IV.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye.

V.

Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love.

VI.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer's day! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. 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.

* * * * *



CCIV.

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.

Air—"Cauld Kail."

[Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradition says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. "That tune, Cauld Kail," he says to Thomson, "is such a favorite of yours, that I once roved out yesterday for a gloaming-shot at the Muses; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following."]

I.

Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld's wealth and grandeur: And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone, That I may live to love her.

II.

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, Than sic a moment's pleasure: And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never.

* * * * *



CCV.

DAINTY DAVIE.

[From the old song of "Daintie Davie" Burns has borrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient strain records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecution, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the same bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cherrytrees, and other children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons produced. When Charles the Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he is said to have exclaimed, "God's fish! that beats me and the oak: the man ought to be made a bishop."]

I.

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers; And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear dainty Davie.

II.

The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie.

III.

When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie

IV.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo'e best, And that's my ain dear Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear dainty Davie.

* * * * *



CCVI.

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.

[FIRST VERSION.]

Tune—"Hey, tuttie taitie."

[Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was composed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives an account much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson, he says, "There is a tradition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was written in September, 1793.]

I.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie!

II.

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour: See approach proud Edward's pow'r— Chains and slaverie!

III.

Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave! Let him turn and flee!

IV.

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!

V.

By oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

VI.

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!— Let us do or die!

* * * * *



CCVII.

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

[SECOND VERSION.]

[Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial and national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more in every fourth line, which loaded the verse with expletives, and weakened the simple energy of the original: Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of Bruce's day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. "The only line," says the musician, "which I dislike in the whole song is,

'Welcome to your gory bed:'

gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and a prudent general would avoid saying anything to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is." "My ode," replied Burns, "pleases me so much that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame." Thomson cries out, like the timid wife of Coriolanus, "Oh, God, no blood!" while Burns exclaims, like that Roman's heroic mother, "Yes, blood! it becomes a soldier more than gilt his trophy." The ode as originally written was restored afterwards in Thomson's collection.]

I.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie!

II.

Now's the day, and now's the hour— See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power— Edward! chains and slaverie!

III.

Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

IV.

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian! on wi' me!

V.

By oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be—shall be free!

VI.

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Forward! let us do, or die!

* * * * *



CCVIII.

BEHOLD THE HOUR.

Tune—"Oran-gaoil."

["The following song I have composed for the Highland air that you tell me in your last you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint." These are the words of Burns to Thomson: he might have added that the song was written on the meditated voyage of Clarinda to the West Indies, to join her husband.]

I.

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! Sever'd from thee can I survive? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail: "E'en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

II.

Along the solitary shore While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye: Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, Where now my Nancy's path may be! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me?

* * * * *



CCIX.

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER.

Tune—"Fee him, father."

["I do not give these verses," says Burns to Thomson, "for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which 'Patie Allan's mither died, about the back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, except the hautbois and the muse." To the poet's intercourse with musicians we owe some fine songs.]

I.

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie! Thou hast left me ever; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie! Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death Only should us sever; Now thou's left thy lass for ay— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never!

II.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie! Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie! Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is breaking: Soon my weary een I'll close, Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken!

* * * * *



CCX.

AULD LANG SYNE.

["Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment." "The following song," says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, "an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than "minstrel Burns."]

I.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

II.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne.

III.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin' auld lang syne.

IV.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll take a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne.

V.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

* * * * *



CCXI.

FAIR JEANY.

Tune—"Saw ye my father?"

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. "Of the poetry," he says, "I speak with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence."]

I.

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild woods among?

II.

No more a-winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flow'rets so fair: No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, But sorrow and sad sighing care.

III.

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly winter is near? No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses, Proclaim it the pride of the year.

IV.

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have I known, All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.

V.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor hope dare a comfort bestow: Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

* * * * *



CCXII.

DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.

[To the air of the "Collier's dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]

I.

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure— Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

II.

The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds uncertain motion— They are but types of woman.

III.

O! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature.

IV.

Go find an honest fellow; Good claret set before thee: Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory.

* * * * *



CCXIII.

NANCY.

[This song was inspired by the charms of Clarinda. In one of the poet's manuscripts the song commences thus:

Thine am I, my lovely Kate, Well thou mayest discover Every pulse along my veins Tell the ardent lover.

This change was tried out of compliment, it is believed, to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyrical verse than Kate.]

