 |
II.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
III.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part— 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
IV.
The frank address, the soft caress, Are worse than poison'd darts of steel; The frank address and politesse Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
* * * * *
XXII.
YOUNG PEGGY.
Tune—"Last time I cam o'er the muir."
[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he had, according to his own account, wasted eights months of courtship. We hear no more of Montgomery's Peggy.]
I.
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning: Her eyes outshone the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
II.
Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them: Her smile is, as the evening mild, When feather'd tribes are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting.
III.
Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain, Her winning powers to lessen; And fretful envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten.
IV.
Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, From every ill defend her; Inspire the highly-favour'd youth, The destinies intend her: Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom, And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.
* * * * *
XXIII.
THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
Tune—"Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly."
[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcely an exception.]
I.
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business, contriving to snare— For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.
II.
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III.
Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
IV.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; For sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.
V.
I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;— But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI.
"Life's cares they are comforts,"[136]—a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care.
VII.
ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. The honours masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 136: Young's Night Thoughts.]
* * * * *
XXIV.
ELIZA.
Tune—"Gilderoy."
[My late excellent friend, John Galt, informed me that the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Barbour.]
I.
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel Fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans roaring wide Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee!
II.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more! The latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!
* * * * *
XXV.
THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE.
Tune—"Shawnboy."
["This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge." These interesting words are on the original, in the poet's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.]
I.
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion.
II.
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order; Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention Or withered envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.
* * * * *
XXVI.
MENIE.
Tune.—"Johnny's grey breeks."
[Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account: It first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.]
I.
Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.
II.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
III.
The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks.
IV.
The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I.
V.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill.
VI.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
VII.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree: Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.
* * * * *
XXVII.
THE FAREWELL
TO THE
BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,
TARBOLTON.
Tune—"Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'."
[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James's Lodge of Tarbolton, when his chest was on the way to Greenock: men are yet living who had the honour of hearing him—the concluding verse affected the whole lodge.]
I.
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy! Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
II.
Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'.
III.
May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious architect divine! That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
IV.
And you farewell! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear! Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a', One round—I ask it with a tear,— To him, the Bard that's far awa'.
* * * * *
XXVIII.
ON CESSNOCK BANKS.
Tune—"If he be a butcher neat and trim."
[There are many variations of this song, which was first printed by Cromek from the oral communication of a Glasgow Lady, on whose charms, the poet, in early life, composed it.]
I.
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lasses a' she far excels, An she has twa sparkling roguish een.
II.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
III.
She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IV.
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
V.
Her looks are like the vernal May, When evening Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray— An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VI.
Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VII.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene, And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VIII.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flow'ry scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IX.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murmuring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
X.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen— They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa, sparkling roguish een.
XI.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep; An' she has twa glancin' roguish een.
XII.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIII.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIV.
But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her roguish een.
* * * * *
XXIX.
MARY!
Tune—"Blue Bonnets."
[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song "A Prayer for Mary;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.]
I.
Powers celestial! whose protection Ever guards the virtuous fair, While in distant climes I wander, Let my Mary be your care: Let her form sae fair and faultless, Fair and faultless as your own, Let my Mary's kindred spirit Draw your choicest influence down.
II.
Make the gales you waft around her Soft and peaceful as her breast; Breathing in the breeze that fans her, Soothe her bosom into rest: Guardian angels! O protect her, When in distant lands I roam; To realms unknown while fate exiles me, Make her bosom still my home.
* * * * *
XXX.
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune—"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."
[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells her in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popular song. He chanced to meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander, perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of the muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time: it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber—as it deserves to be.]
I.
'Twas even—the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang, The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, All nature listening seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!
II.
With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
III.
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild; But woman, nature's darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
IV.
O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle.
V.
Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine: And thirst of gold might tempt the deep Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
* * * * *
XXXI.
THE GLOOMY NIGHT.
Tune—"Roslin Castle."
["I had taken," says Burns, "the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia—
'The gloomy night is gathering fast.'"]
I.
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
II.
The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, By early Winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave— I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
III.
'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
IV.
Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those— The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
* * * * *
XXXII.
O WHAR DID YE GET
Tune—"Bonnie Dundee."
[This is one of the first songs which Burns communicated to Johnson's Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly old and partly new: the second is wholly by his hand.]
I.
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock? O silly blind body, O dinna ye see? I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't! Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee; May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
II.
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me! But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
* * * * *
XXXIII.
THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.
Tune—"Maggy Lauder."
[Most of this song is by Burns: his fancy was fierce with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them ever ready at the call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.]
I.
I married with a scolding wife The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member. Long did I bear the heavy yoke, And many griefs attended; But to my comfort be it spoke, Now, now her life is ended.
II.
We liv'd full one-and-twenty years A man and wife together; At length from me her course she steer'd, And gone I know not whither: Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak, and do not flatter, Of all the woman in the world, I never could come at her.
III.
Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell, The deil would ne'er abide her. I rather think she is aloft, And imitating thunder; For why,—methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder.
* * * * *
XXXIV.
COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS.
Tune—"Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, a Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier version to the work of Thomson: this was written for the Museum of Johnson, where it was first published.]
CHORUS.
O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad: Tho' father and mither Should baith gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad.
Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs, And let naebody see, And come as ye were na Coming to me.
* * * * *
XXXV.
I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN.
Tune—"I'm o'er young to marry yet."
[The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, are old; the rest is by Burns, and was written for Johnson.]
I.
I am my mammy's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young—'twad be a sin To tak' me frae my mammy yet.
II.
Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an' I in ae bed, In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir.
III.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind, Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir; But, if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet.
* * * * *
XXXVI.
BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO.
Tune—"The birks of Aberfeldy."
[An old strain, called "The Birks of Abergeldie," was the forerunner of this sweet song: it was written, the poet says, standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours which he made to the north, in the year 1787.]
CHORUS.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy?
I.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.
II.
The little birdies blithely sing, While o'er their heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy.
III.
The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, The birks of Aberfeldy.
IV.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy.
V.
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy?
* * * * *
XXXVII.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
Tune—"M'Pherson's Rant."
[This vehement and daring song had its origin in an older and inferior strain, recording the feelings of a noted freebooter when brought to "justify his deeds on the gallows-tree" at Inverness.]
I.
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree.
II.
Oh, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again!
III.
Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword; And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word.
IV.
I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be.
V.
Now farewell light—thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree.
* * * * *
XXXVIII.
BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER.
Tune—"Galla Water."
[Burns found this song in the collection of Herd; added the first verse, made other but not material emendations, and published it in Johnson: in 1793 he wrote another version for Thomson.]
CHORUS.
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; O braw lads of Galla Water: I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
I.
Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie.
II.
O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, O'er yon moss amang the heather; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
III.
Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom, my dearie, The lassie lost a silken snood, That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; O braw lads of Galla-Water: I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
* * * * *
XXXIX.
STAY, MY CHARMER.
Tune-"An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."
[The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one of his northern tours: his Highland excursions coloured many of his lyric compositions.]
I.
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel, to deceive me! Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go? Cruel charmer, can you go?
II.
By my love so ill requited; By the faith you fondly plighted; By the pangs of lovers slighted; Do not, do not leave me so! Do not, do not leave me so!
* * * * *
XL.
THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY DWELLING.
Tune—"Strathallan's Lament."
[The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song commemorates, was William Drummond: he was slain at the carnage of Culloden. It was long believed that he escaped to France and died in exile.]
I.
Thickest night, surround my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!
II.
Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.
III.
In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens denied success.
IV.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wild world is all before us— But a world without a friend.
* * * * *
XLI.
MY HOGGIE.
Tune—"What will I do gin my Hoggie die?"
[Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of this Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Museum: the first line only is old.]
What will I do gin my Hoggie die? My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! My only beast, I had nae mae, And vow but I was vogie! The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, Me and my faithfu' doggie; We heard nought but the roaring linn, Amang the braes sae scroggie; But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa', The blitter frae the boggie, The tod reply'd upon the hill, I trembled for my Hoggie. When day did daw, and cocks did craw, The morning it was foggie; An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, And maist has kill'd my Hoggie.
* * * * *
XLII.
HER DADDIE FORBAD.
Tune—"Jumpin' John."
[This is one of the old songs which Ritson accuses Burns of amending for the Museum: little of it, however, is his, save a touch here and there—but they are Burns's touches.]
I.
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; Forbidden she wadna be: She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd Wad taste sae bitterlie. The lang lad they ca' jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie, The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie.
II.
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, And thretty gude shillin's and three; A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, The lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie, The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie.
* * * * *
XLIII
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
Tune—"Cold blows the wind."
["The chorus of this song," says the poet, in his notes on the Scottish Lyrics, "is old, the two stanzas are mine." The air is ancient, and was a favourite of Mary Stuart, the queen of William the Third.]
CHORUS.
Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
I.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
II.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn— I'm sure it's winter fairly. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
* * * * *
XLIV.
THE
YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.
Tune—"Morag."
[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is supposed by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probability by others, to be a Gordon, as the song was composed in consequence of the poet's visit to "bonnie Castle-Gordon," in September, 1787.]
I.
Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray. May Heaven be his warden: Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
II.
The trees now naked groaning, Shall Soon wi' leaves be hinging. The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blithely singing, And every flower be springing. Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day When by his mighty Warden My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
* * * * *
XLV.
HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER
Tune—"The Dusty Miller."
[The Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for the Museum by Burns: it is a happy specimen of his taste and skill in making the new look like the old.]
I.
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat; He will win a shilling, Or he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour, Dusty was the kiss That I got frae the miller.
II.
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty sack; Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck. Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller; I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller.
* * * * *
XLVI.
THERE WAS A LASS.
Tune—"Duncan Davison."
[There are several other versions of Duncan Davison, which it is more delicate to allude to than to quote: this one is in the Museum.]
I.
There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, And she held o'er the moors to spin; There was a lad that follow'd her, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win; For wi' the roke she wad him knock. And ay she shook the temper-pin.
II.
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eas'd-their shanks, And ay she set the wheel between: But Duncan swore a haly aith, That Meg should be a bride the morn, Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, And flang them a' out o'er the burn.
III.
We'll big a house,—a wee, wee house, And we will live like king and queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e'en. A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And ay be welcome back again.
* * * * *
XLVII.
THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MARY.
Tune.—"The Ruffian's Rant."
[Burns, it is believed, wrote this song during his first Highland tour, when he danced among the northern dames, to the tune of "Bab at the Bowster," till the morning sun rose and reproved them from the top of Ben Lomond.]
I.
In coming by the brig o' Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawin in the sky, We drank a health to bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
II.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown's a berry; And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, The rosy checks o' bonnie Mary.
III.
We lap and danced the lee lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay, For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
* * * * *
XLVIII.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
Tune.—"Bhannerach dhon na chri."
[These verses were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet's friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan.]
I.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.
II.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
* * * * *
XLIX.
WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY.
Tune—"Duncan Gray."
[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called a lad of grace: another version, and in a happier mood, was written for Thomson.]
I.
Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! When a' the lave gae to their play, Then I maun sit the lee lang day, And jog the cradle wi' my tae, And a' for the girdin o't!
II.
Bonnie was the Lammas moon— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Glowrin' a' the hills aboon— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! The girdin brak, the beast cam down, I tint my curch, and baith my shoon; Ah! Duncan, ye're an unco loon— Wae on the bad girdin o't!
III.
But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath— Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, The beast again can bear us baith, And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, And clout the bad girdin o't.
* * * * *
L.
THE PLOUGHMAN.
Tune—"Up wi' the ploughman."
[The old words, of which these in the Museum are an altered and amended version, are in the collection of Herd.]
I.
The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, His mind is ever true, jo, His garters knit below his knee, His bonnet it is blue, jo. Then up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman! Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.
II.
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, He's aften wat and weary; Cast off the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my dearie!
III.
I will wash my ploughman's hose, And I will dress his o'erlay; I will mak my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early.
IV.
I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston; The bonniest sight that e'er I saw Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.
V.
Snaw-white stockins on his legs, And siller buckles glancin'; A gude blue bonnet on his head— And O, but he was handsome!
VI.
Commend me to the barn-yard, And the corn-mou, man; I never gat my coggie fou, Till I met wi' the ploughman. Up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman! Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.
* * * * *
LI.
LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN.
Tune—"Hey tutti, taiti."
[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line of the Stuarts.]
I.
Landlady, count the lawin, The day is near the dawin; Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, And I'm but jolly fou, Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti— Wha's fou now?
II.
Cog an' ye were ay fou, Cog an' ye were ay fou, I wad sit and sing to you If ye were ay fou.
III.
Weel may ye a' be! Ill may we never see! God bless the king, And the companie! Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti— Wha's fou now?
* * * * *
LII.
RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.
Tune—"Macgregor of Rura's Lament."
["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796."]
I.
Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring— "Farewell hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
II.
"O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, Gladly how would I resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee!"
* * * * *
LIII.
HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
To a Gaelic air.
[Composed for the Museum: the air of this affecting strain is true Highland: Burns, though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.]
I.
How long and dreary is the night When I am frae my dearie! I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.
II.
When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie, And now what lands between us lie, How can I but be eerie! And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!
III.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.
* * * * *
LIV.
MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
Tune—"Druimion dubh."
[The air of this song is from the Highlands: the verses were written in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. M'Lauchlan, whose husband was an officer serving in the East Indies.]
I.
Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me; Wearying heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be.
II.
Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far awa.
III.
Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear.
IV.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me; Downy sleep, the curtain draw; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far awa!
* * * * *
LV.
BLITHE WAS SHE.
Tune—"Andro and his cutty gun."
[The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose was justly called the "Flower of Strathmore:" she is now widow of Lord Methven, one of the Scottish judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was written at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.]
CHORUS.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe was she but and ben: Blithe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen.
I.
By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes of Yarrow ever saw.
II.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn; She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn.
III.
Her bonnie face it was as meek As any lamb upon a lea; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet, As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
IV.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe was she but and ben: Blithe by the banks of Ern. And blithe in Glenturit glen.
* * * * *
LVI.
THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW.
Tune—"To daunton me."
[The Jacobite strain of "To daunton me," must have been in the mind of the poet when he wrote this pithy lyric for the Museum.]
I.
The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me so young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue. That is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
II.
For a' his meal and a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef and his saut, For a' his gold and white monie, An auld man shall never daunton me.
III.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes, His gear may buy him glens and knowes; But me he shall not buy nor fee, For an auld man shall never daunton me.
IV.
He hirples twa fauld as he dow, Wi' his teethless gab and Ma auld beld pow, And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee— That auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, That is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
* * * * *
LVII.
COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE.
Tune—"O'er the water to Charlie."
[The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the third, are by Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the same subject, and to the same air, were in other days current in Scotland.]
I.
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, To boat me o'er to Charlie. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie.
II.
I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, Tho' some there be abhor him: But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie's faes before him!
III.
I swear and vow by moon and stars, And sun that shines so early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I'd die as aft for Charlie. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie!
* * * * *
LVIII.
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
Tune—"The Rose-bud."
[The "Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was Miss Jean Cruikshank, afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter of William Cruikshank, of St. James's Square, one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh: she is also the subject of a poem equally sweet.]
I.
A rose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning.
II.
Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, Awake the early morning.
III.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning.
* * * * *
LIX.
RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.
Tune—"Rattlin', roarin' Willie."
["The hero of this chant," says Burns "was one of the worthiest fellows in the world—William Dunbar, Esq., Write to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps—a club of wits, who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments."]
I.
O rattlin', roarin' Willie, O, he held to the fair, An' for to sell his fiddle, An' buy some other ware; But parting wi' his fiddle, The saut tear blint his ee; And rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me!
II.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine; O Willie, come sell your fiddle, And buy a pint o' wine! If I should sell my fiddle, The warl' would think I was mad; For mony a rantin' day My fiddle and I hae had.
III.
As I cam by Crochallan, I cannily keekit ben— Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin' at yon board en'; Sitting at yon board en', And amang good companie; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me I
* * * * *
LX.
BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.
Tune—"Neil Gow's Lamentations for Abercairny."
["This song," says the poet, "I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." She now lives at Pau, in the south of France.]
I.
Where, braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochels rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes; As one who by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, With art's most polish'd blaze.
II.
Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, When first I felt their power! The tyrant Death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death.
* * * * *
LXI.
TIBBIE DUNBAR.
Tune—"Johnny M'Gill."
[We owe the air of this song to one Johnny M'Gill, a fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it: and the song itself partly to Burns and partly to some unknown minstrel. They are both in the Museum.]
I.
O, Wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? O, wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? Wilt thou ride on a horse, Or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, O, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
II.
I care na thy daddie, His lands and his money, I care na thy kindred, Sae high and sae lordly: But say thou wilt hae me For better for waur— And come in thy coatie, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
* * * * *
LXII.
STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN ORIENT PLAINS.
Tune—"Morag."
[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle: he was hurried away, much against his will, by his moody and obstinate friend William Nicol.]
I.
Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle-Gordon.
II.
Spicy forests, ever gay, Shading from the burning ray, Hapless wretches sold to toil, Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle-Gordon.
III.
Wildly here without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood; Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle-Gordon.
* * * * *
LXIII.
MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.
Tune—"Highland's Lament."
["The chorus," says Burns, "I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane: the rest of the song is mine." He composed it for Johnson: the tone is Jacobitical.]
I.
My Harry was a gallant gay, Fu' stately strode he on the plain: But now he's banish'd far away, I'll never see him back again, O for him back again! O for him back again! I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again.
II.
When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen; I set me down and greet my fill, And ay I wish him back again.
III.
O were some villains hangit high. And ilka body had their ain! Then I might see the joyfu' sight, My Highland Harry back again. O for him back again! O for him back again! I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again.
* * * * *
LXIV.
THE TAILOR.
Tune—"The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'."
[The second and fourth verses are by Burns, the rest is very old, the air is also very old, and is played at trade festivals and processions by the Corporation of Tailors.]
I.
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'; The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma', The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'.
II.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill; The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
III.
Gie me the groat again, canny young man; Gie me the groat again, canny young man; The day it is short, and the night it is lang, The dearest siller that ever I wan!
IV.
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's some that are dowie, I trow would be fain To see the bit tailor come skippin' again.
* * * * *
LXV.
SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME.
Tune—"Ay waukin o'."
[Tytler and Ritson unite in considering the air of these words as one of our most ancient melodies. The first verse of the song is from the hand of Burns; the rest had the benefit of his emendations: it is to be found in the Museum.]
I.
Simmer's a pleasant time, Flow'rs of ev'ry colour; The water rins o'er the heugh, And I long for my true lover. Ay waukin O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
II.
When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I'm eerie; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
III.
Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleeping; I think on my bonnie lad And I bleer my een with greetin'. Ay waukin O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
* * * * *
LXVI.
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.
Tune—"Ye gallants bright."
[Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, daughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strathallan's Lament: she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and resides in London.]
I.
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, Beware o' bonnie Ann; Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night, Her skin is like the swan; Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span.
II.
Youth, grace, and love attendant move, And pleasure leads the van: In a' their charms, and conquering arms, They wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands, But love enclaves the man; Ye Gallants braw, I red you a', Beware of bonnie Ann!
* * * * *
LXVII.
WHEN ROSY MAY.
Tune—"The gardener wi' his paidle."
[The air of this song is played annually at the precession of the Gardeners: the title only is old; the rest is the work of Burns. Every trade had, in other days, an air of its own, and songs to correspond; but toil and sweat came in harder measures, and drove melodies out of working-men's heads.]
I.
When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours— The gard'ner wi' his paidle The crystal waters gently fa'; The merry birds are lovers a'; The scented breezes round him blaw— The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
II.
When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews he maun repair— The gard'ner wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest, He flies to her arms he lo'es best— The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
* * * * *
LXVIII.
BLOOMING NELLY.
Tune—"On a bank of flowers."
[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's collection seems to have been in the mind of Burns when he wrote this: the words and air are in the Museum.]
I.
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued, He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, And trembled where he stood.
II.
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd, Were seal'd in soft repose; Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd, It richer dy'd the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest, Wild—wanton, kiss'd her rival breast; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd— His bosom ill at rest.
III.
Her robes light waving in the breeze Her tender limbs embrace; Her lovely form, her native ease, All harmony and grace: Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, And sigh'd his very soul.
IV.
As flies the partridge from the brake, On fear-inspired wings, So Nelly, starting, half awake, Away affrighted springs: But Willie follow'd, as he should, He overtook her in a wood; He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid Forgiving all and good.
* * * * *
LXIX.
THE DAY RETURNS.
Tune—"Seventh of November."
[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse, and these verses were composed in compliment to the day.]
I.
The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine!
II.
While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give, While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone I live. When that grim foe of life below, Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.
* * * * *
LXX.
MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET.
Tune—"Lady Bandinscoth's Reel."
[These verses had their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and less delicate: some of the old lines keep their place: the title is old. Both words and all are in the Musical Museum.]
I.
My love she's but a lassie yet, My love she's but a lassie yet, We'll let her stand a year or twa, Shell no be half so saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, O; I rue the day I sought her, O; Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O!
II.
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, But here I never miss'd it yet. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinkin' o't.
* * * * *
LXXI.
JAMIE, COME TRY ME.
Tune—"Jamy, come try me."
[Burns in these verses caught up the starting note of an old song, of which little more than the starting words deserve to be remembered: the word and air are in the Musical Museum.]
CHORUS.
Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
I.
If thou should ask my love, Could I deny thee? If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
II.
If thou should kiss me, love, Wha could espy thee? If thou wad be my love, Jamie, come try me. Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
* * * * *
LXXII.
MY BONNIE MARY.
Tune—"Go fetch to me a pint o' wine."
[Concerning this fine song, Burns in his notes says, "This air is Oswald's: the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine." It is believed, however, that the whole of the song is from his hand: in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, the starting lines are supplied from an olden strain: but some of the old strains in that work are to be regarded with suspicion.]
I.
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
II.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar— It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
THE LAZY MIST.
Tune—"The lazy mist."
[All that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is, "This song is mine." The air, which is by Oswald, together with the words, is in the Musical Museum.]
I.
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear! As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!
II.
How long have I liv'd, but how much liv'd in vain! How little of life's scanty span may remain! What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn! What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn! How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! Life is not worth having with all it can give— For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.
Tune—"O mount and go."
[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, with the same title: it was communicated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum.]
CHORUS.
O mount and go, Mount and make you ready; O mount and go, And be the Captain's Lady.
I.
When the drums do beat, And the cannons rattle, Thou shall sit in state, And see thy love in battle.
II.
When the vanquish'd foe Sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we'll go, And in love enjoy it. O mount and go, Mount and make you ready; O mount and go, And be the Captain's Lady.
* * * * *
LXXV.
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW
Tune—"Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
[Bums wrote this charming song in honour of Joan Armour: he archly says in his notes, "P.S. it was during the honeymoon." Other versions are abroad; this one is from the manuscripts of the poet.]
I.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.
II.
I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.
III.
O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Among the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.
IV.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa! The powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!
* * * * *
LXXVI.
FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE.
Tune—"Whistle o'er the lave o't."
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.]
I.
First when Maggy was my care, Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married—spier nae mair— Whistle o'er the lave o't.— Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's child; Wiser men than me's beguil'd— Whistle o'er the lave o't.
II.
How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see; Whistle o'er the lave o't.— Wha I wish were maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write—but Meg maun see't— Whistle o'er the lave o't.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.
Tune—"My love is lost to me."
[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of Oswald's.]
I.
O, were I on Parnassus' hill! Or had of Helicon my fill; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my Muse's well; My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel': On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, And write how dear I love thee.
II.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een— By heaven and earth I love thee!
III.
By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; And aye I muse and sing thy name— I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run; Till then—and then I love thee.
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
To a Gaelic Air.
["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.]
I.
There's a youth in this city, It were a great pity That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa: For he's bonnie an' braw, Weel-favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. His coat is the hue Of his bonnet sae blue; His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, And his shoon like the slae. And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.
II.
For beauty and fortune The laddie's been courtin'; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw; But chiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. There's Meg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen him; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy Maist fetters his fancy— But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.
* * * * *
LXXIX.
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
Tune—"Failte na Miosg."
[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, "The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.]
I.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
II.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
* * * * *
LXXX.
JOHN ANDERSON.
Tune—"John Anderson, my jo."
[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo."]
I.
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
II.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
* * * * *
LXXXI.
OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.
Tune—"Awa Whigs, awa."
[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly his.]
CHORUS.
Awa Whigs, awa! Awa Whigs, awa! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae good at a'.
I
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom'd our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies.
II.
Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust— Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; And write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
III.
Our sad decay in Church and State Surpasses my descriving: The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we hae done wi' thriving.
IV.
Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, But we may see him wauken; Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin. Awa Whigs, awa! Awa Whigs, awa! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae gude at a'.
* * * * *
LXXXII.
CA' THE EWES.
Tune—"Ca' the ewes to the knowes."
[Most of this sweet pastoral is of other days: Burns made several emendations, and added the concluding verse. He afterwards, it will be observed, wrote for Thomson a second version of the subject and the air.]
CHORUS
Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie!
I.
As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie.
II.
Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide, Beneath the hazels spreading wide? The moon it shines fu' clearly.
III.
I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me.
IV.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie.
V.
If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may rowe me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie.
VI.
While waters wimple to the sea; While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 'Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e, Ye sall be my dearie. Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.
* * * * *
LXXXIII.
MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE.
Tune—"Lord Breadalbone's March."
[Part of this song is old: Sir Harris Nicolas says it does not appear to be in the Museum: let him look again.]
I.
O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.
II.
Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, O' marrying Bess to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! And blest be the day I did it again.
* * * * *
LXXXIV.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune—"The Braes o' Ballochmyle."
[Mary Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, was the heroine of this song: it was written when that ancient family left their ancient inheritance. It is in the Museum, with an air by Allan Masterton.]
I.
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!
II.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll nourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
* * * * *
LXXXV.
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Tune—"Death of Captain Cook."
[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with his eyes fixed on "a bright, particular star," was found by his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared in the Museum.]
I.
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
II.
That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
III.
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn, hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptured scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray— Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
IV.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
* * * * *
LXXXVI.
EPPIE ADAIR.
Tune—"My Eppie."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an old strain, corrected by Burns: he communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair? By love, and by beauty, By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair!
II.
An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair? A' pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee, My Eppie Adair!
* * * * *
LXXXVII.
THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.
Tune—"Cameronian Rant."
[One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the battle of Sheriff-muir: Burns was in nowise pleased with the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved version.]
I.
"O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?" I saw the battle, sair and tough, And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
II.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles: They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, 'Till fey men died awa, man.
III.
But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man.
IV.
"O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man!"
V.
My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good-will That day their neebors' blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose—they scar'd at blows. And so it goes, you see, man.
VI.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man! I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; And mony bade the world guid-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell, And Whigs to hell did flee, man.
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
YOUNG JOCKEY.
Tune—"Young Jockey."
[With the exception of three or four lines, this song, though marked in the Museum as an old song with additions, is the work of Burns. He often seems to have sat down to amend or modify old verses, and found it easier to make verses wholly new.]
I.
Young Jockey was the blythest lad In a' our town or here awa: Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, He roos'd my waist sae genty sma', And ay my heart came to my mou' When ne'er a body heard or saw.
II.
My Jockey toils upon the plain, Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. An' ay the night comes round again, When in his arms he takes me a', An' ay he vows he'll be my ain, As lang's he has a breath to draw.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
O WILLIE BREW'D.
Tune—"Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."
[The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a small estate which Nicol bought by the advice of the poet. It was composed in memory of the house-heating. "We had such a joyous meeting," says Burns, "that Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, to celebrate the business." The Willie who made the browst was, therefore, William Nicol; the Allan who composed the air, Allan Masterton; and he who wrote this choicest of convivial songs, Robert Burns.]
I.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan came to see: Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
II.
Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!
III.
It is the moon—I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
IV.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three! We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
* * * * *
XC.
WHARE HAE YE BEEN.
Tune—"Killiecrankie."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Museum without Burns's name." It was composed by Burns on the battle of Killiecrankie, and sent in his own handwriting to Johnson; he puts it in the mouth of a Whig.]
I.
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O? O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O? An' ye had been whare I hae been, Ye wad na been so cantie, O; An' ye had seen what I hae seen, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
II.
I fought at land, I fought at sea; At hame I fought my auntie, O; But I met the Devil an' Dundee, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, An' Clavers got a clankie, O; Or I had fed on Athole gled, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
* * * * *
XCI.
I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN.
Air—"The blue-eyed lass."
[This blue-eyed lass was Jean Jeffry, daughter to the minister of Lochmaben: she was then a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York.]
I.
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearlie rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white— It was her een sae bonnie blue.
II.
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd; She charm'd my soul—I wist na how: And ay the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed; She'll aiblins listen to my vow: Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue.
* * * * *
XCII.
THE BANKS OF NITH.
Tune—"Robie donna Gorach."
[The command which the Comyns held on the Nith was lost to the Douglasses: the Nithsdale power, on the downfall of that proud name, was divided; part went to the Charteris's and the better portion to the Maxwells: the Johnstones afterwards came in for a share, and now the Scots prevail.]
I.
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, Where Comyns ance had high command: When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here?
II.
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!
* * * * *
XCIII.
MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE.
Tune—"Tam Glen."
[Tam Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and older air: of the former all that remains is a portion of the chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museum.]
I.
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie! Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
II.
I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might make a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen?
III.
There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, "Gude day to you, brute!" he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
IV.
My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think so o' Tam Glen?
V.
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
VI.
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written—Tam Glen.
VII.
The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
VIII.
Come counsel, dear Tittie! don't tarry— I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad that I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
* * * * *
XCIV.
FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.
Air—"Carron Side."
[Burns says, "I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is." The rest of the song is supposed to be from the same hand: the lines are not to be found in earlier collections.]
I.
Frae the friends and land I love, Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never mair to taste delight; Never mair maun hope to find, Ease frae toil, relief frae care: When remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair.
II.
Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, Bring our banish'd hame again; And ilka loyal bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his ain.
* * * * *
XCV.
SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING.
Tune—"Craigie-burn-wood."
[This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time lived on the banks of the Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with her: but it did not prevail, for she married an officer of the name of Whelpdale, lived with him for a month or so: reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation necessary; she then took up her residence in Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing the poet. She lived till lately.]
CHORUS.
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to be lying beyond thee; O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
I.
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, And blithely awaukens the morrow; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
II.
I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing; But pleasure they hae nane for me, While care my heart is wringing.
III.
I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.
IV.
I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie; But oh! what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy Johnnie!
V.
To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
VI.
But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me; And a' my days o' life to come I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to be lying beyond thee; O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
* * * * *
XCVI.
COCK UP YOUR BEAVER.
Tune—"Cock up your beaver."
["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Musical Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, eked out and amended by the poet: all the last verse, save the last line, is his; several of the lines too of the first verse, have felt his amending hand: he communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town, He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather,— Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver!
II.
Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu' sprush, We'll over the border And gie them a brush; There's somebody there We'll teach better behaviour— Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver!
* * * * *
XCVII.
MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE.
Tune—"My tocher's the jewel."
[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, to an air by Oswald: but he wished them to be sung to a tune called "Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he was an admirer.]
I.
O Meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae lure to spare for me.
II.
Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
GANE IS THE DAY.
Tune—"Gudewife count the lawin."
[The air as well as words of this song were furnished to the Museum by Burns. "The chorus," he says, "is part of an old song."]
I.
Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And blude-red wine's the rising sun. Then gudewife count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin; Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair!
II.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fight and fen; But here we're a' in ae accord, For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
III.
My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' care and dool; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. Then gudewife count the lawin; The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair!
* * * * *
XCIX.
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.
Tune—"There art few gude fellows when Willie's awa."
[The bard was in one of his Jacobitical moods when he wrote this song. The air is a well known one, called "There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa." But of the words none, it is supposed, are preserved.]
I.
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; And as he was singing the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars: We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
II.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
* * * * *
C.
HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD?
Tune—"The bonnie lad that's far awa."
[This lamentation was written, it is said, in allusion to the sufferings of Jean Armour, when her correspondence with Burns was discovered by her family.]
I.
O how can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa? When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa.
II.
It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa.
III.
My father pat me frae his door, My friends they line disown'd me a', But I hae ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. But I hae ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa.
IV.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa.
V.
O weary Winter soon will pass, And spring will cleed the birken shaw; And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa. And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa.
* * * * *
CI.
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.
Tune—"I do confess thou art sae fair."
["I do think," says Burns, in allusion to this song, "that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments by giving them a Scottish dress." The original song is of great elegance and beauty: it was written by Sir Robert Aytoun, secretary to Anne of Denmark, Queen of James I.]
I.
I do confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in love, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind, That kisses ilka thing it meets.
II.
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue When pou'd and worn a common toy! Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like ony common weed and vile.
* * * * *
CII.
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
Tune—"Yon wild mossy mountains."
["This song alludes to a part of my private history, which is of no consequence to the world to know." These are the words of Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is supposed to be the "Nannie," who dwelt near the Lugar.]
I.
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
II.
Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
III.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.
IV.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; O' nice education but sma' is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
V.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts.
VI.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me: And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms! And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
* * * * *
CIII.
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.
Tune—"The Maid's Complaint."
[Burns found this song in English attire, bestowed a Scottish dress upon it, and published it in the Museum, together with the air by Oswald, which is one of his best.]
I.
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awake desire. Something in ilka part o' thee, To praise, to love, I find; But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.
II.
Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna mak thee sae, at least to see thee blest. Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness to thee: And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die.
* * * * *
CIV.
WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS.
[These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns into a song, for the collection of Thomson: the song will be found in its place: the variations are worthy of preservation.]
I.
When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!
II.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.
* * * * *
CV.
WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM.
[This presents another version of song LXV. Variations are to a poet what changes are in the thoughts of a painter, and speak of fertility of sentiment in both.]
I.
Whan I sleep I dream, Whan I wauk I'm eerie, Sleep I canna get, For thinkin' o' my dearie.
II.
Lanely night comes on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on the bonnie lad That has my heart a keeping. Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie, Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my dearie.
III.
Lanely nights come on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on my bonnie lad, An' I blear my een wi' greetin'! Ay waukin, &c.
* * * * *
CVI.
I MURDER HATE.
[These verses are to be found in a volume which may be alluded to without being named, in which many of Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be found.]
I.
I murder hate by field or flood, Tho' glory's name may screen us: In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus.
II.
The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty, I'm better pleas'd to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.
* * * * *
CVII.
O GUDE ALE COMES.
[These verses are in the museum; the first two are old, the concluding one is by Burns.]
I.
O gude ale comes, and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.
II.
I had sax owsen in a pleugh, They drew a' weel eneugh, I sell'd them a' just ane by ane; Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.
III.
Gude ale hands me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand i' the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. O gude ale comes, &c.
* * * * *
CVIII.
ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.
[This is an old chaunt, out of which Burns brushed some loose expressions, added the third and fourth verses, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him, Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him.
II.
I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden, At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Robin.
III.
Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, And me the eller's dochter? Robin share in hairst, &c.
IV.
Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle; Fient haet he had but three Goose feathers and a whittle. Robin share in hairst, &c.
* * * * *
CIX.
BONNIE PEG.
[A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to the endearments of these lovers; but that planet sees more indiscreet matters than it is right to describe.]
I.
As I came in by our gate end, As day was waxin' weary, O wha came tripping down the street, But Bonnie Peg my dearie!
II.
Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting; The Queen of Love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting.
III.
Wi' linked hands, we took the sands A-down yon winding river; And, oh! that hour and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever?
* * * * *
CX.
GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER.
[This song in other days was a controversial one, and continued some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome and her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were illegitimate. Burns changed the meaning, and published his altered version in the Museum.]
I.
Gudeen to you, Kimmer, And how do ye do? Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, The better that I'm fou. We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, We're a' noddin, at our house at hame.
II.
Kate sits i' the neuk, Suppin hen broo; Deil tak Kate An' she be na noddin too! We're a' noddin, &c.
III.
How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye fare? A pint o' the best o't, And twa pints mair. We're a' noddin, &c.
IV.
How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye thrive; How many bairns hae ye? Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. We're a' noddin, &c.
V.
Are they a' Johnie's? Eh! atweel no: Twa o' them were gotten When Johnie was awa. We're a noddin, &c.
VI.
Cats like milk, And dogs like broo; Lads like lasses weel, And lasses lads too. We're a' noddin, &c.
* * * * *
CXI.
AH, CHLORIS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE.
Tune—"Major Graham."
[Sir Harris Nicolas found these lines on Chloris among the papers of Burns, and printed them in his late edition of the poet's works.]
I.
Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear.
II.
Altho' I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne'er declare, I'll say, I wish thee well.
III.
Tho' a' my daily care thou art, And a' my nightly dream, I'll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem.
* * * * *
CXII.
O SAW YE MY DEARIE.
Tune—"Eppie Macnab."
["Published in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "without any name." Burns corrected some lines in the old song, which had more wit, he said, than decency, and added others, and sent his amended version to Johnson.]
I.
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.
II.
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab.
* * * * *
CXIII.
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR.
Tune—"Lass an I come near thee."
[The "Auld man and the Widow," in Ramsay's collection is said, by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested this song to his brother: it first appeared in the Museum.]
I.
Wha is that at my bower door? O, wha is it but Findlay? Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!— Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay; Before the morn ye'll work mischief; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
II.
Gif I rise and let you in? Let me in, quo' Findlay; Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if you should stay? Let me stay, quo' Findlay; I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
III.
Here this night if ye remain;— I'll remain, quo' Findlay; I dread ye'll learn the gate again; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. What may pass within this bower,— Let it pass, quo' Findlay; Ye maun conceal till your last hour; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay!
* * * * *
CXIV.
WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE.
Tune—"What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man."
[In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the heroine threatens only to adorn her husband's brows: Burns proposes a system of domestic annoyance to break his heart.]
I.
What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'! Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!
II.
He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang; He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man! He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!
III.
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can; He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man! He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!
IV.
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
* * * * *
CXV.
THE BONNIE WEE THING.
Tune—"Bonnie wee thing."
["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies."]
I.
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.
II.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine!
* * * * *
CXVI.
THE TITHER MOON.
To a Highland Air.
["The tune of this song," says Burns, "is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which was not by any means a lady's song." "It occurs," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Museum, without the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's own handwriting to Johnson, and is believed to be his composition.]
I.
The tither morn, When I forlorn, Aneath an oak sat moaning, I did na trow I'd see my Jo, Beside me, gain the gloaming. But he sae trig, Lap o'er the rig. And dawtingly did cheer me, When I, what reck, Did least expec', To see my lad so near me.
II.
His bonnet he, A thought ajee, Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; And I, I wat, Wi' fainness grat, While in his grips be press'd me. Deil tak' the war! I late and air Hae wish'd since Jock departed; But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, As short syne broken-hearted.
III.
Fu' aft at e'en Wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry, I car'd na by, Sae sad was I In absence o' my dearie. But praise be blest, My mind's at rest, I'm happy wi' my Johnny: At kirk and fair, I'se ay be there, And be as canty's ony.
* * * * *
CXVII.
AE FOND KISS.
Tune—"Rory Dall's Port."
[Believed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. "These exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, "contain the essence of a thousand love-tales." They are in the Museum.]
I.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.
II.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her, was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever.— Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken hearted.
III.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! |
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