to the Museum.]

I.

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, O gat ye me wi' naething? Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, A mickle quarter basin. Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A' for bye, my bonnie sel', The toss of Ecclefechan.

II.

O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, O hand your tongue and jauner; I held the gate till you I met, Syne I began to wander: I tint my whistle and my sang, I tint my peace and pleasure: But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, Wad airt me to my treasure.

* * * * *



CLVI.

THE COOPER O' CUDDIE.

Tune—"Bab at the bowster."

[The wit of this song is better than its delicacy: it is printed in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.]

I.

The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, And ca'd the girrs out owre us a'— And our gudewife has gotten a ca' That anger'd the silly gude-man, O. We'll hide the cooper behind the door; Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O.

II.

He sought them out, he sought them in, Wi', deil hae her! and, deil hae him! But the body was sae doited and blin', He wist na where he was gaun, O.

III.

They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; On ilka brow she's planted a horn, And swears that they shall stan', O. We'll hide the cooper behind the door, Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O.

* * * * *



CLVII.

SOMEBODY.

Tune—"For the sake of somebody."

[Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines of this lyric from Ramsay: he sent it to the Museum.]

I.

My heart is sair—I dare na tell— My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake o' somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody!

II.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o' somebody!

* * * * *



CLVIII.

THE CARDIN' O'T.

Tune—"Salt-fish and dumplings."

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum, but not with Burns's name to it." It was given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.]

I.

I coft a stane o' haslock woo', To make a wat to Johnny o't; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo'e him best of ony yet. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o't.

II.

For though his locks be lyart gray, And tho' his brow be beld aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a' the parishen. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o't.

* * * * *



CLIX.

WHEN JANUAR' WIND.

Tune—"The lass that made the bed for me."

[Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, recording an adventure which Charles the Second, while under Presbyterian rule in Scotland, had with a young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercising his taste and skill upon it, produced the present—still too free song, for the Museum.]

I.

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, As to the north I took my way, The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew na where to lodge till day.

II.

By my good luck a maid I met, Just in the middle o' my care; And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair.

III.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And thank'd her for her courtesie; I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And bade her mak a bed to me.

IV.

She made the bed baith large and wide, Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; She put the cup to her rosy lips, And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye soun'."

V.

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, And frae my chamber went wi' speed; But I call'd her quickly back again To lay some mair below my head.

VI.

A cod she laid below my head, And served me wi' due respect; And to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck.

VII.

"Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, "And dinna sae uncivil be: If ye hae onto love for me, O wrang na my virginitie!"

VIII.

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me.

IX.

Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, The lass that made the bed to me.

X.

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, And ay she wist na what to say; I laid her between me and the wa'— The lassie thought na lang till day.

XI.

Upon the morrow when we rose, I thank'd her for her courtesie; But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, And said, "Alas! ye've ruin'd me."

XII.

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e; I said, "My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall mak the bed to me."

XIII.

She took her mither's Holland sheets, And made them a' in sarks to me: Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me.

XIV.

The bonnie lass made the bed to me, The braw lass made the bed to me: I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, The lass that made the bed to me!

* * * * *



CLX.

SAE FAR AWA.

Tune—"Dalkeith Maiden Bridge."

[This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, in his own handwriting.]

I.

O, sad and heavy should I part, But for her sake sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa. Thou that of a' things Maker art, That form'd this fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start At this my way sae far awa.

II.

How true is love to pure desert, So love to her, sae far awa: And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, While, oh! she is sae far awa. Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but hers, sae far awa; But fairer never touch'd a heart Than hers, the fair sae far awa.

* * * * *



CLXI.

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN.

Tune—"I'll gae nae mair to yon town."

[Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromek's Reliques: it was first printed in the Museum.]

I.

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sall ken, there's nane sall guess, What brings me back the gate again; But she my fairest faithfu' lass, And stownlins we sall meet again.

II.

She'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-time draws near again; And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she's doubly dear again! I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again.

* * * * *



CLXII.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.

Tune—"I'll ay ca' in by yon town."

