Postscript
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by felt death was nearly nicket; Grim loon! he got me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, A tentier way: Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, For ance and aye!
* * * * *
CLII.
TO
MISS JESSY LEWARS,
DUMFRIES.
WITH JOHNSON'S 'MUSICAL MUSEUM.'
[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.]
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the Poet's prayer; That fate may in her fairest page, With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name: With native worth and spotless fame, And wakeful caution still aware Of ill--but chief, man's felon snare; All blameless joys on earth we find, And all the treasures of the mind-- These be thy guardian and reward; So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.
June 26, 1796.
* * * * *
CLIII.
POEM ON LIFE,
ADDRESSED TO
COLONEL DE PEYSTER.
DUMFRIES, 1796.
[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Americans. He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.]
My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal; Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit, As they deserve! (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne, wha wad starve?)
Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like baudrons by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on-- He's aff like fire.
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, To put us daft; Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damn'd waft.
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld danm'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure!
Soon heels-o'er gowdie! in he gangs, And like a sheep head on a tangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murd'ring wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil, Amen! amen!
* * * * *
EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS,
ETC., ETC.
I.
ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.
[William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.]
O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The dauntless heart that feared no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."
* * * * *
II.
ON R.A., ESQ.
[Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom "The Cotter's Saturday Night" is addressed: a kind and generous man.]
Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
* * * * *
III.
ON A FRIEND.
[The name of this friend is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of the poet's productions.]
An honest man here lies at rest As e'er God with his image blest! The friend of man, the friend of truth; The friend of age, and guide of youth; Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, Few heads with knowledge so inform'd: If there's another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.
* * * * *
IV.
FOR GAVIN HAMILTON.
[These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, "damn it," in the presence of the minister of Mauchline.]
The poor man weeps--here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd: But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd!
* * * * *
V.
ON WEE JOHNNY.
HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY.
[Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns's Poems: he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their meaning.]
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnny! An' here his body lies fu' low-- For saul he ne'er had ony.
* * * * *
VI.
ON JOHN DOVE,
INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.
[John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline: his religion is made to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept.]
Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!
Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer, persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.
* * * * *
VII.
ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.
[This laborious and useful wag was the "Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest epistles: he died in the West Indies.]
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid whole weeks awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass,-- Perhaps he was your father.
* * * * *
VIII.
ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.
[Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his impertinent inquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of Burns.]
Here souter Hood in death does sleep;-- To h--ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.
* * * * *
IX.
ON A NOISY POLEMIC.
[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of James Humphrey: he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dissertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predestination.]
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: O Death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b--ch Into thy dark dominion!
* * * * *
X.
ON MISS JEAN SCOTT.
[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived in Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.]
Oh! had each Scot of ancient times, Been Jeany Scott, as thou art, The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward!
* * * * *
XI.
ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.
[Though satisfied with the severe satire of these lines, the poet made a second attempt.]
As father Adam first was fool'd, A case that's still too common, Here lies a man a woman rul'd, The devil rul'd the woman.
* * * * *
XII.
ON THE SAME.
[The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust this fruitful subject: he tried his hand again.]
O Death, hadst thou but spared his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchang'd the wife, And a' been weel content!
Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, The swap we yet will do't; Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, Thou'se get the soul to boot.
* * * * *
XIII.
ON THE SAME.
[In these lines he bade farewell to the sordid dame, who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.]
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion, When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pretence, Not to show her respect, but to save the expense.
* * * * *
XIV.
THE HIGHLAND WELCOME.
[Burns took farewell of the hospitalities of the Scottish Highlands in these happy lines.]
When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come; In Heaven itself I'll ask no more Than just a Highland welcome.
* * * * *
XV.
ON WILLIAM SMELLIE.
[Smellie, author of the Philosophy of History; a singular person, of ready wit, and negligent in nothing save his dress.]
Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd: Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.
* * * * *
XVI.
VERSES
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON.
[These lines were written on receiving what the poet considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of the celebrated Carron foundry.]
We came na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise:
For whan we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come Your billy Satan sair us!
* * * * *
XVII.
THE BOOK-WORMS.
[Burns wrote this reproof in a Shakspeare, which he found splendidly bound and gilt, but unread and worm-eaten, in a noble person's library.]
Through and through the inspir'd leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But oh! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings.
* * * * *
XVIII.
LINES ON STIRLING.
[On visiting Stirling, Burns was stung at beholding nothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and our halls of legislation, and vented his indignation in those unloyal lines: some one has said that they were written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants confirmation.]
Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd, And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; But now unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; An idiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best despise them most.
* * * * *
XIX.
THE REPROOF.
[The imprudence of making the lines written at Stirling public was hinted to Burns by a friend; he said, "Oh, but I mean to reprove myself for it," which he did in these words.]
Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?
* * * * *
XX.
THE REPLY.
[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the Stirling lines, intimating, as a priest, that Burns's race was nigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited his muse. The poet replied to the expostulation.]
Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel All others' scorn--but damn that ass's heel.
* * * * *
XXI.
LINES
WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS.
[The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in those days to the bucks of the Scottish metropolis: there is still a letter by the poet, claiming from the magistrates of Edinburgh a liberal interpretation of the laws of social morality, in belief of his fair namesake.]
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, Lovely Burns has charms--confess: True it is, she had one failing-- Had a woman ever less?
* * * * *
XXII.
EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION.
[These portraits are strongly coloured with the partialities of the poet: Dundas had offended his pride, Erskine had pleased his vanity; and as he felt he spoke.]
LORD ADVOCATE.
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, He quoted and he hinted, 'Till in a declamation-mist His argument he tint it: He gaped for't, he grap'd for't, He fand it was awa, man; But what his common sense came short He eked out wi' law, man.
MR. ERSKINE.
Collected Harry stood awee, Then open'd out his arm, man: His lordship sat wi' rueful e'e, And ey'd the gathering storm, man; Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, Or torrents owre a linn, man; The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.
* * * * *
XXIII.
THE HENPECKED HUSBAND.
[A lady who expressed herself with incivility about her husband's potations with Burns, was rewarded by these sharp lines.]
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife! Who has no will but by her high permission; Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell! Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b----h.
* * * * *
XXIV.
WRITTEN AT INVERARY.
[Neglected at the inn of Inverary, on account of the presence of some northern chiefs, and overlooked by his Grace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his rhyme: tradition speaks of a pursuit which took place on the part of the Campbell, when he was told of his mistake, and of a resolution not to be soothed on the part of the bard.]
Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he's come to wait upon The Lord their God, his Grace.
There's naething here but Highland pride And Highland cauld and hunger; If Providence has sent me here, T'was surely in his anger.
* * * * *
XXV.
ON ELPHINSTON'S TRANSLATIONS.
OF
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.
[Burns thus relates the origin of this sally:--"Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a friend of mine one day put Elphinston's Translation of Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I asked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of the book; which being granted, I wrote this epigram."]
O thou, whom poesy abhors, Whom prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan? proceed no further; 'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murther!
* * * * *
XXVI.
INSCRIPTION.
ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON.
[Some social friends, whose good feelings were better than their taste, have ornamented with supplemental iron work the headstone which Burns erected, with this inscription to the memory of his brother bard, Fergusson.]
Here lies ROBERT FERGUSSON, Poet. Born, September 5, 1751; Died, Oct. 15, 1774.
No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied urn nor animated bust;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.
* * * * *
XXVII.
ON A SCHOOLMASTER.
[The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it is said, schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Fifeshire: he met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh.]
Here lie Willie Michie's banes; O, Satan! when ye tak' him, Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans, For clever de'ils he'll mak' them.
* * * * *
XXVIII.
A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.
[This was an extempore grace, pronounced by the poet at a dinner-table, in Dumfries: he was ever ready to contribute the small change of rhyme, for either the use or amusement of a company.]
O thou, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want! We bless thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent: And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But, whether granted or denied, Lord bless us with content! Amen.
* * * * *
XXIX.
A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.
[Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh-Park.]
O thou in whom we live and move, Who mad'st the sea and shore, Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore. And if it please thee, Power above, Still grant us with such store, The friend we trust, the fair we love, And we desire no more.
* * * * *
XXX.
ON WAT.
[The name of the object of this fierce epigram might be found, but in gratifying curiosity, some pain would be inflicted.]
Sic a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the very worms damn'd him When laid in his grave. "In his flesh there's a famine," A starv'd reptile cries; "An' his heart is rank poison," Another replies.
* * * * *
XXXI.
ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE.
[This was a festive sally: it is said that Grose, who was very fat, though he joined in the laugh, did not relish it.]
The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd! confounded! cry'd Satan, "By ----, I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!"
* * * * *
XXXII.
IMPROMPTU,
TO MISS AINSLIE.
[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had listened, during his visit to the border.]
Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue:-- 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not angels such as you!
* * * * *
XXXIII.
THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.
[One rough, cold day, Burns listened to a sermon, so little to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.]
As cauld a wind as ever blew, As caulder kirk, and in't but few; As cauld a minister's e'er spak, Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.
* * * * *
XXXIV.
THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.