I.

Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy.

II.

To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish: Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish.

III.

Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure.

IV.

What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning: Love's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.

* * * * *



CCXIV.

HUSBAND, HUSBAND.

Tune—"Jo Janet."

["My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the poet's eye when he composed this song, as surely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old minstrels were in his mind. He desires Thomson briefly to tell him how he likes these verses: the response of the musician was, "Inimitable."]

I.

Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir. "One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it man or woman, say, My spouse, Nancy?"

II.

If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance! "Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I'll try to make a shift, My spouse, Nancy."

III.

My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think, think, how you will bear it. "I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse, Nancy."

IV.

Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. "I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse, Nancy."

* * * * *



CCXV.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE.

Air—"The Sutor's Dochter."

[Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, of Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in the south of Scotland.]

I.

Wilt thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee! I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie.

II.

Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Or if thou wilt no be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me: If it winna, canna be, Thou, for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me.

* * * * *



CCXVI.

BUT LATELY SEEN.

Tune—"The winter of life."

[This song was written for Johnson's Museum, in 1794: the air is East Indian: it was brought from Hindostan by a particular friend of the poet. Thomson set the words to the air of Gil Morrice: they are elsewhere set to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.]

I.

But lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoiced the day; Thro' gentle showers and laughing flowers, In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa! Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'.

II.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age; My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, Sinks in Time's wintry rage. Oh! age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again?

* * * * *



CCXVII.

TO MARY.

Tune—"Could aught of song."

[These verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's very tender and elegant song,

"Ah! the poor shepherd's mournful fate,"

and some unrecorded "Mary" of the poet's heart, is in the latter volumes of Johnson. "It is inserted in Johnson's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the name of Burns attached." He might have added that it was sent by Burns, written with his own hand.]

I.

Could aught of song declare my pains, Could artful numbers move thee, The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, O Mary, how I love thee! They who but feign a wounded heart May teach the lyre to languish; But what avails the pride of art, When wastes the soul with anguish?

II.

Then let the sudden bursting sigh The heart-felt pang discover; And in the keen, yet tender eye, O read th' imploring lover. For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art's gay disguising; Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, The voice of nature prizing.

* * * * *



CCXVIII.

HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS.

Tune—"Laggan Burn."

["This song is in the Musical Museum, with Burns's name to it," says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of the poet's early days, which he trimmed up, and sent to Johnson.]

I.

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, Gude night, and joy be wi' thee; I'll come na mair to thy bower-door, To tell thee that I lo'e thee. O dinna think, my pretty pink, But I can live without thee: I vow and swear I dinna care How lang ye look about ye.

II.

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me Thou hast na mind to marry; I'll be as free informing thee Nae time hae I to tarry. I ken thy friends try ilka means, Frae wedlock to delay thee; Depending on some higher chance— But fortune may betray thee.

III.

I ken they scorn my low estate, But that does never grieve me; But I'm as free as any he, Sma' siller will relieve me. I count my health my greatest wealth, Sae long as I'll enjoy it: I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae want, As lang's I get employment.

IV.

But far off fowls hae feathers fair, And ay until ye try them: Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, They may prove waur than I am. But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright, My dear, I'll come and see thee; For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, Nae travel makes him weary.

* * * * *



CCXIX.

THE FAREWELL.

Tune—"It was a' for our rightfu' king."

["It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "how much, even if any part of this song was written by Burns: it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with his name." Burns, it is believed, rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain entirely. Johnson received it from him in his own handwriting.]

I.

It was a' for our rightfu' king, We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' king We e'er saw Irish land, My dear; We e'er saw Irish land.

II.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear; For I maun cross the main.

III.

He turn'd him right, and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear; With adieu for evermore.

IV.

The sodger from the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear; Never to meet again

V.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear; The lee-lang night, and weep.

* * * * *



CCXX.

O STEER HER UP.

Tune—"O steer her up, and haud her gaun."

[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the Museum.]

I.

O steer her up and haud her gaun— Her mother's at the mill, jo; And gin she winna take a man, E'en let her take her will, jo: First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, And ca' another gill, jo, And gin she take the thing amiss, E'en let her flyte her fill, jo.

II.

O steer her up, and be na blate, An' gin she take it ill, jo, Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, And time nae longer spill, jo: Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo, That gin the lassie winna do't, Ye'll fin' anither will, jo.

* * * * *



CCXXI.

O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.

Tune—"My wife she dang me."

[Other verses to the same air, belonging to the olden times, are still remembered in Scotland: but they are only sung when the wine is in, and the sense of delicacy out. This song is in the Museum.]

I.

O ay my wife she dang me, And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent, And fool I was I married; But never honest man's intent, As cursedly miscarried.

II.

Some sairie comfort still at last, When a' their days are done, man; My pains o' hell on earth are past, I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. O ay my wife she dang me, And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.

* * * * *



CCXXII.

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

Tune—"Lass o' Livistone."

[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars, the Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thomson's collection: variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are neither important nor curious.]

I.

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.

II.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

* * * * *



CCXXIII.

HERE IS THE GLEN.

Tune—"Banks of Cree."

[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the following account. "I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 'The Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."]

I.

Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour— O what can stay my lovely maid?

II.

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.

III.

It is Maria's voice I hear! So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little, faithful mate to cheer, At once 'tis music—and 'tis love.

IV.

And art thou come? and art thou true? O welcome, dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.

* * * * *



CCXXIV.

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

Tune—"O'er the hills," &c.

["The last evening," 29th of August, 1794, "as I was straying out," says Burns, "and thinking of 'O'er the hills and far away,' I spun the following stanzas for it. I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness."]

I.

How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad? How can I the thought forego, He's on the seas to meet the foe? Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love: Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that's far away.

II.

When in summer's noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun My sailor's thund'ring at his gun: Bullets, spare my only joy! Bullets, spare my darling boy! Fate, do with me what you may— Spare but him that's far away!

III.

At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power: As the storms the forests tear, And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, All I can—I weep and pray, For his weal that's far away.

IV.

Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet: Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, Fill my sailor's welcome sails, To my arms their charge convey— My dear lad that's far away. On the seas and far away On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that's far away.

* * * * *



CCXXV.

CA' THE YOWES.

[Burns formed this song upon an old lyric, an amended version of which he had previously communicated to the Museum: he was fond of musing in the shadow of Lincluden towers, and on the banks of Cluden Water.]

I.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather growes, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes— My bonnie dearie! Hark the mavis' evening sang Sounding Cluden's woods amang! Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.

II.

We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly.

III.

Yonder Cluden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.

V.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die—but canna part— My bonnie dearie! Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather growes; Ca' them where the burnie rowes— My bonnie dearie!

* * * * *



CCXXVI.

SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A'.

Tune—"Onagh's Waterfall."

[The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been noticed: she is described in this song with the accuracy of a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one: it is needless to add her name, or to say how fine her form and how resistless her smiles.]

I.

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughin' een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow: Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

II.

Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad mak a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature—auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

III.

Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon; Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'?

* * * * *



CCXXVII.

SAW YE MY PHELY.

[QUASI DICAT PHILLIS.]

Tune—"When she came ben she bobbit."

[The despairing swain in this song was Stephen Clarke, musician, and the young lady whom he persuaded Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness was Phillis M'Murdo.]

I.

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? O saw ye my dear, my Phely? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love! She winna come hame to her Willy.

II.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.

III.

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

* * * * *



CCXXVIII.

HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

Tune—"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."

[On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former has more of elegance and order: the latter quite as much nature and truth: but there is less of the new than of the old in both.]

I.

How lang and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Though I were ne'er sae weary. For oh! her lanely nights are lang; And oh! her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.

II.

When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee my dearie; And now what seas between us roar— How can I be but eerie?

III.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how dreary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. For oh! her lanely nights are lang; And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.

* * * * *



CCXXIX.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

Tune—"Duncan Gray."

["These English songs," thus complains the poet, in the letter which conveyed this lyric to Thomson, "gravel me to death: I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at 'Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:"]

I.

Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e'er complain Fickle man is apt to rove: Look abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove?

II.

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow: Sun find moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go: Why then ask of silly man To oppose great nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can— You can be no more, you know.

* * * * *



CCXXX.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS.

Tune—"Deil tak the Wars."

[Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by sitting till the dawn at the punch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home.]

I.

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy: Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

II.

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair, The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; But when, in beauty's light, She meets my ravish'd sight, When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart— 'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

* * * * *



CCXXXI.

CHLORIS.

Air—"My lodging is on the cold ground."

[The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thomson. "On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song." The poetic elevation of Chloris is great: she lived, when her charms faded, in want, and died all but destitute.]