[The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song: it was not, however, composed expressly in honour of her charms. "As I was a good deal pleased," he says in a letter to Syme, "with my performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He sent it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.]

CHORUS.

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on.

I.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

II.

How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear.

III.

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

IV.

Without my love, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!

V.

My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there.

VI.

O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in you town His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

VII.

If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me—spare me, Lucy dear!

VIII.

For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she—as fairest is her form! She has the truest, kindest heart! O, wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town That e'enin sun is shining on.

* * * * *



CLXIII.

O MAY, THY MORN.

Tune—"May, thy morn."

[Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain to the accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his "People's Edition" of Burns.]

I.

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember. And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember.

II.

And here's to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum; And here's to them that wish us weel, May a' that's guid watch o'er them, And here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum. Ami here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum!

* * * * *



CLXIV.

LOVELY POLLY STEWART.

Tune—"Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart."

[The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind seems to have been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacobite ballads, when he penned these words;—they are in the Museum.]

I.

O lovely Polly Stewart! O charming Polly Stewart! There's not a flower that blooms in May That's half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, And art can ne'er renew it; But worth and truth eternal youth Will give to Polly Stewart.

II.

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms Possess a leal and true heart; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. O lovely Polly Stewart! O charming Polly Stewart! There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half so sweet as thou art.

* * * * *



CLXV.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.

Tune—"If thou'lt play me fair play."

[A long and wearisome ditty, called "The Highland Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed into these stanzas, for Johnson's Museum.]

I.

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie.

II.

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie; Lowland lassie; And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie.

III.

The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; And for your lawful king, his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie.

* * * * *



CLXVI.

ANNA, THY CHARMS.

Tune—"Bonnie Mary."

[The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown: it was inserted in the third edition of his Poems.]

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; But ah! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair! Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, To hope may be forgiv'n; For sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heav'n.

* * * * *



CLXVII.

CASSILLIS' BANKS.

Tune—[unknown.]

[It is supposed that "Highland Mary," who lived sometime on Cassillis's banks, is the heroine of these verses.]

I.

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, An' scattered cowslips sweetly spring; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, There wi' my Mary let me flee, There catch her ilka glance of love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!

II.

The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth Is aften laird o' meikle care; But Mary she is a' my ain— Ah! fortune canna gie me mair. Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, And catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!

* * * * *



CLXVIII.

TO THEE, LOVED NITH.

Tune—[unknown.]

[There are several variations extant of these verses, and among others one which transfers the praise from the Nith to the Dee: but to the Dee, if the poet spoke in his own person, no such influences could belong.]

I.

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.

II.

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; For there he rov'd that brake my heart, Yet to that heart, ah! still how dear!

* * * * *



CLXIX.

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY.

Tune—"The Killogie."

["This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but without Burns's name." Burns took up an old song, and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite spirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.]

I.

Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o' barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley.

II.

Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley. Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley?

* * * * *



CLXX.

HEE BALOU.

Tune—"The Highland Balou."

["Published in the Musical Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but without the name of the author." It is an old strain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to the Museum in his own handwriting.]

I.

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald, Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton chief Wha got my young Highland thief.

II.

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie: Travel the country thro' and thro', And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

III.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder: Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, Syne to the Highlands hame to me.

* * * * *



CLXXI.

WAE IS MY HEART.

Tune—"Wae is my heart."

[Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, Phillis M'Murdo.]

I.

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e; Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me; Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

II.

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved; But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.

III.

O, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle green; For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e.

* * * * *



CLXXII.

HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER.

Tune—"The job of journey-work."

[Burns took the hint of this song from an older and less decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been said, in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Armour found herself before marriage; as if Burns could be capable of anything so insulting. The words are in the Museum.]

Altho' my back be at the wa', An' tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water! O! wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie he could flatter; Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter. But tho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; But tho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water!

* * * * *



CLXXIII.

MY PEGGY'S FACE.

Tune—"My Peggy's Face."

[Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, in the note in which he communicated it to Johnson, said he had a strong private reason for wishing it to appear in the second volume of the Museum.]

I.

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart.

II.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway? Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms— These are all immortal charms.

* * * * *



CLXXIV.

GLOOMY DECEMBER.

Tune—"Wandering Willie."

[These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be taken as a record of his feelings at parting with one dear to him in the last moment of existence—the Mrs. Mac of many a toast, both in serious and festive hours.]

I.

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care: Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.

II.

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope and last comfort is gone! Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.

* * * * *



CLXXV.

MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T.

Tune—"Gregg's Pipes."

[Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he corrected the improprieties, and infused some of his own lyric genius into the old strain, and printed the result in the Museum.]

I.

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. My lord a-hunting he is gane, But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane; By Colin's cottage lies his game, If Colin's Jenny be at hame.

II.

My lady's white, my lady's red, And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude; But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.

III.

Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness.

IV.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o' lovers' hymns: The diamond dew is her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims.

V.

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, The flower and fancy o' the west; But the lassie that a man lo'es best, O that's the lass to make him blest. My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon't.

* * * * *



CLXXVI.

AMANG THE TREES.

Tune—"The King of France, he rade a race."

[Burns wrote these verses in scorn of those, and they are many, who prefer

"The capon craws and queer ha ha's!"

of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious airs, Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song is a fragment—the more's the pity.]

I.

Amang the trees, where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O; 'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

II.

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and pike, 'Till we were wae and weary, O; But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the north That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

* * * * *



CLXXVII.

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.

Tune—"Banks of Banna."

["Anne with the golden locks," one of the attendant maidens in Burns's Howff, in Dumfries, was very fair and very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the customers than the serving of wine. Burns recommended this song to Thomson; and one of his editors makes him say, "I think this is one of the best love-songs I ever composed," but these are not the words of Burns; this contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought that the bard had the bad taste to prefer this strain to dozens of others more simple, more impassioned, and more natural.]

I.

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.

II.

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna!

III.

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night! Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna!

IV.

The kirk an' state may join and tell— To do sic things I maunna: The kirk and state may gang to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine of my e'e, To live but her I canna: Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.

* * * * *



CLXXVIII.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O.

[This is the first song composed by Burns for the national collection of Thomson: it was written in October, 1792. "On reading over the Lea-rig," he says, "I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following." The first and second verses were only sent: Burns added the third and last verse in December.]

I.

When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary, O! Down by the burn, where scented birks[137] Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo; I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O!

II.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O; If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O! Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O!

III.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Alang the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, It maks my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-ring, My ain kind dearie O!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 137: For "scented birks," in some copies, "birken buds."]

* * * * *



CLXXIX.

TO MARY CAMPBELL.

["In my very early years," says Burns to Thomson "when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race." The heroine of this early composition was Highland Mary.]

I.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave old Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar?

II.

O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine.

III.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me When I forget my vow!

IV.

O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand.

V.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o' time!

* * * * *



CLXXX.

THE WINSOME WEE THING.

[These words were written for Thomson: or rather made extempore. "I might give you something more profound," says the poet, "yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air, so well as this random clink."]

I.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

II.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; And niest my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

III.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

IV.

The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

* * * * *



CLXXXI.

BONNIE LESLEY.

["I have just," says Burns to Thomson, "been looking over the 'Collier's bonnie Daughter,' and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome." This lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.]

I.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

II.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither!

III.

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

IV.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee."

V.

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee: Thou'rt like themselves so lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

VI.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.

* * * * *



CLXXXII.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Tune—"Katherine Ogie."

[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns has sung with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a mariner, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted with the poet while on service at the castle of Montgomery, and their strolls in the woods and their roaming trysts only served to deepen and settle their affections. Their love had much of the solemn as well as of the romantic: on the day of their separation they plighted their mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles: they stood with a running-stream between them, and lifting up water in their hands vowed love while woods grew and waters ran. The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound: 'Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,' was written in the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath was his name, and his mark as a freemason. They parted to meet no more: Mary Campbell was carried off suddenly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited her friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whither she had gone to make arrangements for her marriage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations: we have seen a lock of her hair; it was very long and very bright, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song was written for Thomson's work.]

