By him who made yon sun and sky--
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
Robert Burns-
]
I.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
II.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary!
III.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early! --
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
IV.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly--
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!
* * * * *
CLXXXIII.
AULD ROB MORRIS.
[The starting lines of this song are from one of no little merit in
Ramsey's collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is
tender: it was written for Thomson. ]
I.
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
II.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
III.
But oh! she's an heiress,--auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
IV.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
V.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
* * * * *
CLXXXIV.
DUNCAN GRAY.
[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common with the wild old
song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the third,
neither has it any share in the sentiments of an earlier strain, with
the same title, by the same hand. It was written for the work of
Thomson. ]
I.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
II.
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
III.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to--France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
IV.
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg grew sick--as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings:
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
V.
Duncan was a lad o' grace.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
* * * * *
CLXXXV.
O POORTITH CAULD.
Tune--"_I had a horse. _"
[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the "Lassie with the lint-white locks"
of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at that
time very young; her shape was fine, and her "dimpled cheek and cherry
mou" will be long remembered in Nithsdale. ]
I.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' twere na' for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?
II.
This warld's wealth when I think on,
It's pride, and a' the lave o't--
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't!
III.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
IV.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
V.
How blest the humble cotter's fate! [138]
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 138: "The wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the original MS. ]
* * * * *
CLXXXVI.
GALLA WATER.
["Galla Water" is an improved version of an earlier song by Burns: but
both songs owe some of their attractions to an older strain, which the
exquisite air has made popular over the world. It was written for
Thomson. ]
I.
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o' Galla Water.
II.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better;
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water.
III.
Altho' his daddie was nae laird,
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.
IV.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!
* * * * *
CLXXXVII.
LORD GREGORY.
[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in
imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained,
with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his
composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, but they are
both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, "Fair Annie of
Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it
far surpasses both their songs. ]
I.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!
II.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
III.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwin-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?
IV.
How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
V.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast--
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
VI.
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!
* * * * *
CLXXXVIII.
MARY MORISON.
Tune--"_Bide ye yet. _"
["The song prefixed," observes Burns to Thomson, "is one of my
juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very
remarkable either for its merits or its demerits. " "Of all the
productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious
love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old
ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting
hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison. " The song is
supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at
Mauchline. ]
I.
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
II.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison. "
III.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
* * * * *
CLXXXIX.
WANDERING WILLIE.
[FIRST VERSION. ]
[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same name published
by Herd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs.
Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true
critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it.
Burns approved of their alterations; but he approved, no doubt, in
bitterness of spirit. ]
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
II.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.
* * * * *
CXC.
WANDERING WILLIE.
[LAST VERSION. ]
[This is the "Wandering Willie" as altered by Erskine and Thomson, and
approved by Burns, after rejecting several of their emendations. The
changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with
the music--an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice. ]
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
II.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e;
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.
* * * * *
CXCI.
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!
[Written for Thomson's collection: the first version which he wrote
was not happy in its harmony: Burns altered and corrected it as it now
stands, and then said, "I do not know if this song be really mended. "]
I.
Oh, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh! [139]
Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!
II.
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!
III.
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!
IV.
She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, Oh!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 139: This second line was originally--"If love it may na be,
Oh! "]
* * * * *
CXCII.
JESSIE.
Tune--"_Bonnie Dundee. _"
[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost of Dumfries, was
the heroine of this song. She became a wife and a mother, but died
early in life: she is still affectionately remembered in her native
place. ]
I.
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
II.
O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger--
Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'!
* * * * *
CXCIII.
THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.
Air--"_The Mill, Mill, O. _"
[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popular, on hearing
a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale: it
was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, which
were properly rejected. ]
I.
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.
II.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
III.
At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
IV.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy, may he be
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wud be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang--
Take pity on a sodger.
V.
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was then ever;
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,
That gallant badge--the dear cockade--
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.
VI.
She gaz'd--she redden'd like a rose--
Syne pale like onie lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky--
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
VII.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!
VIII.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour;
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.
* * * * *
CXCIV.
MEG O' THE MILL.
Air--"_Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack? _"
["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1973, "called
'Jackie Hume's Lament? ' I have a song of considerable merit to that
air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send
to the Museum. " It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too
well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old
song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and
published it in the Museum. ]
I.
O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.
II.
The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.
III.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.
IV.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen'
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!
* * * * *
CXCV.
BLYTHE HAE I BEEN.
Tune--"_Liggeram Cosh. _"
[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for
whose work he wrote it, that "Blythe hae I been on yon hill," was one
of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one
of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley
Baillie. ]
I.
Blythe hae I been on yon hill
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free
As the breeze flew o'er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
II.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "LOGAN BRAES. "]
CXCVI.
LOGAN WATER.
["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793,
"felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those
mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or
often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day
I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all
like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in
three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to
have some merit. " The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit,
the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a
Nithsdale poet. ]
I.
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride!
And years synsyne hae o'er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!
II.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
III.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile:
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
IV.
O wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? [140]
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 140: Originally--
"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys,
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries. "]
* * * * *
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.
I.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
II.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary!
III.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early! --
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
IV.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly--
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!
* * * * *
CLXXXIII.
AULD ROB MORRIS.
[The starting lines of this song are from one of no little merit in
Ramsey's collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is
tender: it was written for Thomson. ]
I.
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
II.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
III.
But oh! she's an heiress,--auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
IV.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
V.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
* * * * *
CLXXXIV.
DUNCAN GRAY.
[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common with the wild old
song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the third,
neither has it any share in the sentiments of an earlier strain, with
the same title, by the same hand. It was written for the work of
Thomson. ]
I.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
II.
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
III.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to--France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
IV.
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg grew sick--as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings:
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
V.
Duncan was a lad o' grace.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
* * * * *
CLXXXV.
O POORTITH CAULD.
Tune--"_I had a horse. _"
[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the "Lassie with the lint-white locks"
of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at that
time very young; her shape was fine, and her "dimpled cheek and cherry
mou" will be long remembered in Nithsdale. ]
I.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' twere na' for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?
II.
This warld's wealth when I think on,
It's pride, and a' the lave o't--
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't!
III.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
IV.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
V.
How blest the humble cotter's fate! [138]
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 138: "The wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the original MS. ]
* * * * *
CLXXXVI.
GALLA WATER.
["Galla Water" is an improved version of an earlier song by Burns: but
both songs owe some of their attractions to an older strain, which the
exquisite air has made popular over the world. It was written for
Thomson. ]
I.
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o' Galla Water.
II.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better;
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water.
III.
Altho' his daddie was nae laird,
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.
IV.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!
* * * * *
CLXXXVII.
LORD GREGORY.
[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in
imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained,
with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his
composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, but they are
both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, "Fair Annie of
Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it
far surpasses both their songs. ]
I.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!
II.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
III.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwin-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?
IV.
How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
V.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast--
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
VI.
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!
* * * * *
CLXXXVIII.
MARY MORISON.
Tune--"_Bide ye yet. _"
["The song prefixed," observes Burns to Thomson, "is one of my
juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very
remarkable either for its merits or its demerits. " "Of all the
productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious
love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old
ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting
hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison. " The song is
supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at
Mauchline. ]
I.
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
II.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison. "
III.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
* * * * *
CLXXXIX.
WANDERING WILLIE.
[FIRST VERSION. ]
[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same name published
by Herd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs.
Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true
critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it.
Burns approved of their alterations; but he approved, no doubt, in
bitterness of spirit. ]
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
II.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.
* * * * *
CXC.
WANDERING WILLIE.
[LAST VERSION. ]
[This is the "Wandering Willie" as altered by Erskine and Thomson, and
approved by Burns, after rejecting several of their emendations. The
changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with
the music--an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice. ]
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
II.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e;
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.
* * * * *
CXCI.
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!
[Written for Thomson's collection: the first version which he wrote
was not happy in its harmony: Burns altered and corrected it as it now
stands, and then said, "I do not know if this song be really mended. "]
I.
Oh, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh! [139]
Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!
II.
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!
III.
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!
IV.
She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, Oh!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 139: This second line was originally--"If love it may na be,
Oh! "]
* * * * *
CXCII.
JESSIE.
Tune--"_Bonnie Dundee. _"
[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost of Dumfries, was
the heroine of this song. She became a wife and a mother, but died
early in life: she is still affectionately remembered in her native
place. ]
I.
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
II.
O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger--
Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'!
* * * * *
CXCIII.
THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.
Air--"_The Mill, Mill, O. _"
[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popular, on hearing
a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale: it
was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, which
were properly rejected. ]
I.
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.
II.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
III.
At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
IV.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy, may he be
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wud be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang--
Take pity on a sodger.
V.
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was then ever;
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,
That gallant badge--the dear cockade--
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.
VI.
She gaz'd--she redden'd like a rose--
Syne pale like onie lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky--
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
VII.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!
VIII.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour;
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.
* * * * *
CXCIV.
MEG O' THE MILL.
Air--"_Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack? _"
["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1973, "called
'Jackie Hume's Lament? ' I have a song of considerable merit to that
air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send
to the Museum. " It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too
well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old
song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and
published it in the Museum. ]
I.
O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.
II.
The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.
III.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.
IV.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen'
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!
* * * * *
CXCV.
BLYTHE HAE I BEEN.
Tune--"_Liggeram Cosh. _"
[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for
whose work he wrote it, that "Blythe hae I been on yon hill," was one
of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one
of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley
Baillie. ]
I.
Blythe hae I been on yon hill
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free
As the breeze flew o'er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
II.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "LOGAN BRAES. "]
CXCVI.
LOGAN WATER.
["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793,
"felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those
mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or
often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day
I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all
like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in
three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to
have some merit. " The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit,
the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a
Nithsdale poet. ]
I.
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride!
And years synsyne hae o'er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!
II.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
III.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile:
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
IV.
O wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? [140]
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 140: Originally--
"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys,
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries. "]
* * * * *
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.