I.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair: The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flaxen hair.

II.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, And o'er the cottage sings; For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To shepherds as to kings

III.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string In lordly lighted ha': The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blythe, in the birken shaw.

IV.

The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours, Beneath the milk-white thorn?

V.

The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale— But is his heart as true?

VI.

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine: The courtier's gems may witness love— But 'tis na love like mine.

* * * * *



CCXXXII.

CHLOE.

Air—"Daintie Davie."

[Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of his collection, took the liberty of bestowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ramsay's miscellany: the bombast is abated, and the whole much improved.]

I.

It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful charming Chloe.

II.

The feather'd people you might see, Perch'd all around, on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.

* * * * *



CCXXXIII.

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

Tune—"Rothemurche's Rant."

["Conjugal love," says the poet, "is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul." It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.]

I.

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, O? Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joy wi' me, And say thoul't be my dearie, O?

II.

And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

III.

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love my dearie, O.

IV.

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

* * * * *



CCXXXIV.

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.

Air—"Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

[This song was written in November, 1794: Thomson pronounced it excellent.]

I.

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling! O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish.

II.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover; The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer— For pity's sake forgive me!

III.

The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 'Till fears no more had sav'd me: The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing; 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin.

* * * * *



CCXXXV.

O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY.

Tune-"The Sow's Tail."

["This morning" (19th November, 1794), "though a keen blowing frost," Burns writes to Thomson, "in my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."]

HE.

O Philly, happy be that day, When roving through the gather'd hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly.

SHE.

O Willy, ay I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, To be my ain dear Willy.

HE.

As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly.

SHE.

As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy.

HE.

The milder sun and bluer sky That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.

The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my Willy.

HE.

The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly.

SHE.

The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willy.

HE.

Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly.

SHE.

What's a' joys that gowd can gie? I care nae wealth a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy.

* * * * *



CCXXXVI.

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

Tune—"Lumps o' Pudding."

[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. "Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and "Andro wi' his cutty Gun," the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, "Contented wi' Little."]

I.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow end care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

II.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a': When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

IV.

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst word is—"Welcome, and welcome again!"

* * * * *



CCXXXVII.

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.

Tune—"Roy's Wife."

[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, "Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady replied in a strain equally tender and forgiving.]

I.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Well thou know'st my aching heart— And canst thou leave me thus for pity? In this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this thy faithful swain's reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katy!

II.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear— But not a love like mine, my Katy! Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Well thou know'st my aching heart— And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

* * * * *



CCXXXVIII.

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

Tune—"There'll never be peace."

[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edinburgh: on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beautifully says, "The wine-cup shines in light," he seldom forgot to toast Mrs. Mac.]

I.

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa!

II.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie—and Nanny's awa!

III.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa!

IV.

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay: The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa!

* * * * *



CCXXXIX.

O WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME.

Tune—"Morag."

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is said, in Thomson's collection, to have been written for that work by Burns: but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham's edition." If sir Harris would be so good as to look at page 245; vol. V., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, he will find the song; and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 of vol. III., of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed the error of which he accuses his fellow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II,. and at page 189, vol. III., and of "Ae day a braw wooer came down the lang glen," which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., and at page 183 of vol, III.]

I.

O wha is she that lo'es me, And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews of simmer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping! O that's the lassie of my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen of womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her.

II.

If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming, That e'en thy chosen lassie, Erewhile thy breast sae warming Had ne'er sic powers alarming.

III.

If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attentions plighted, That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted.

IV.

If thou hast met this fair one; When frae her thou hast parted, If every other fair one, But her, thou hast deserted, And thou art broken-hearted; O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her.

* * * * *



CCXL.

CALEDONIA.

Tune—"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

[There is both knowledge of history and elegance of allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed by Currie.]

I.

There was once a day—but old Time then was young— That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

II.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore "Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

III.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand: Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly— The daring invaders they fled or they died.

IV.

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore; O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

V.

The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hope and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood: But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood.

VI.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

* * * * *



CCXLI.

O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS.

Tune—"Cordwainer's March."

[The air to which these verses were written, is commonly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.]

I.

O lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. A slave to love's unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me meikle wae; But now he is my deadly fae, Unless thou be my ain.

II.

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; But thou art queen within my breast, For ever to remain. O lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain.

* * * * *



CCXLII.

THE FETE CHAMPETRE.

Tune—"Killiecrankie."

[Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Enterkin, to the public. Tents were erected on the banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn with flowers, most of the names of note in the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among the "Commons," poured out his wine in vain.]

I.

O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, To do our errands there, man? O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? Or will we send a man-o'-law? Or will we send a sodger? Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' The meikle Ursa-Major?

II.

Come, will ye court a noble lord, Or buy a score o' lairds, man? For worth and honour pawn their word, Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man? Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter; Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, He gies a Fete Champetre.

III.

When Love and Beauty heard the news, The gay green-woods amang, man; Where gathering flowers and busking bowers, They heard the blackbird's sang, man; A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, Sir Politicks to fetter, As theirs alone, the patent-bliss To hold a Fete Champetre.

IV.

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, O'er hill and dale she flew, man; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man: She summon'd every social sprite That sports by wood or water, On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Fete Champetre.

V.

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, Were bound to stakes like kye, man; And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', Clamb up the starry sky, man: Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter; The western breeze steals thro' the trees, To view this Fete Champetre.

VI.

How many a robe sae gaily floats! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony's enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. The echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter, When angels met, at Adam's yett, To hold their Fete Champetre.

VII.

When Politics came there, to mix And make his ether-stane, man! He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man: He blush'd for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi' humble prayer to join and share This festive Fete Champetre.

* * * * *



CCXLIII.

HERE'S A HEALTH.

Tune—"Here's a health to them that's awa."

[The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox; Tammie was Lord Erskine; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these verses.]

I.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'! It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true, It's good to support Caldonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.

II.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to Charlie the chief of the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

III.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law! Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite.

IV.

Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw! Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'!

* * * * *



CCXLIV.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.

Tune—"For a' that, and a' that."

[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the natural right of his species. He modestly says to Thomson, "I do not give you this song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." Thomson took the song, but hazarded no praise.]

I.

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that!

II.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!

III.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd—a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

IV.

A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that, But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that.

V.

Then let us pray that come it may— As come it will for a' that— That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that!

* * * * *



CCXLV.

CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.

[Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson: the heroine was Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms of very indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.]

I.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe awakes the morrow; But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

II.

I see the flowers and spreading trees I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing?

III.

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.

IV.

If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shall love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.

* * * * *



CCXLVI.

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET.

Tune—"Let me in this ae night."

[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed this song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyric, of more spirit than decorum.]

I.

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou waking, I would wit? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo!

II.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet! Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: Tak pity on my weary feet, And shield me frae the rain, jo.

III.

The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo!

* * * * *



CCXLVII.

O TELL NA ME O' WIND AND RAIN.

[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, are, at all events, not borrowed from the sentiments expressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song CCXXXVII.; there she is tender and forgiving: here she in stern and cold.]

I.

O tell na me o' wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain! Gae back the gate ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo!

II.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That's trusted faithless man, jo.

III.

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed: Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo.

IV.

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in jo!

* * * * *



CCXLVIII.

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

Tune—"Push about the jorum."

[This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had been at a public meeting, where he was less joyous than usual: as something had been expected from him, he made these verses, when he went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor of the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kindness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now before me.]

I.

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, Then let the loons beware, Sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!

II.

O let us not, like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided; Till slap come in an unco loon And wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted!

III.

The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it.

IV.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing, "God save the King," Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing, "God save the King," We'll ne'er forget the people.

* * * * *



CCXLIX.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

Tune—"Where'll bonnie Ann lie."

[The old song to the same air is yet remembered: but the humour is richer than the delicacy; the same may be said of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.]

I.

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay! Nor quit for me the trembling spray; A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining.

II.

Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

III.

Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

IV.

Thou tells o' never-ending care; O' speechless grief and dark despair: For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken!

* * * * *



CCL.

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.

Tune—"Ay wakin', O."

[An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance.

Ay waking, oh, Waking ay and weary; Sleep I canna get For thinking o' my dearie.]

I.

Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish? While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish?

II.

Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror; Slumber even I dread, Every dream is horror.

III.

Hear me, Pow'rs divine! Oh, in pity hear me! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me! Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her bed of sorrow.

* * * * *



CCLI.

CALEDONIA.

Tune—"Humours of Glen."

[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with his personal attachments, and in few more beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson the heroine was Mrs. Burns.]

I.

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom: Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

II.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?—The haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

* * * * *



CCLII.

'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN.

Tune—"Laddie, lie near me."

[Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her name: yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that Jean Lorimer was the heroine.]

I.

'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.

II.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me! But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

III.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter— Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

* * * * *



CCLIII.

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.

Tune—"John Anderson, my jo."

["I am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, "holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.]

I.

How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And, to the wealthy booby, Poor woman sacrifice! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife.

II.

The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinions tries: Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet!

* * * * *



CCLIV.

MARK YONDER POMP.

Tune—"Deil tak the wars."

[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. "You see," said he, "how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in honour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.]

I.

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion Round the wealthy, titled bride: But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures? What are the noisy pleasures? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art: The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart.

II.

But did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day; O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worship'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

* * * * *



CCLV.

THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.

Tune—"This is no my ain house."

[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the happiest modern songs. When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the "fair dame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus."]

I.

O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place: It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e.

II.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e.

III.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the e'e.

IV.

It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e.

* * * * *



CCLVI.

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE

GROVE IN GREEN.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,

"Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."]

I.

Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers: The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe?

II.

The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

III.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the with'ring blast My youth and joy consume.

IV.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flow'ry snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care.

V.

O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair." What tongue his woes can tell! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell.

* * * * *



CCLVII.

O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.

[To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.]

I.

O Bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

II.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green: But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen.

III.

All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care.

IV.

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign.

* * * * *



CCLVIII.

FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT

NEAR.

Tune—"Let me in this ae night."

["How do you like the foregoing?" Burns asks Thomson, after having copies this song for his collection. "I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom?"]

I.

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love

II.

Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, love.

III.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love.

IV.

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love.

* * * * *



CCLIX.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.

Tune—"The Lothian Lassie."

["Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, "is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Lowther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire: Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground." To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Waverley finds Old Mortality repairing the Cameronian grave-stones.]

I.

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me; I said there was naething I hated like men, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

II.

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love, he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying!

III.

A weel-stocked mailen—himsel' for the laird— And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.

IV.

But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less— The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

V.

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there! I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.

VI.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

VII.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin', And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'.

VIII.

He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to morrow.

* * * * *



CCLX.

CHLORIS.

Tune—"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

["I am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these verses, "quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare—such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it." This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris.]

I.

Why, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy: Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie?

II.

O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, Wake thy lover from his dream?

* * * * *



CCLXI.

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.

[This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gaelic lament for the ruin which followed the rebellion of the year 1745: he sent it to the Museum.]

I.

Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me.

II.

It was na sae in the Highland hills, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me.

III.

For then I had a score o' kye, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Feeding on yon hills so high, And giving milk to me.

IV.

And there I had three score o' yowes, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, And casting woo' to me.

V.

I was the happiest of a' the clan, Sair, sair, may I repine; For Donald was the brawest lad, And Donald he was mine.

VI.

Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, Sae far to set us free; My Donald's arm was wanted then, For Scotland and for me.

VII.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell, Right to the wrang did yield: My Donald and his country fell Upon Culloden's field.

VIII.

Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the world wide Sae wretched now as me.

* * * * *



CCLXII.

TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.

[Burns wrote this "Welcome" on the unexpected defection of General Dumourier.]

I.

You're welcome to despots, Dumourier; You're welcome to despots, Dumourier; How does Dampiere do? Aye, and Bournonville, too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

II.

I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, I will take my chance with you; By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.

III.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till freedom's spark is out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.

* * * * *



CCLXIII.

PEG-A-RAMSEY.

Tune—"Cauld is the e'enin blast."

[Most of this song is old: Burns gave it a brushing for the Museum.]

I.

Cauld is the e'enin' blast O' Boreas o'er the pool, And dawin' it is dreary When birks are bare at Yule.

II.

O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast When bitter bites the frost, And in the mirk and dreary drift The hills and glens are lost.

III.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night That drifted o'er the hill, But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill.

* * * * *



CCLXIV.

THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.

[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum.]

I.

There was a bonnie lass, And a bonnie, bonnie lass, And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear; Till war's loud alarms Tore her laddie frae her arms, Wi' mony a sigh and tear.

II.

Over sea, over shore, Where the cannons loudly roar, He still was a stranger to fear; And nocht could him quell, Or his bosom assail, But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.

* * * * *



CCLXV.

O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.

[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Museum.]

I.

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet.

II.

It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit, Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

III.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.

* * * * *



CCLXVI.

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.

Tune—"Balinamona Ora."

[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish melodies: he calls it "a kind of rhapsody."]

I.

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me.

II.

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.

III.

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them—the mair they're carest. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me.

* * * * *



CCLXVII.

JESSY.

Tune—"Here's a health to them that's awa."

[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortality can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded.]

I.

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!

II.

Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Then aught in the world beside—Jessy!

III.

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms: But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy!

IV.

I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling e'e; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree?—Jessy! Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!

* * * * *



CCLXVIII.

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS.

Tune—"Rothemurche."

[On the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on the Solway, his thoughts wandered to early days, and this song, the last he was to measure in this world, was dedicated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.]

I.

Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do? Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear! Could'st thou to malice lend an ear! O! did not love exclaim "Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so."

II.

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do?

* * * * *



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

TO WILLIAM BURNESS.

[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when learning flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has reached us. It has much of the scriptural deference to paternal authority, and more of the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in an original mind.]

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781.

HONOURED SIR,

I have purposely delayed writing in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-Year's day; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way; I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life: for I assure you I am heartily tired of it; and if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it.

"The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come."[141]

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing you a merry New-Year's day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son,

ROBERT BURNESS.

P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 141: Pope. Essay on Man]

* * * * *



II.

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH,

SCHOOLMASTER,

STABLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.

[John Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, removed from the west of Scotland to London, where he lived to a good old age, and loved to talk of the pious William Burness and his eminent son.]

Lochlea, 15th January, 1783.

DEAR SIR,

As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and friendship.

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits; and, in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten; but, as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a father, who has figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, I might have been, what the world calls, a pushing, active fellow; but to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see and observe; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be anything original about him, which shows me human nature in a different light from anything I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to "study men, their manners, and their ways;" and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me: I know that even then, my talent for what country folks call a "sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, that even then—I would learn to be happy.[142] However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy; and in many things, expecially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist; not, indeed, for the sake of the money; but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living: above everything, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun—possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his "Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling"—a book I prize next to the Bible; "Man of the World;" Sterne, especially his "Sentimental Journey;" Macpherson's "Ossian," &c.; these are the glorious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame—the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race—he "who can soar above this little scene of things"—can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves! O how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and "catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle encumbrance in their way.—But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch—not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story; but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from,

Dear Sir, yours.—R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 142: The last shift alluded to here must be the condition of an itinerant beggar.—CURRIE]

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III.

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,

WRITER, MONTROSE.[143]

[James Burness, son of the poet's uncle, lives at Montrose, and, as may be surmised, is now very old: fame has come to his house through his eminent cousin Robert, and dearer still through his own grandson, Sir Alexander Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is well acquainted.]

Lochlea, 21st June, 1783.

DEAR SIR,

My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family.

I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high; oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be gotten even at that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods in our improvements of farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last; and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them.

My mother sends you a small present of a cheese, 'tis but a very little one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier.

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country, when opportunity serves.

My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and the rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of,

Dear Sir,

Your affectionate Cousin,

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 143: This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my father's), when he was very young, lost his father, and having discovered in his father's repositories some of my father's letters, he requested that the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued till the last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother's letters to his cousin are introduced, for the purpose of exhibiting the poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his domestic family relations afterwards.—GILBERT BURNS.]

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IV.

TO MISS E.

[The name of the lady to whom this and the three succeeding letters were addressed, seems to have been known to Dr. Currie, who introduced them in his first edition, but excluded them from his second. They were restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming the lady.]

Lochlea, 1783.

I verily believe, my dear E., that the pure, genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my endeavors to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is centred in her pocket; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and as we may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner.

R. B.

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V.

TO MISS E.

Lochlea, 1783.

MY DEAR E.:

I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of life: I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person.

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are.

It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves: some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us; and I must own, dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been describing; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they describe; but sure I am the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her.

"O! happy state when souls each other draw, When love is liberty and nature law."[144]

I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous; but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you.

When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no apology—I know your good nature will excuse what your goody sense may see amiss.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 144: Pope. Eloisa to Abelard.]

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VI.

TO MISS E.

Lochlea, 1783.

I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, that though in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and fidelity, which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough to practise such detestable conduct: but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment and purity of manners—to such an one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak, or what to write, I am altogether at a loss.

There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent.