No More Learning

]


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 140: Originally--

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

* * * * *




CXCVII.

THE RED, RED ROSE.

Air--"_Hughie Graham. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CXCVIII.

BONNIE JEAN.

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

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

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

XII.

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

* * * * *




CXCIX.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

Tune--"Robin Adair. "

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




CC.

HAD I A CAVE.

Tune--"Robin Adair. "

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCI.

BY ALLAN STREAM.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

* * * * *




[Illustration: "O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD". ]

CCII.

O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU.

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

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

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCIII.

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare:
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

* * * * *




CCIV.

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.

Air--"_Cauld Kail. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCV.

DAINTY DAVIE.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCVI.

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.

[FIRST VERSION. ]

Tune--"_Hey, tuttie taitie. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

* * * * *




CCVII.

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

[SECOND VERSION. ]

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

'Welcome to your gory bed:'

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

* * * * *




CCVIII.

BEHOLD THE HOUR.

Tune--"_Oran-gaoil. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCIX.

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER.

Tune--"_Fee him, father. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCX.

AULD LANG SYNE.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

* * * * *




CCXI.

FAIR JEANY.

Tune--"_Saw ye my father? _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

* * * * *




CCXII.

DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXIII.

NANCY.

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

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

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXIV.

HUSBAND, HUSBAND.

Tune--"_Jo Janet. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

* * * * *




CCXV.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE.

Air--"_The Sutor's Dochter. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXVI.

BUT LATELY SEEN.

Tune--"_The winter of life. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXVII.

TO MARY.

Tune--"_Could aught of song. _"

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

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

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


I.

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

II.

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

* * * * *




CCXVIII.

HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS.

Tune--"_Laggan Burn. _"

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


I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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