I.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There Simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last farewell O' my sweet Highland Mary.

II.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary!

III.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early!— Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

IV.

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly— But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary!

* * * * *



CLXXXIII.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

[The starting lines of this song are from one of no little merit in Ramsey's collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is tender: it was written for Thomson.]

I.

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

II.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

III.

But oh! she's an heiress,—auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed; The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

IV.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

V.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

* * * * *



CLXXXIV.

DUNCAN GRAY.

[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common with the wild old song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the third, neither has it any share in the sentiments of an earlier strain, with the same title, by the same hand. It was written for the work of Thomson.]

I.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; On blythe yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

II.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

III.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

IV.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Meg grew sick—as he grew heal, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And O, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

V.

Duncan was a lad o' grace. Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

* * * * *



CLXXXV.

O POORTITH CAULD.

Tune—"I had a horse."

[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the "Lassie with the lint-white locks" of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at that time very young; her shape was fine, and her "dimpled cheek and cherry mou" will be long remembered in Nithsdale.]

I.

O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' twere na' for my Jeanie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on fortune's shining?

II.

This warld's wealth when I think on, It's pride, and a' the lave o't— Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't!

III.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword ay, She talks of rank and fashion.

IV.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am?

V.

How blest the humble cotter's fate![138] He wooes his simple dearie; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 138: "The wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the original MS.]

* * * * *



CLXXXVI.

GALLA WATER.

["Galla Water" is an improved version of an earlier song by Burns: but both songs owe some of their attractions to an older strain, which the exquisite air has made popular over the world. It was written for Thomson.]

I.

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

II.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Galla Water.

III.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

IV.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

* * * * *



CLXXXVII.

LORD GREGORY.

[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, but they are both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, "Fair Annie of Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses both their songs.]

I.

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, Lord Gregory, ope thy door!

II.

An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be.

III.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove By bonnie Irwin-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied?

IV.

How often didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for ay be mine; And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine.

V.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast— Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest!

VI.

Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see! But spare and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me!

* * * * *



CLXXXVIII.

MARY MORISON.

Tune—"Bide ye yet."

["The song prefixed," observes Burns to Thomson, "is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable either for its merits or its demerits." "Of all the productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison." The song is supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at Mauchline.]

I.

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

II.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison."

III.

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

* * * * *



CLXXXIX.

WANDERING WILLIE.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same name published by Herd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. Burns approved of their alterations; but he approved, no doubt, in bitterness of spirit.]

I.

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

II.

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

III.

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers! O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

IV.

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.

* * * * *



CXC.

WANDERING WILLIE.

[LAST VERSION.]

[This is the "Wandering Willie" as altered by Erskine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, after rejecting several of their emendations. The changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with the music—an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice.]

I.

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

II.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e; Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

III.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

IV.

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.

* * * * *



CXCI.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

[Written for Thomson's collection: the first version which he wrote was not happy in its harmony: Burns altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, "I do not know if this song be really mended."]

I.

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, Oh, open the door to me, Oh![139] Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, Oh!

II.

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, Oh! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!

III.

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, Oh! False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!

IV.

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh! My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, Oh!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 139: This second line was originally—"If love it may na be, Oh!"]

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CXCII.

JESSIE.

Tune—"Bonnie Dundee."

[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost of Dumfries, was the heroine of this song. She became a wife and a mother, but died early in life: she is still affectionately remembered in her native place.]

I.

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

II.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily at evening close; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law: And still to her charms she alone is a stranger— Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'!

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CXCIII.

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.

Air—"The Mill, Mill, O."

[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popular, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale: it was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, which were properly rejected.]

I.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger.

II.

A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy.

III.

At length I reach'd the bonny glen, Where early life I sported; I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted: Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling.

IV.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy, may he be That's dearest to thy bosom! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wud be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang— Take pity on a sodger.

V.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was then ever; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it, That gallant badge—the dear cockade— Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

VI.

She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose— Syne pale like onie lily; She sank within my arms, and cried, Art thou my ain dear Willie? By him who made yon sun and sky— By whom true love's regarded, I am the man: and thus may still True lovers be rewarded!

VII.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

VIII.

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodger's wealth is honour; The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger; Remember he's his country's stay, In day and hour of danger.

* * * * *



CXCIV.

MEG O' THE MILL.

Air—"Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack?"

["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1973, "called 'Jackie Hume's Lament?' I have a song of considerable merit to that air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Museum." It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and published it in the Museum.]

I.

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

II.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady: The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl; She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.

III.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.

IV.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen' A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

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CXCV.

BLYTHE HAE I BEEN.

Tune—"Liggeram Cosh."

[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for whose work he wrote it, that "Blythe hae I been on yon hill," was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley Baillie.]

I.

Blythe hae I been on yon hill As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free As the breeze flew o'er me. Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me.

II.

Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling.

* * * * *



CXCVI.

LOGAN WATER.

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793, "felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.]

I.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride! And years synsyne hae o'er us run Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

II.

Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening's tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

III.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile: But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

IV.

O wae upon you, men o' state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?[140] But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie hame to Logan braes!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 140: Originally—

"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, The widow's tears, the orphan's cries."]

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CXCVII.

THE RED, RED ROSE.

Air—"Hughie Graham."

[There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the restorer has been. This seems the case with the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was original.]

I.

O were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

II.

O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'; And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'! Oh, there beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.

* * * * *



CXCVIII.

BONNIE JEAN.

[Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest daughter of John M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the charge made against him in the West, that his beauties were not other men's beauties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in Burns's handwriting, there is a well-merited compliment which has slipt out of the printed copy in Thomson:—

"Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set In barn or byre to trouble thee."]

I.

There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

II.

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And ay she sang so merrilie: The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

III.

But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.

IV.

Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.

V.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

VI.

As in the bosom o' the stream, The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.

VII.

And now she works her mammie's wark, And ay she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again.

VIII.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, And did na joy blink in her e'e, As Robie tauld a tale of love, Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?

IX.

The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sung sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:

X.

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me! Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

XI.

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me.

XII.

Now what could artless Jeanie do? She had nae will to say him na: At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was ay between them twa.

* * * * *



CXCIX.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

Tune—"Robin Adair."

[The ladies of the M'Murdo family were graceful and beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of recording their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this song was Phyllis M'Murdo; a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request of Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his "charming pupil." She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.]

I.

While larks with little wing Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair.

II.

In each bird's careless song, Glad I did share; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there: Sweet to the opening day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair.

III.

Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk, Caught in a snare: So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny! He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair.

* * * * *



CC.

HAD I A CAVE.

Tune—"Robin Adair."

[Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-adventure Burns composed this song for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agreeable and polished manners. The story of his faithless mistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793, when these words were written: the hero of the lay has been long dead; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.]

I.

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more.

II.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air! To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try What peace is there!

* * * * *



CCI.

BY ALLAN STREAM.

["Bravo! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. "It is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all the year else." The old song of "O my love Annie's very bonnie," helped the muse of Burns with this lyric.]

I.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds were whispering through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready; I listened to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony: And aye the wild wood echoes rang— O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie!

II.

O happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever?" While mony a kiss the seal imprest, The sacred vow,—we ne'er should sever.

III.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery, thro' her shortening day, Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

* * * * *



CCII.

O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU.

[In one of the variations of this song the name of the heroine is Jeanie: the song itself owes some of the sentiments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale chant of the same name. "Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," Burns inquires of Thomson, "one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus:—

"Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad,"

and assigned this reason: "In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare."]

I.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when you come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me. And come as ye were na comin' to me.

II.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie; But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

III.

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

IV.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

* * * * *



CCIII.

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

["Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Thompson, "begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to 'Bonnie Jean;' they are both pupils of his." This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath.]

I.

Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare: Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

II.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child.

III.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast.