No More Learning

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

* * * * *




CCXX.

O STEER HER UP.

Tune--"_O steer her up, and haud her gaun. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXI.

O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.

Tune--"_My wife she dang me. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXII.

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

Tune--"_Lass o' Livistone. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXIII.

HERE IS THE GLEN.

Tune--"_Banks of Cree. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXXIV.

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

Tune--"_O'er the hills," &c. _

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXXV.

CA' THE YOWES.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

* * * * *




CCXXVI.

SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A'.

Tune--"_Onagh's Waterfall. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




CCXXVII.

SAW YE MY PHELY.

[QUASI DICAT PHILLIS. ]

Tune--"_When she came ben she bobbit. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




CCXXVIII.

HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.

Tune--"_Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




CCXXIX.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

Tune--"_Duncan Gray. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXX.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS.

Tune--"_Deil tak the Wars. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXI.

CHLORIS.

Air--"_My lodging is on the cold ground. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXII.

CHLOE.

Air--"_Daintie Davie. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXIII.

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

Tune--"_Rothemurche's Rant. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXIV.

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.

Air--"_Nancy's to the greenwood gane. _"

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


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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXV.

O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY.

Tune-"_The Sow's Tail. _"

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


HE.

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

SHE.

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

HE.

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

SHE.

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

HE.

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

SHE.

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

HE.

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

SHE.

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

HE.

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

SHE.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXVI.

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

Tune--"_Lumps o' Pudding. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXVII.

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.

Tune--"_Roy's Wife. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXVIII.

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

Tune--"_There'll never be peace. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXXXIX.

O WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME.

Tune--"_Morag. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXL.

CALEDONIA.

Tune--"_Caledonian Hunt's Delight. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

* * * * *




CCXLI.

O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS.

Tune--"_Cordwainer's March. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXLII.

THE FETE CHAMPETRE.

Tune--"_Killiecrankie. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

* * * * *




CCXLIII.

HERE'S A HEALTH.

Tune--"_Here's a health to them that's awa. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXLIV.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.

Tune--"_For a' that, and a' that. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.