[In answer to a gentleman, who called the solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.]
The solemn League and Covenant Cost Scotland blood--cost Scotland tears; But it sealed freedom's sacred cause-- If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.
* * * * *
XXXV.
WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,
IN THE INN AT MOFFAT.
[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Davies so little, and a lady who was with her, so large: before the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pane of glass.]
Ask why God made the gem so small, And why so huge the granite? Because God meant mankind should set The higher value on it.
* * * * *
XXXVI.
SPOKEN,
ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.
[Burns took no pleasure in the name of gauger: the situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated to say so.]
Searching auld wives' barrels, Och--hon! the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels; But--what'll ye say! These movin' things ca'd wives and weans Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!
* * * * *
XXXVII.
LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE.
[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in the Dumfries Theatre, in the winter of 1794: he was much moved by Mrs. Kemble's noble and pathetic acting.]
Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet notes of grief The rock with tears had flow'd.
* * * * *
XXXVIII.
TO MR. SYME.
[John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of education and intelligence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, his chief companion: he was bred to the law.]
No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation.
* * * * *
XXXIX.
TO MR. SYME.
WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.
[The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith; who, having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, put on his sign, "John Smith, from Jerusalem." He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.]
O, had the malt thy strength of mind, Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.
* * * * *
XL.
A GRACE.
[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the best cookery was added the richest wine, as well as the rarest wit: Hyslop was a distiller.]
Lord, we thank and thee adore, For temp'ral gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more, Let William Hyslop give the spirit.
* * * * *
XLI.
INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.
[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. Syme, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.]
There's death in the cup--sae beware! Nay, more--there is danger in touching; But wha can avoid the fell snare? The man and his wine's sae bewitching!
* * * * *
XLII.
THE INVITATION.
[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities. These lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.]
The King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute; But I am yours at dinner-time, Or else the devil's in it.
* * * * *
XLIII.
THE CREED OF POVERTY.
[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wrote "The Creed of Poverty."]
In politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind--be deaf and blind; Let great folks hear and see.
* * * * *
XLIV.
WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.
[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.]
Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were.
* * * * *
XLV.
THE PARSON'S LOOKS.
[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside's looks: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.]
That there is falsehood in his looks I must and will deny; They say their master is a knave-- And sure they do not lie.
* * * * *
XLVI.
THE TOAD-EATER.
[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of Dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.]
What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen? Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.
* * * * *
XLVII.
ON ROBERT RIDDEL.
[I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars-Carse Hermitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.]
To Riddel, much-lamented man, This ivied cot was dear; Reader, dost value matchless worth? This ivied cot revere.
* * * * *
XLVIII.
THE TOAST.
[Burns being called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.]
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast-- Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!-- That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, that we found; For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you--the King! Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution; And longer with politics not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial.
* * * * *
XLIX.
ON A PERSON NICKNAMED
THE MARQUIS.
[In a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence, this person, who kept a respectable public-house in Dumfries, desired Burns, to write his epitaph.]
Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd; If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.
* * * * *
L.
LINES
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW.
[Burns traced these words with a diamond, on the window of the King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries, as a reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excisemen.]
Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers: What premiers--what? even monarchs' mighty gaugers: Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen?
* * * * *
LI.
LINES
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES.
[The Globe Tavern was Burne's favourite "Howff," as he called it. It had other attractions than good liquor; there lived "Anna, with the golden locks."]
The greybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, Give me with gay Folly to live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give.
* * * * *
LII.
THE SELKIRK GRACE.
[On a visit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested by the noble owner to say grace to dinner; he obeyed in these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of "The Selkirk Grace."]
Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thanket.
* * * * *
LIII.
TO DR. MAXWELL,
ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.
[Maxwell was a skilful physician; and Jessie Staig, the Provost's oldest daughter, was a young lady of great beauty: she died early.]
Maxwell, if merit here you crave That merit I deny, You save fair Jessie from the grave-- An angel could not die.
* * * * *
LIV.
EPITAPH.
[These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a goblet belonging to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in Dumfries: it is carefully preserved in the family.]
Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, And empty all his barrels: He's blest--if, as he brew'd, he drink-- In upright virtuous morals.
* * * * *
LV.
EPITAPH
ON WILLIAM NICOL.
[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]
Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain, For few sic feasts ye've gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, For deil a bit o't's rotten.
* * * * *
LVI.
ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,
NAMED ECHO.
[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.
Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.
* * * * *
LVII.
ON A NOTED COXCOMB.
[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written:--coxcombs are the growth of all districts.]
Light lay the earth on Willy's breast, His chicken-heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under.
* * * * *
LVIII.
ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF
LORD GALLOWAY.
[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble house.]
What dost thou in that mansion fair?-- Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind!
* * * * *
LIX.
ON THE SAME.
No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts all were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave.
* * * * *
LX.
ON THE SAME.
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire! So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, So ended in a mire.
* * * * *
LXI.
TO THE SAME,
ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS
RESENTMENT.
Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, In quiet let me live: I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give.
* * * * *
LXII.
ON A COUNTRY LAIRD.
[Mr. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, exposed himself to the rhyming wrath of Burns, by his activity in the contested elections of Heron.]
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, With grateful lifted eyes, Who said that not the soul alone But body too, must rise: For had he said, "the soul alone From death I will deliver;" Alas! alas! O Cardoness, Then thou hadst slept for ever.
* * * * *
LXIII.
ON JOHN BUSHBY.
[Burns, in his harshest lampoons, always admitted the talents of Bushby: the peasantry, who hate all clever attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparing severity.]
Here lies John Bushby, honest man! Cheat him, Devil, gin ye can.
* * * * *
LXIV.
THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.
[At a dinner-party, where politics ran high, lines signed by men who called themselves the true loyal natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns: he took a pencil, and at once wrote this reply.]
Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
* * * * *
LXV.
ON A SUICIDE.
[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hutchinson, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the grave of a person who had committed suicide: on the paper these lines were pencilled.]
Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble-- Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble.
* * * * *
LXVI.
EXTEMPORE
PINNED ON A LADY'S COUCH.
["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "from a copy in Burns's handwriting," a slight alteration in the last line is made from an oral version.]
If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart: But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road If your stuff has the rot, like her heart.
* * * * *
LXVII.
LINES
TO JOHN RANKINE.
[These lines were said to have been written by the poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward them when he died.]
He who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead, And a green grassy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.
* * * * *
LXVIII.
JESSY LEWARS.
[Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhibiting in Dumfries. "Now," said the poet, who was then very ill, "it is fit to be presented to a lady."]
Talk not to me of savages From Afric's burning sun, No savage e'er could rend my heart As, Jessy, thou hast done. But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, A mutual faith to plight, Not even to view the heavenly choir Would be so blest a sight.
* * * * *
LXIX.
THE TOAST.
[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, he observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with a light step lest she should disturb him. He took a crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening his lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and presented it to her.]
Fill me with the rosy-wine, Call a toast--a toast divine; Give the Poet's darling flame, Lovely Jessy be the name; Then thou mayest freely boast, Thou hast given a peerless toast.
* * * * *
LXX.
ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.
[The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. "You must not die yet," said the poet: "give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you for the worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, "That will be a companion to 'The Toast.'"]
Say, sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside? It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXI.
ON THE
RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.
[A little repose brought health to the young lady. "I knew you would not die," observed the poet, with a smile: "there is a poetic reason for your recovery;" he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.]
But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky; Yet still one seraph's left on earth, For Jessy did not die.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXII.
TAM, THE CHAPMAN.
[Tam, the chapman, is said by the late William Cobbett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1834: it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one was Thomas and the name of the other John.]
As Tam the Chapman on a day, Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous, And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, And there blaws up a hearty crack; His social, friendly, honest heart, Sae tickled Death they could na part: Sac after viewing knives and garters, Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
[These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle.
"The present moment is our ain, The next we never saw."]
Here's a bottle and an honest friend! What wad you wish for mair, man? Wha kens before his life may end, What his share may be o' care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man? Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not ay when sought, man.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
[The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.]
Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.--
I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
* * * * *
LXXV.
TO JOHN KENNEDY.
[The John Kennedy to whom these verses and the succeeding lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet, that he submitted his "Cotter's Saturday Night" and the "Mountain Daisy" to his judgment: he seems to have been of a social disposition.]
Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross, L--d, man, there's lasses there wad force A hermit's fancy. And down the gate in faith they're worse And mair unchancy.
But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there, And if we dinna hae a bouze I'se ne'er drink mair.
It's no I like to sit an' swallow, Then like a swine to puke and wallow, But gie me just a true good fellow, Wi' right ingine, And spunkie ance to make us mellow, And then we'll shine.
Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An' sklent on poverty their joke Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you nae friendship I will troke, Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I'm informed weel, Ye hate as ill's the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel-- Come, Sir, here's tae you! Hae, there's my haun, I wiss you weel, And gude be wi' you.
ROBERT BURNESS.
Mossgiel, 3 March, 1786.
* * * * *
LXXVI.
TO JOHN KENNEDY.
Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you, And 'mang her favourites admit you! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him! And ony deil that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him!
R. B.
Kilmarnock, August, 1786
* * * * *
LXXVII.
[Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet's papers.]
There's naethin like the honest nappy! Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, Or women, sonsie, saft an' sappy, 'Tween morn an' morn As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn?
I've seen me daezt upon a time; I scarce could wink or see a styme; Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, Ought less is little, Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As gleg's a whittle.
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
ON THE BLANK LEAF
OF A
WORK BY HANNAH MORE.
PRESENTED BY MRS C----.
Thou flattering work of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart, Does both the sexes honour. She showed her taste refined and just, When she selected thee, Yet deviating, own I must, For so approving me! But kind still, I'll mind still The giver in the gift; I'll bless her, and wiss her A Friend above the Lift.
Mossgiel, April, 1786.
* * * * *
LXXIX.
TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN
OF THE
MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON.
Within your dear mansion may wayward contention Or withering envy ne'er enter: May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.
Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787.
* * * * *
LXXX.
IMPROMPTU.
[The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.]
You're welcome, Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art.
Come bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it; The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, To welcome Willie Stewart.
My foes be strang, and friends be slack, Ilk action may he rue it, May woman on him turn her back, That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
* * * * *
LXXXI.
PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR.
[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call "the deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood: an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called "Riding the Stang." This was resented by Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress; law was restored to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met Burns who laughed when he heard the story, and said, "You have need of some one to pray for you." "No one can do that better than yourself," was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, as it is said, "clean off loof." From Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in which the prayer originated.]
Lord, pity me, for I am little, An elf of mischief and of mettle, That can like ony wabster's shuttle, Jink there or here, Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-whittle, I'm unco queer.
Lord pity now our waefu' case, For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, Because we stang'd her through the place, 'Mang hundreds laughin', For which we daurna show our face Within the clachan.
And now we're dern'd in glens and hallows, And hunted as was William Wallace, By constables, those blackguard fellows, And bailies baith, O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows! That cursed death.
Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel', O shake him ewre the mouth o' hell, And let him hing and roar and yell, Wi' hideous din, And if he offers to rebel Just heave him in.
When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink, And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink' Gaur Satan gie her a--e a clink Behint his yett, And fill her up wi' brimstone drink, Red reeking het!
There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, Some devil seize them in a hurry, And waft them in th' infernal wherry, Straught through the lake, And gie their hides a noble curry, Wi' oil of aik.
As for the lass, lascivious body, She's had mischief enough already, Weel stang'd by market, mill, and smiddie, She's suffer'd sair; But may she wintle in a widdie, If she wh--re mair.
* * * * *
SONGS AND BALLADS.
I.
HANDSOME NELL.
Tune.--"I am a man unmarried."
["This composition," says Burns in his "Common-place Book," "was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her."]
I.
O once I lov'd a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still; And whilst that honour warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell.
II.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw; But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw.
III.
A bonnie lass, I will confess, Is pleasant to the e'e, But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me.
IV.
But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a', Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw.
V.
She dresses ay sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel: And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.
VI.
A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart.
VII.
'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control
* * * * *
II.
LUCKLESS FORTUNE.
[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.]
O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O! O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O! My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, O; The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow, O. But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O; But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, O.
* * * * *
III.
I DREAM'D I LAY.
[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]
I.
I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam; List'ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling crystal stream: Straight the sky grew black and daring; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring. O'er the swelling drumlie wave.
II.
Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasure I enjoy'd: But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still.
* * * * *
IV.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Tune--"Invercald's Reel."
[The Tibbie who "spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was, it is said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.]
CHORUS.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wad na been sae shy; For lack o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.
I.
Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I.
II.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try.
III.
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high.
IV.
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry.
V.
But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.
VI.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.
VII.
There lives a lass in yonder park, I would nae gie her in her sark, For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; Ye need na look sae high.
* * * * *
V.
MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.
Tune--"The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."
["The following song," says the poet, "is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."]
I.
My father was a farmer Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me, In decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, Though I had ne'er a farthing, O; For without an honest manly heart, No man was worth regarding, O.
II.
Then out into the world My course I did determine, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O: My talents they were not the worst, Nor yet my education, O; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, To mend my situation, O.
III.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, To frustrate each endeavour, O: Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, Sometimes by friends forsaken, O, And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
IV.
Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, With fortune's vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, And came to this conclusion, O: The past was bad, and the future hid; Its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour, was in my pow'r And so I would enjoy it, O.
V.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, Nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, And labour to sustain me, O: To plough and sow, to reap and mow, My father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, Was a match for fortune fairly, O.
VI.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, O: I live to-day as well's I may, Regardless of to-morrow, O.
VII.
But cheerful still, I am as well, As a monarch in a palace, O, Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, With all her wonted malice, O: I make indeed my daily bread, But ne'er can make it farther, O; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
VIII.
When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune Comes gen'rally upon me, O: Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, Or my goodnatur'd folly, O; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.
IX.
All you who follow wealth and power, With unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, You leave your view the farther, O: Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, Or nations to adorn you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
* * * * *
VI.
JOHN BARLEYCORN:
A BALLAD.
[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.]
I.
There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.
II.
They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.
III.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.
IV.
The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears That no one should him wrong.
V.
The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His beading joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.
VI.
His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.
VII.
They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.
VIII.
They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm. And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
IX.
They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.
X.
They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.
XI.
They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller us'd him worst of all-- He crush'd him 'tween the stones.
XII.
And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.
XIII.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.
XIV.
'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.
XV.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
* * * * *
VII.
THE RIGS O' BARLEY.
Tune--"Corn rigs are bonnie."
[Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditions, been claimed as the heroine of this early song.]
I.
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie: The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 'Till 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, To see me through the barley.
II.
The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley: I ken't her heart was a' my ain; I lov'd her most sincerely; I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley.
III.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace! Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place. Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright. That shone that hour so clearly? She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley!
IV.
I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear; I hae been merry drinkin'; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; I hae been happy thinkin': But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley.
CHORUS.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonnie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
* * * * *
VIII.
MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.
Tune--"Galla-Water."
["My Montgomery's Peggy," says Burns, "was my deity for six or eight months: she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant: it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair." The young lady listened to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an interview, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another.]
I.
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be, Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.
II.
When o'er the hill beat surly storms, And winter nights were dark and rainy; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.
III.
Were I a baron proud and high, And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy.
* * * * *
IX.
THE MAUCHLINE LADY.
Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair."
[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart was Jean Armour: she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog run across some linen webs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this interview the world owes some of our most impassioned strains.]
When first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was nae steady; Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, A mistress still I had ay: But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, Not dreadin' any body, My heart was caught before I thought, And by a Mauchline lady.
* * * * *
X.
THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.
Tune--"The deuks dang o'er my daddy!"
["The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, whose too early death the poet sung in strains that will endure while the language lasts. "She was," says Burns, "a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love."]
I.
Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse's care: Their titles a' are empty show; Gie me my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, I set me down wi' right good-will, To sing my Highland lassie, O.
II.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine, The world then the love should know I bear my Highland lassie, O.
III.
But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea; But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland lassie, O.
IV.
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O.
V.
For her I'll dare the billows' roar, For her I'll trace a distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O.
VI.
She has my heart, she has my hand, by sacred truth and honour's band! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O! Farewell the plain sae rushy, O! To other lands I now must go, To sing my Highland lassie, O.
* * * * *
XI.
PEGGY.
[The heroine of this song is said to have been "Montgomery's Peggy."]
Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair."
I.
Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer.
II.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells; The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; The soaring hern the fountains; Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.
III.
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine; Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion.
IV.
But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come, let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature.
V.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!
* * * * *
XII.
THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T.
Tune--"East nook o' Fife."
[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother of "Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," a person whom the poet regarded, as he says, both for her form and her grace.]
I.
O wha my babie-clouts will buy? O wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me where I lie?-- The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
II.
O wha will own he did the fau't? O wha will buy the groanin' maut? O wha will tell me how to ca't? The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
III.
When I mount the creepie chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
IV.
Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will make me fidgin' fain? Wha will kiss me o'er again?-- The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.
* * * * *
XIII.
MY HEART WAS ANCE.
Tune--"To the weavers gin ye go."
["The chorus of this song," says Burns, in his note to the Museum, "is old, the rest is mine." The "bonnie, westlin weaver lad" is said to have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affection of a west landlady.]
I.
My heart was ance as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.
II.
My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o't Has gart me sigh and sab.
III.
A bonnie westlin weaver lad, Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi' a net, In every knot and thrum.
IV.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And ay I ca'd it roun'; But every shot and every knock, My heart it gae a stoun.
V.
The moon was sinking in the west Wi' visage pale and wan, As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro' the glen.
VI.
But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa' me gin I tell; But, oh! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel's mysel. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers gin ye go.
* * * * *
XIV.
NANNIE.
Tune--"My Nannie, O."
[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and said, "Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me."]
I.
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has closed, And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
II.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.
III.
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
IV.
Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O: The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
V.
A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O.
VI.
My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
VII.
Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
VIII.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O: Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O.
* * * * *
XV.
A FRAGMENT.
Tune--"John Anderson my jo."
[This verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting verse of a song, was found among the papers of the poet.]
One night as I did wander, When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder, Upon an auld tree root: Auld Ayr ran by before me, And bicker'd to the seas; A cushat crooded o'er me, That echoed thro' the braes.
* * * * *
XVI.
BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.
Tune--"Braes o' Balquihidder."
[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out songs without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery's Peggy, but this seems doubtful.]
CHORUS.
I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee o'er again; An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison!
I.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy them, O; Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O!
II.
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O, I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
III.
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear, I'm thine for ever, O!-- And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never, O! I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee o'er again; An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison!
* * * * *
XVII.
THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE.
Tune--"Green grow the rashes."
["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is the last and most perfect work of nature," says an old writer, in a rare old book: a passage which expresses the sentiment of Burns; yet it is all but certain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with "Cupid's Whirlygig," where these words are to be found.]
CHORUS.
Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.
I.
There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
II.
The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
III.
But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.
IV.
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
V.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.
* * * * *
XVIII.
MY JEAN!
Tune--"The Northern Lass."
[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.]
Though cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine. Though mountains rise, and deserts howl, And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean
* * * * *
XIX.
ROBIN.
Tune--"Daintie Davie."
[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm something which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips.]
I.
There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Robin. Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!
II.
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' Blew hansel in on Robin.
III.
The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof. This waly boy will be nae coof, I think we'll ca' him Robin
IV.
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', But ay a heart aboon them a'; He'll be a credit to us a', We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
V.
But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin.
VI.
Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar, The bonnie lasses lie aspar, But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, So blessin's on thee, Robin! Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin!
* * * * *
XX.
HER FLOWING LOCKS.
Tune--(unknown.)
[One day--it is tradition that speaks--Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling, And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast her bonnie mou'! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner.
* * * * *
XXI.
O LEAVE NOVELS.
Tune--" Mauchline belles."
[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:--
"Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw; There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."]
I.
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
II.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
III.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part-- 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
IV.
The frank address, the soft caress, Are worse than poison'd darts of steel; The frank address and politesse Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
* * * * *
XXII.
YOUNG PEGGY.
Tune--"Last time I cam o'er the muir."
[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he had, according to his own account, wasted eights months of courtship. We hear no more of Montgomery's Peggy.]
I.
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning: Her eyes outshone the radiant beams That gild the passing shower, And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
II.
Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them: Her smile is, as the evening mild, When feather'd tribes are courting, And little lambkins wanton wild, In playful bands disporting.
III.
Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, Such sweetness would relent her, As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain, Her winning powers to lessen; And fretful envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten.
IV.
Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, From every ill defend her; Inspire the highly-favour'd youth, The destinies intend her: Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom, And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom.
* * * * *
XXIII.
THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
Tune--"Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly."
[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcely an exception.]
I.
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business, contriving to snare-- For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.
II.
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III.
Here passes the squire on his brother--his horse; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
IV.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die; For sweet consolation to church I did fly; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.
V.
I once was persuaded a venture to make; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;-- But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI.
"Life's cares they are comforts,"[136]--a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care.
VII.
ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. The honours masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 136: Young's Night Thoughts.]
* * * * *
XXIV.
ELIZA.
Tune--"Gilderoy."
[My late excellent friend, John Galt, informed me that the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Barbour.]
I.
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel Fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans roaring wide Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee!
II.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more! The latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!
* * * * *
XXV.
THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE.
Tune--"Shawnboy."
["This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge." These interesting words are on the original, in the poet's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.]
I.
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion.
II.
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order; Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention Or withered envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.
* * * * *
XXVI.
MENIE.
Tune.--"Johnny's grey breeks."
[Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account: It first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.]
I.
Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.
II.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
III.
The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks.
IV.
The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I.
V.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill.
VI.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
VII.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree: Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.
* * * * *
XXVII.
THE FAREWELL
TO THE
BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,
TARBOLTON.
Tune--"Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'."
[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James's Lodge of Tarbolton, when his chest was on the way to Greenock: men are yet living who had the honour of hearing him--the concluding verse affected the whole lodge.]
I.
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy! Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
II.
Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'.
III.
May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious architect divine! That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
IV.
And you farewell! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear! Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a', One round--I ask it with a tear,-- To him, the Bard that's far awa'.
* * * * *
XXVIII.
ON CESSNOCK BANKS.
Tune--"If he be a butcher neat and trim."
[There are many variations of this song, which was first printed by Cromek from the oral communication of a Glasgow Lady, on whose charms, the poet, in early life, composed it.]
I.
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mien; Our lasses a' she far excels, An she has twa sparkling roguish een.
II.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
III.
She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IV.
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
V.
Her looks are like the vernal May, When evening Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray-- An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VI.
Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VII.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene, And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VIII.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flow'ry scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IX.
Her teeth are like the nightly snow When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murmuring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een
X.
Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen-- They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa, sparkling roguish een.
XI.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep; An' she has twa glancin' roguish een.
XII.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIII.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIV.
But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her roguish een.
* * * * *
XXIX.
MARY!
Tune--"Blue Bonnets."
[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song "A Prayer for Mary;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.]
I.
Powers celestial! whose protection Ever guards the virtuous fair, While in distant climes I wander, Let my Mary be your care: Let her form sae fair and faultless, Fair and faultless as your own, Let my Mary's kindred spirit Draw your choicest influence down.
II.
Make the gales you waft around her Soft and peaceful as her breast; Breathing in the breeze that fans her, Soothe her bosom into rest: Guardian angels! O protect her, When in distant lands I roam; To realms unknown while fate exiles me, Make her bosom still my home.
* * * * *
XXX.
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune--"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."
[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells her in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popular song. He chanced to meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander, perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of the muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time: it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber--as it deserves to be.]
I.
'Twas even--the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang, The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang: In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, All nature listening seem'd the while, Except where greenwood echoes rang Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!
II.
With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!
III.
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild; But woman, nature's darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
IV.
O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle.
V.
Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine: And thirst of gold might tempt the deep Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
* * * * *
XXXI.
THE GLOOMY NIGHT.
Tune--"Roslin Castle."
["I had taken," says Burns, "the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia--
'The gloomy night is gathering fast.'"]
I.
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
II.
The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, By early Winter's ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave-- I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
III.
'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
IV.
Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those-- The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
* * * * *
XXXII.
O WHAR DID YE GET
Tune--"Bonnie Dundee."
[This is one of the first songs which Burns communicated to Johnson's Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly old and partly new: the second is wholly by his hand.]
I.
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock? O silly blind body, O dinna ye see? I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't! Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee; May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
II.
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me! But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
* * * * *
XXXIII.
THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.
Tune--"Maggy Lauder."
[Most of this song is by Burns: his fancy was fierce with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them ever ready at the call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.]
I.
I married with a scolding wife The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member. Long did I bear the heavy yoke, And many griefs attended; But to my comfort be it spoke, Now, now her life is ended.
II.
We liv'd full one-and-twenty years A man and wife together; At length from me her course she steer'd, And gone I know not whither: Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak, and do not flatter, Of all the woman in the world, I never could come at her.
III.
Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell, The deil would ne'er abide her. I rather think she is aloft, And imitating thunder; For why,--methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder.
* * * * *
XXXIV.
COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS.
Tune--"Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, a Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier version to the work of Thomson: this was written for the Museum of Johnson, where it was first published.]
CHORUS.
O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad: Tho' father and mither Should baith gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad.
Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs, And let naebody see, And come as ye were na Coming to me.
* * * * *
XXXV.
I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN.
Tune--"I'm o'er young to marry yet."
[The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, are old; the rest is by Burns, and was written for Johnson.]
I.
I am my mammy's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young--'twad be a sin To tak' me frae my mammy yet.
II.
Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an' I in ae bed, In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir.
III.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind, Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir; But, if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet.
* * * * *
XXXVI.
BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO.
Tune--"The birks of Aberfeldy."
[An old strain, called "The Birks of Abergeldie," was the forerunner of this sweet song: it was written, the poet says, standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours which he made to the north, in the year 1787.]
CHORUS.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy?
I.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.
II.
The little birdies blithely sing, While o'er their heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy.
III.
The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, The birks of Aberfeldy.
IV.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy.
V.
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy?
* * * * *
XXXVII.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
Tune--"M'Pherson's Rant."
[This vehement and daring song had its origin in an older and inferior strain, recording the feelings of a noted freebooter when brought to "justify his deeds on the gallows-tree" at Inverness.]
I.
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree.
II.
Oh, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again!
III.
Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword; And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word.
IV.
I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be.
V.
Now farewell light--thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree.
* * * * *
XXXVIII.
BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER.
Tune--"Galla Water."
[Burns found this song in the collection of Herd; added the first verse, made other but not material emendations, and published it in Johnson: in 1793 he wrote another version for Thomson.]
CHORUS.
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; O braw lads of Galla Water: I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
I.
Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie.
II.
O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, O'er yon moss amang the heather; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
III.
Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom, my dearie, The lassie lost a silken snood, That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; O braw lads of Galla-Water: I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water.
* * * * *
XXXIX.
STAY, MY CHARMER.
Tune-"An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."
[The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one of his northern tours: his Highland excursions coloured many of his lyric compositions.]
I.
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel, to deceive me! Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go? Cruel charmer, can you go?
II.
By my love so ill requited; By the faith you fondly plighted; By the pangs of lovers slighted; Do not, do not leave me so! Do not, do not leave me so!
* * * * *
XL.
THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY DWELLING.
Tune--"Strathallan's Lament."
[The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song commemorates, was William Drummond: he was slain at the carnage of Culloden. It was long believed that he escaped to France and died in exile.]
I.
Thickest night, surround my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!
II.
Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.
III.
In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens denied success.
IV.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wild world is all before us-- But a world without a friend.
* * * * *
XLI.
MY HOGGIE.
Tune--"What will I do gin my Hoggie die?"
[Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of this Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Museum: the first line only is old.]
What will I do gin my Hoggie die? My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! My only beast, I had nae mae, And vow but I was vogie! The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, Me and my faithfu' doggie; We heard nought but the roaring linn, Amang the braes sae scroggie; But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa', The blitter frae the boggie, The tod reply'd upon the hill, I trembled for my Hoggie. When day did daw, and cocks did craw, The morning it was foggie; An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, And maist has kill'd my Hoggie.
* * * * *
XLII.
HER DADDIE FORBAD.
Tune--"Jumpin' John."
[This is one of the old songs which Ritson accuses Burns of amending for the Museum: little of it, however, is his, save a touch here and there--but they are Burns's touches.]
I.
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; Forbidden she wadna be: She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd Wad taste sae bitterlie. The lang lad they ca' jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie, The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie.
II.
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, And thretty gude shillin's and three; A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, The lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie, The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie.
* * * * *
XLIII
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
Tune--"Cold blows the wind."
["The chorus of this song," says the poet, in his notes on the Scottish Lyrics, "is old, the two stanzas are mine." The air is ancient, and was a favourite of Mary Stuart, the queen of William the Third.]
CHORUS.
Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
I.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
II.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn-- I'm sure it's winter fairly. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly.
* * * * *
XLIV.
THE
YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.
Tune--"Morag."
[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is supposed by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probability by others, to be a Gordon, as the song was composed in consequence of the poet's visit to "bonnie Castle-Gordon," in September, 1787.]
I.
Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray. May Heaven be his warden: Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
II.
The trees now naked groaning, Shall Soon wi' leaves be hinging. The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blithely singing, And every flower be springing. Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day When by his mighty Warden My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
* * * * *
XLV.
HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER
Tune--"The Dusty Miller."
[The Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for the Museum by Burns: it is a happy specimen of his taste and skill in making the new look like the old.]
I.
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat; He will win a shilling, Or he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour, Dusty was the kiss That I got frae the miller.
II.
Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty sack; Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck. Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller; I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller.
* * * * *
XLVI.
THERE WAS A LASS.
Tune--"Duncan Davison."
[There are several other versions of Duncan Davison, which it is more delicate to allude to than to quote: this one is in the Museum.]
I.
There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, And she held o'er the moors to spin; There was a lad that follow'd her, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win; For wi' the roke she wad him knock. And ay she shook the temper-pin.
II.
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eas'd-their shanks, And ay she set the wheel between: But Duncan swore a haly aith, That Meg should be a bride the morn, Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, And flang them a' out o'er the burn.
III.
We'll big a house,--a wee, wee house, And we will live like king and queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e'en. A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And ay be welcome back again.
* * * * *
XLVII.
THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MARY.
Tune.--"The Ruffian's Rant."
[Burns, it is believed, wrote this song during his first Highland tour, when he danced among the northern dames, to the tune of "Bab at the Bowster," till the morning sun rose and reproved them from the top of Ben Lomond.]
I.
In coming by the brig o' Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawin in the sky, We drank a health to bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
II.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown's a berry; And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, The rosy checks o' bonnie Mary.
III.
We lap and danced the lee lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay, For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary.
* * * * *
XLVIII.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
Tune.--"Bhannerach dhon na chri."
[These verses were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet's friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan.]
I.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.
II.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
* * * * *
XLIX.
WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY.
Tune--"Duncan Gray."
[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called a lad of grace: another version, and in a happier mood, was written for Thomson.]
I.
Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! When a' the lave gae to their play, Then I maun sit the lee lang day, And jog the cradle wi' my tae, And a' for the girdin o't!
II.
Bonnie was the Lammas moon-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Glowrin' a' the hills aboon-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! The girdin brak, the beast cam down, I tint my curch, and baith my shoon; Ah! Duncan, ye're an unco loon-- Wae on the bad girdin o't!
III.
But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath-- Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, The beast again can bear us baith, And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, And clout the bad girdin o't.
* * * * *
L.
THE PLOUGHMAN.
Tune--"Up wi' the ploughman."
[The old words, of which these in the Museum are an altered and amended version, are in the collection of Herd.]
I.
The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, His mind is ever true, jo, His garters knit below his knee, His bonnet it is blue, jo. Then up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman! Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.
II.
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, He's aften wat and weary; Cast off the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my dearie!
III.
I will wash my ploughman's hose, And I will dress his o'erlay; I will mak my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early.
IV.
I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston; The bonniest sight that e'er I saw Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.
V.
Snaw-white stockins on his legs, And siller buckles glancin'; A gude blue bonnet on his head-- And O, but he was handsome!
VI.
Commend me to the barn-yard, And the corn-mou, man; I never gat my coggie fou, Till I met wi' the ploughman. Up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman! Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.
* * * * *
LI.
LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN.
Tune--"Hey tutti, taiti."
[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line of the Stuarts.]
I.
Landlady, count the lawin, The day is near the dawin; Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, And I'm but jolly fou, Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti-- Wha's fou now?
II.
Cog an' ye were ay fou, Cog an' ye were ay fou, I wad sit and sing to you If ye were ay fou.
III.
Weel may ye a' be! Ill may we never see! God bless the king, And the companie! Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti-- Wha's fou now?
* * * * *
LII.
RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.
Tune--"Macgregor of Rura's Lament."
["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796."]
I.
Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring-- "Farewell hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
II.
"O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing, Load to misery most distressing, Gladly how would I resign thee, And to dark oblivion join thee!"
* * * * *
LIII.
HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
To a Gaelic air.
[Composed for the Museum: the air of this affecting strain is true Highland: Burns, though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.]
I.
How long and dreary is the night When I am frae my dearie! I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.
II.
When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie, And now what lands between us lie, How can I but be eerie! And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!
III.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.
* * * * *
LIV.
MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
Tune--"Druimion dubh."
[The air of this song is from the Highlands: the verses were written in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. M'Lauchlan, whose husband was an officer serving in the East Indies.]
I.
Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me; Wearying heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be.
II.
Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far awa.
III.
Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear.
IV.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me; Downy sleep, the curtain draw; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far awa!
* * * * *
LV.
BLITHE WAS SHE.
Tune--"Andro and his cutty gun."
[The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose was justly called the "Flower of Strathmore:" she is now widow of Lord Methven, one of the Scottish judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was written at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.]
CHORUS.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe was she but and ben: Blithe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen.
I.
By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes of Yarrow ever saw.
II.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn; She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn.
III.
Her bonnie face it was as meek As any lamb upon a lea; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet, As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
IV.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lowlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe was she but and ben: Blithe by the banks of Ern. And blithe in Glenturit glen.
* * * * *
LVI.
THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW.
Tune--"To daunton me."
[The Jacobite strain of "To daunton me," must have been in the mind of the poet when he wrote this pithy lyric for the Museum.]
I.
The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me so young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue. That is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
II.
For a' his meal and a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef and his saut, For a' his gold and white monie, An auld man shall never daunton me.
III.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes, His gear may buy him glens and knowes; But me he shall not buy nor fee, For an auld man shall never daunton me.
IV.
He hirples twa fauld as he dow, Wi' his teethless gab and Ma auld beld pow, And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee-- That auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, That is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.
* * * * *
LVII.
COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE.
Tune--"O'er the water to Charlie."
[The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the third, are by Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the same subject, and to the same air, were in other days current in Scotland.]
I.
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, To boat me o'er to Charlie. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie.
II.
I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, Tho' some there be abhor him: But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie's faes before him!
III.
I swear and vow by moon and stars, And sun that shines so early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I'd die as aft for Charlie. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie!
* * * * *
LVIII.
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
Tune--"The Rose-bud."
[The "Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was Miss Jean Cruikshank, afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter of William Cruikshank, of St. James's Square, one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh: she is also the subject of a poem equally sweet.]
I.
A rose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning.
II.
Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, Awake the early morning.
III.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning.
* * * * *
LIX.
RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.
Tune--"Rattlin', roarin' Willie."
["The hero of this chant," says Burns "was one of the worthiest fellows in the world--William Dunbar, Esq., Write to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps--a club of wits, who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments."]
I.
O rattlin', roarin' Willie, O, he held to the fair, An' for to sell his fiddle, An' buy some other ware; But parting wi' his fiddle, The saut tear blint his ee; And rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me!
II.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine; O Willie, come sell your fiddle, And buy a pint o' wine! If I should sell my fiddle, The warl' would think I was mad; For mony a rantin' day My fiddle and I hae had.
III.
As I cam by Crochallan, I cannily keekit ben-- Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin' at yon board en'; Sitting at yon board en', And amang good companie; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me I
* * * * *
LX.
BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.
Tune--"Neil Gow's Lamentations for Abercairny."
["This song," says the poet, "I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." She now lives at Pau, in the south of France.]
I.
Where, braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochels rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes; As one who by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, With art's most polish'd blaze.
II.
Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, When first I felt their power! The tyrant Death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death.
* * * * *
LXI.
TIBBIE DUNBAR.
Tune--"Johnny M'Gill."
[We owe the air of this song to one Johnny M'Gill, a fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it: and the song itself partly to Burns and partly to some unknown minstrel. They are both in the Museum.]
I.
O, Wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? O, wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? Wilt thou ride on a horse, Or be drawn in a car, Or walk by my side, O, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
II.
I care na thy daddie, His lands and his money, I care na thy kindred, Sae high and sae lordly: But say thou wilt hae me For better for waur-- And come in thy coatie, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
* * * * *
LXII.
STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN ORIENT PLAINS.
Tune--"Morag."
[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle: he was hurried away, much against his will, by his moody and obstinate friend William Nicol.]
I.
Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle-Gordon.
II.
Spicy forests, ever gay, Shading from the burning ray, Hapless wretches sold to toil, Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle-Gordon.
III.
Wildly here without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood; Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle-Gordon.
* * * * *
LXIII.
MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.
Tune--"Highland's Lament."
["The chorus," says Burns, "I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane: the rest of the song is mine." He composed it for Johnson: the tone is Jacobitical.]
I.
My Harry was a gallant gay, Fu' stately strode he on the plain: But now he's banish'd far away, I'll never see him back again, O for him back again! O for him back again! I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again.
II.
When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen; I set me down and greet my fill, And ay I wish him back again.
III.
O were some villains hangit high. And ilka body had their ain! Then I might see the joyfu' sight, My Highland Harry back again. O for him back again! O for him back again! I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again.
* * * * *
LXIV.
THE TAILOR.
Tune--"The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'."
[The second and fourth verses are by Burns, the rest is very old, the air is also very old, and is played at trade festivals and processions by the Corporation of Tailors.]
I.
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'; The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma', The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'.
II.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill; The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
III.
Gie me the groat again, canny young man; Gie me the groat again, canny young man; The day it is short, and the night it is lang, The dearest siller that ever I wan!
IV.
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's some that are dowie, I trow would be fain To see the bit tailor come skippin' again.
* * * * *
LXV.
SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME.
Tune--"Ay waukin o'."
[Tytler and Ritson unite in considering the air of these words as one of our most ancient melodies. The first verse of the song is from the hand of Burns; the rest had the benefit of his emendations: it is to be found in the Museum.]
I.
Simmer's a pleasant time, Flow'rs of ev'ry colour; The water rins o'er the heugh, And I long for my true lover. Ay waukin O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
II.
When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I'm eerie; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
III.
Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleeping; I think on my bonnie lad And I bleer my een with greetin'. Ay waukin O, Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.
* * * * *
LXVI.
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.
Tune--"Ye gallants bright."
[Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, daughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strathallan's Lament: she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and resides in London.]
I.
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, Beware o' bonnie Ann; Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night, Her skin is like the swan; Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span.
II.
Youth, grace, and love attendant move, And pleasure leads the van: In a' their charms, and conquering arms, They wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands, But love enclaves the man; Ye Gallants braw, I red you a', Beware of bonnie Ann!
* * * * *
LXVII.
WHEN ROSY MAY.
Tune--"The gardener wi' his paidle."
[The air of this song is played annually at the precession of the Gardeners: the title only is old; the rest is the work of Burns. Every trade had, in other days, an air of its own, and songs to correspond; but toil and sweat came in harder measures, and drove melodies out of working-men's heads.]
I.
When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay green-spreading bowers, Then busy, busy are his hours-- The gard'ner wi' his paidle The crystal waters gently fa'; The merry birds are lovers a'; The scented breezes round him blaw-- The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
II.
When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews he maun repair-- The gard'ner wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws of nature's rest, He flies to her arms he lo'es best-- The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
* * * * *
LXVIII.
BLOOMING NELLY.
Tune--"On a bank of flowers."
[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's collection seems to have been in the mind of Burns when he wrote this: the words and air are in the Museum.]
I.
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood, Who for her favour oft had sued, He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, And trembled where he stood.
II.
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd, Were seal'd in soft repose; Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd, It richer dy'd the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest, Wild--wanton, kiss'd her rival breast; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd-- His bosom ill at rest.
III.
Her robes light waving in the breeze Her tender limbs embrace; Her lovely form, her native ease, All harmony and grace: Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, And sigh'd his very soul.
IV.
As flies the partridge from the brake, On fear-inspired wings, So Nelly, starting, half awake, Away affrighted springs: But Willie follow'd, as he should, He overtook her in a wood; He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid Forgiving all and good.
* * * * *
LXIX.
THE DAY RETURNS.
Tune--"Seventh of November."
[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse, and these verses were composed in compliment to the day.]
I.
The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more--it made thee mine!
II.
While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give, While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone I live. When that grim foe of life below, Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart.
* * * * *
LXX.
MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET.
Tune--"Lady Bandinscoth's Reel."
[These verses had their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and less delicate: some of the old lines keep their place: the title is old. Both words and all are in the Musical Museum.]
I.
My love she's but a lassie yet, My love she's but a lassie yet, We'll let her stand a year or twa, Shell no be half so saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, O; I rue the day I sought her, O; Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O!
II.
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, But here I never miss'd it yet. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinkin' o't.
* * * * *
LXXI.
JAMIE, COME TRY ME.
Tune--"Jamy, come try me."
[Burns in these verses caught up the starting note of an old song, of which little more than the starting words deserve to be remembered: the word and air are in the Musical Museum.]
CHORUS.
Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
I.
If thou should ask my love, Could I deny thee? If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
II.
If thou should kiss me, love, Wha could espy thee? If thou wad be my love, Jamie, come try me. Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me.
* * * * *
LXXII.
MY BONNIE MARY.
Tune--"Go fetch to me a pint o' wine."
[Concerning this fine song, Burns in his notes says, "This air is Oswald's: the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine." It is believed, however, that the whole of the song is from his hand: in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, the starting lines are supplied from an olden strain: but some of the old strains in that work are to be regarded with suspicion.]
I.
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
II.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
THE LAZY MIST.
Tune--"The lazy mist."
[All that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is, "This song is mine." The air, which is by Oswald, together with the words, is in the Musical Museum.]
I.
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear! As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!
II.
How long have I liv'd, but how much liv'd in vain! How little of life's scanty span may remain! What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn! What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn! How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! Life is not worth having with all it can give-- For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.
Tune--"O mount and go."
[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, with the same title: it was communicated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum.]
CHORUS.
O mount and go, Mount and make you ready; O mount and go, And be the Captain's Lady.
I.
When the drums do beat, And the cannons rattle, Thou shall sit in state, And see thy love in battle.
II.
When the vanquish'd foe Sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we'll go, And in love enjoy it. O mount and go, Mount and make you ready; O mount and go, And be the Captain's Lady.
* * * * *
LXXV.
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW
Tune--"Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
[Bums wrote this charming song in honour of Joan Armour: he archly says in his notes, "P.S. it was during the honeymoon." Other versions are abroad; this one is from the manuscripts of the poet.]
I.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.
II.
I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.
III.
O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Among the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.
IV.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa! The powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!
* * * * *
LXXVI.
FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE.
Tune--"Whistle o'er the lave o't."
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.]
I.
First when Maggy was my care, Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married--spier nae mair-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.-- Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's child; Wiser men than me's beguil'd-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.
II.
How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see; Whistle o'er the lave o't.-- Wha I wish were maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write--but Meg maun see't-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.
Tune--"My love is lost to me."
[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of Oswald's.]
I.
O, were I on Parnassus' hill! Or had of Helicon my fill; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my Muse's well; My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel': On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, And write how dear I love thee.
II.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-- By heaven and earth I love thee!
III.
By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; And aye I muse and sing thy name-- I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, Till my last weary sand was run; Till then--and then I love thee.
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
To a Gaelic Air.
["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.]
I.
There's a youth in this city, It were a great pity That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa: For he's bonnie an' braw, Weel-favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. His coat is the hue Of his bonnet sae blue; His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, And his shoon like the slae. And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.
II.
For beauty and fortune The laddie's been courtin'; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw; But chiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. There's Meg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen him; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy Maist fetters his fancy-- But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.
* * * * *
LXXIX.
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
Tune--"Failte na Miosg."
[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, "The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.]
I.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
II.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
* * * * *
LXXX.
JOHN ANDERSON.
Tune--"John Anderson, my jo."
[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo."]
I.
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
II.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
* * * * *
LXXXI.
OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.
Tune--"Awa Whigs, awa."
[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly his.]
CHORUS.
Awa Whigs, awa! Awa Whigs, awa! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae good at a'.
I
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom'd our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies.
II.
Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust-- Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; And write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
III.
Our sad decay in Church and State Surpasses my descriving: The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we hae done wi' thriving.
IV.
Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, But we may see him wauken; Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin. Awa Whigs, awa! Awa Whigs, awa! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae gude at a'.
* * * * *
LXXXII.
CA' THE EWES.
Tune--"Ca' the ewes to the knowes."
[Most of this sweet pastoral is of other days: Burns made several emendations, and added the concluding verse. He afterwards, it will be observed, wrote for Thomson a second version of the subject and the air.]
CHORUS
Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie!
I.
As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie.
II.
Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide, Beneath the hazels spreading wide? The moon it shines fu' clearly.
III.
I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me.
IV.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie.
V.
If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may rowe me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie.
VI.
While waters wimple to the sea; While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 'Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e, Ye sall be my dearie. Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, My bonnie dearie.
* * * * *
LXXXIII.
MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE.
Tune--"Lord Breadalbone's March."
[Part of this song is old: Sir Harris Nicolas says it does not appear to be in the Museum: let him look again.]
I.
O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.
II.
Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, O' marrying Bess to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! And blest be the day I did it again.
* * * * *
LXXXIV.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune--"The Braes o' Ballochmyle."
[Mary Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, was the heroine of this song: it was written when that ancient family left their ancient inheritance. It is in the Museum, with an air by Allan Masterton.]
I.
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!
II.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye'll nourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
* * * * *
LXXXV.
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Tune--"Death of Captain Cook."
[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with his eyes fixed on "a bright, particular star," was found by his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared in the Museum.]
I.
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
II.
That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
III.
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn, hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptured scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray-- Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
IV.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
* * * * *
LXXXVI.
EPPIE ADAIR.
Tune--"My Eppie."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an old strain, corrected by Burns: he communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair? By love, and by beauty, By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair!
II.
An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie! Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair? A' pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee, My Eppie Adair!
* * * * *
LXXXVII.
THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.
Tune--"Cameronian Rant."
[One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the battle of Sheriff-muir: Burns was in nowise pleased with the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved version.]
I.
"O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?" I saw the battle, sair and tough, And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
II.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles: They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, 'Till fey men died awa, man.
III.
But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man.
IV.
"O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man!"
V.
My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good-will That day their neebors' blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose--they scar'd at blows. And so it goes, you see, man.
VI.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man! I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; And mony bade the world guid-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell, And Whigs to hell did flee, man.
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
YOUNG JOCKEY.
Tune--"Young Jockey."
[With the exception of three or four lines, this song, though marked in the Museum as an old song with additions, is the work of Burns. He often seems to have sat down to amend or modify old verses, and found it easier to make verses wholly new.]
I.
Young Jockey was the blythest lad In a' our town or here awa: Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, He roos'd my waist sae genty sma', And ay my heart came to my mou' When ne'er a body heard or saw.
II.
My Jockey toils upon the plain, Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. An' ay the night comes round again, When in his arms he takes me a', An' ay he vows he'll be my ain, As lang's he has a breath to draw.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
O WILLIE BREW'D.
Tune--"Willie brew'd a peck o' maut."
[The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a small estate which Nicol bought by the advice of the poet. It was composed in memory of the house-heating. "We had such a joyous meeting," says Burns, "that Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, to celebrate the business." The Willie who made the browst was, therefore, William Nicol; the Allan who composed the air, Allan Masterton; and he who wrote this choicest of convivial songs, Robert Burns.]
I.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan came to see: Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
II.
Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!
III.
It is the moon--I ken her horn, That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
IV.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa', A cuckold, coward loon is he! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three! We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our e'e; The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
* * * * *
XC.
WHARE HAE YE BEEN.
Tune--"Killiecrankie."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Museum without Burns's name." It was composed by Burns on the battle of Killiecrankie, and sent in his own handwriting to Johnson; he puts it in the mouth of a Whig.]
I.
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O? O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O? An' ye had been whare I hae been, Ye wad na been so cantie, O; An' ye had seen what I hae seen, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
II.
I fought at land, I fought at sea; At hame I fought my auntie, O; But I met the Devil an' Dundee, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, An' Claver'se got a clankie, O; Or I had fed on Athole gled, On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
* * * * *
XCI.
I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN.
Air--"The blue-eyed lass."
[This blue-eyed lass was Jean Jeffry, daughter to the minister of Lochmaben: she was then a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York.]
I.
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearlie rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white-- It was her een sae bonnie blue.
II.
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd; She charm'd my soul--I wist na how: And ay the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed; She'll aiblins listen to my vow: Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue.
* * * * *
XCII.
THE BANKS OF NITH.
Tune--"Robie donna Gorach."
[The command which the Comyns held on the Nith was lost to the Douglasses: the Nithsdale power, on the downfall of that proud name, was divided; part went to the Charteris's and the better portion to the Maxwells: the Johnstones afterwards came in for a share, and now the Scots prevail.]
I.
The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, Where Comyns ance had high command: When shall I see that honour'd land, That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here?
II.
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days!
* * * * *
XCIII.
MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE.
Tune--"Tam Glen."
[Tam Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and older air: of the former all that remains is a portion of the chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museum.]
I.
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie! Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
II.
I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might make a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen?
III.
There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, "Gude day to you, brute!" he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
IV.
My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think so o' Tam Glen?
V.
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
VI.
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written--Tam Glen.
VII.
The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
VIII.
Come counsel, dear Tittie! don't tarry-- I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad that I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
* * * * *
XCIV.
FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.
Air--"Carron Side."
[Burns says, "I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is." The rest of the song is supposed to be from the same hand: the lines are not to be found in earlier collections.]
I.
Frae the friends and land I love, Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, Frae my best belov'd I rove, Never mair to taste delight; Never mair maun hope to find, Ease frae toil, relief frae care: When remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair.
II.
Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, Bring our banish'd hame again; And ilka loyal bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his ain.
* * * * *
XCV.
SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING.
Tune--"Craigie-burn-wood."
[This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time lived on the banks of the Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with her: but it did not prevail, for she married an officer of the name of Whelpdale, lived with him for a month or so: reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation necessary; she then took up her residence in Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing the poet. She lived till lately.]
CHORUS.
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to be lying beyond thee; O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
I.
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, And blithely awaukens the morrow; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
II.
I see the spreading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing; But pleasure they hae nane for me, While care my heart is wringing.
III.
I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.
IV.
I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie; But oh! what will my torments be, If thou refuse thy Johnnie!
V.
To see thee in anither's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
VI.
But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say, thou lo'es nane before me; And a' my days o' life to come I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to be lying beyond thee; O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee!
* * * * *
XCVI.
COCK UP YOUR BEAVER.
Tune--"Cock up your beaver."
["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Musical Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, eked out and amended by the poet: all the last verse, save the last line, is his; several of the lines too of the first verse, have felt his amending hand: he communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town, He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather,-- Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver!
II.
Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu' sprush, We'll over the border And gie them a brush; There's somebody there We'll teach better behaviour-- Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver!
* * * * *
XCVII.
MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE.
Tune--"My tocher's the jewel."
[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum, to an air by Oswald: but he wished them to be sung to a tune called "Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he was an admirer.]
I.
O Meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae lure to spare for me.
II.
Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
GANE IS THE DAY.
Tune--"Gudewife count the lawin."
[The air as well as words of this song were furnished to the Museum by Burns. "The chorus," he says, "is part of an old song."]
I.
Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And blude-red wine's the rising sun. Then gudewife count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin; Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair!
II.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fight and fen; But here we're a' in ae accord, For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
III.
My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' care and dool; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. Then gudewife count the lawin; The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair!
* * * * *
XCIX.
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.
Tune--"There art few gude fellows when Willie's awa."
[The bard was in one of his Jacobitical moods when he wrote this song. The air is a well known one, called "There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa." But of the words none, it is supposed, are preserved.]
I.
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; And as he was singing the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars: We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
II.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
* * * * *
C.
HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD?
Tune--"The bonnie lad that's far awa."
[This lamentation was written, it is said, in allusion to the sufferings of Jean Armour, when her correspondence with Burns was discovered by her family.]
I.
O how can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa? When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa.
II.
It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa.
III.
My father pat me frae his door, My friends they line disown'd me a', But I hae ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. But I hae ane will tak' my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa.
IV.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa. And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa.
V.
O weary Winter soon will pass, And spring will cleed the birken shaw; And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa. And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa.
* * * * *
CI.
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.
Tune--"I do confess thou art sae fair."
["I do think," says Burns, in allusion to this song, "that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments by giving them a Scottish dress." The original song is of great elegance and beauty: it was written by Sir Robert Aytoun, secretary to Anne of Denmark, Queen of James I.]
I.
I do confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in love, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind, That kisses ilka thing it meets.
II.
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue When pou'd and worn a common toy! Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like ony common weed and vile.
* * * * *
CII.
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
Tune--"Yon wild mossy mountains."
["This song alludes to a part of my private history, which is of no consequence to the world to know." These are the words of Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is supposed to be the "Nannie," who dwelt near the Lugar.]
I.
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
II.
Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
III.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.
IV.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; O' nice education but sma' is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
V.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts.
VI.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, Has lustre outshining the diamond to me: And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms! And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
* * * * *
CIII.
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.
Tune--"The Maid's Complaint."
[Burns found this song in English attire, bestowed a Scottish dress upon it, and published it in the Museum, together with the air by Oswald, which is one of his best.]
I.
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awake desire. Something in ilka part o' thee, To praise, to love, I find; But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.
II.
Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna mak thee sae, at least to see thee blest. Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness to thee: And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die.
* * * * *
CIV.
WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS.
[These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns into a song, for the collection of Thomson: the song will be found in its place: the variations are worthy of preservation.]
I.
When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!
II.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.
* * * * *
CV.
WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM.
[This presents another version of song LXV. Variations are to a poet what changes are in the thoughts of a painter, and speak of fertility of sentiment in both.]
I.
Whan I sleep I dream, Whan I wauk I'm eerie, Sleep I canna get, For thinkin' o' my dearie.
II.
Lanely night comes on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on the bonnie lad That has my heart a keeping. Ay waukin O, waukin ay and wearie, Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my dearie.
III.
Lanely nights come on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on my bonnie lad, An' I blear my een wi' greetin'! Ay waukin, &c.
* * * * *
CVI.
I MURDER HATE.
[These verses are to be found in a volume which may be alluded to without being named, in which many of Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be found.]
I.
I murder hate by field or flood, Tho' glory's name may screen us: In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus.
II.
The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty, I'm better pleas'd to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.
* * * * *
CVII.
O GUDE ALE COMES.
[These verses are in the museum; the first two are old, the concluding one is by Burns.]
I.
O gude ale comes, and gude ale goes, Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.
II.
I had sax owsen in a pleugh, They drew a' weel eneugh, I sell'd them a' just ane by ane; Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.
III.
Gude ale hands me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand i' the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. O gude ale comes, &c.
* * * * *
CVIII.
ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.
[This is an old chaunt, out of which Burns brushed some loose expressions, added the third and fourth verses, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him, Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him.
II.
I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden, At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Robin.
III.
Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, And me the eller's dochter? Robin share in hairst, &c.
IV.
Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle; Fient haet he had but three Goose feathers and a whittle. Robin share in hairst, &c.
* * * * *
CIX.
BONNIE PEG.
[A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to the endearments of these lovers; but that planet sees more indiscreet matters than it is right to describe.]
I.
As I came in by our gate end, As day was waxin' weary, O wha came tripping down the street, But Bonnie Peg my dearie!
II.
Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting; The Queen of Love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting.
III.
Wi' linked hands, we took the sands A-down yon winding river; And, oh! that hour and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever?
* * * * *
CX.
GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER.
[This song in other days was a controversial one, and continued some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome and her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were illegitimate. Burns changed the meaning, and published his altered version in the Museum.]
I.
Gudeen to you, Kimmer, And how do ye do? Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, The better that I'm fou. We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, We're a' noddin, at our house at hame.
II.
Kate sits i' the neuk, Suppin hen broo; Deil tak Kate An' she be na noddin too! We're a' noddin, &c.
III.
How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye fare? A pint o' the best o't, And twa pints mair. We're a' noddin, &c.
IV.
How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye thrive; How many bairns hae ye? Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. We're a' noddin, &c.
V.
Are they a' Johnie's? Eh! atweel no: Twa o' them were gotten When Johnie was awa. We're a noddin, &c.
VI.
Cats like milk, And dogs like broo; Lads like lasses weel, And lasses lads too. We're a' noddin, &c.
* * * * *
CXI.
AH, CHLORIS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE.
Tune--"Major Graham."
[Sir Harris Nicolas found these lines on Chloris among the papers of Burns, and printed them in his late edition of the poet's works.]
I.
Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear.
II.
Altho' I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne'er declare, I'll say, I wish thee well.
III.
Tho' a' my daily care thou art, And a' my nightly dream, I'll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem.
* * * * *
CXII.
O SAW YE MY DEARIE.
Tune--"Eppie Macnab."
["Published in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "without any name." Burns corrected some lines in the old song, which had more wit, he said, than decency, and added others, and sent his amended version to Johnson.]
I.
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.
II.
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab.
* * * * *
CXIII.
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR.
Tune--"Lass an I come near thee."
[The "Auld man and the Widow," in Ramsay's collection is said, by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested this song to his brother: it first appeared in the Museum.]
I.
Wha is that at my bower door? O, wha is it but Findlay? Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!-- Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay; Before the morn ye'll work mischief; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
II.
Gif I rise and let you in? Let me in, quo' Findlay; Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my bower if you should stay? Let me stay, quo' Findlay; I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
III.
Here this night if ye remain;-- I'll remain, quo' Findlay; I dread ye'll learn the gate again; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. What may pass within this bower,-- Let it pass, quo' Findlay; Ye maun conceal till your last hour; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay!
* * * * *
CXIV.
WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE.
Tune--"What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man."
[In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the heroine threatens only to adorn her husband's brows: Burns proposes a system of domestic annoyance to break his heart.]
I.
What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'! Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'!
II.
He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang; He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man! He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!
III.
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can; He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man! He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man!
IV.
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
* * * * *
CXV.
THE BONNIE WEE THING.
Tune--"Bonnie wee thing."
["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies."]
I.
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.
II.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o' this soul o' mine! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine!
* * * * *
CXVI.
THE TITHER MOON.
To a Highland Air.
["The tune of this song," says Burns, "is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which was not by any means a lady's song." "It occurs," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "in the Museum, without the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's own handwriting to Johnson, and is believed to be his composition.]
I.
The tither morn, When I forlorn, Aneath an oak sat moaning, I did na trow I'd see my Jo, Beside me, gain the gloaming. But he sae trig, Lap o'er the rig. And dawtingly did cheer me, When I, what reck, Did least expec', To see my lad so near me.
II.
His bonnet he, A thought ajee, Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; And I, I wat, Wi' fainness grat, While in his grips be press'd me. Deil tak' the war! I late and air Hae wish'd since Jock departed; But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, As short syne broken-hearted.
III.
Fu' aft at e'en Wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry, I car'd na by, Sae sad was I In absence o' my dearie. But praise be blest, My mind's at rest, I'm happy wi' my Johnny: At kirk and fair, I'se ay be there, And be as canty's ony.
* * * * *
CXVII.
AE FOND KISS.
Tune--"Rory Dall's Port."
[Believed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. "These exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, "contain the essence of a thousand love-tales." They are in the Museum.]
I.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.
II.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her, was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever.-- Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken hearted.
III.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
* * * * *
CXVIII.
LOVELY DAVIES.
Tune--"Miss Muir."
[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davies.]
I.
O how shall I, unskilfu', try The poet's occupation, The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whispers inspiration? Even they maun dare an effort mair, Than aught they ever gave us, Or they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o' lovely Davies. Each eye it cheers, when she appears, Like Phoebus in the morning. When past the shower, and ev'ry flower The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is; Sae droops our heart when we maun part Frae charming lovely Davies.
II.
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes; A scepter'd hand, a king's command, Is in her darting glances: The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, Even he her willing slave is; He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My muse to dream of such a theme, Her feeble pow'rs surrender: The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour: I wad in vain essay the strain, The deed too daring brave is! I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms o' lovely Davies.
* * * * *
CXIX.
THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.
Tune--"The weary Pund o' Tow."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum; but it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many songs which he took without scruple from my edition, where they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet: I said "the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words." It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own handwriting.]
I.
The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow: I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. I bought my wife a stane o' lint As gude as e'er did grow; And a' that she has made o' that, Is ae poor pund o' tow.
II.
There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low, And ay she took the tither souk, To drouk the stowrie tow.
III.
Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o' tow! She took the rock, and wi' a knock She brak it o'er my pow.
IV.
At last her feet--I sang to see't-- Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow.
* * * * *
CXX.
NAEBODY.
Tune--"Naebody."
[Burns had built his house at Ellisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.]
I.
I hae a wife o' my ain-- I'll partake wi' naebody; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spend, There--thanks to naebody; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody.
II.
I am naebody's lord-- I'll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody; Naebody cares for me, I'll care for naebody.
* * * * *
CXXI.
O, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM!
Tune--"The Moudiewort."
[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Burns says simply, "This song is mine." The air for a century before had to bear the burthen of very ordinary words.]
CHORUS.
An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.
I.
They snool me sair, and haud me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tam! But three short years will soon wheel roun'-- And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam.
II.
A gleib o' lan', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam, At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.
III.
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam; But hear'st thou, laddie--there's my loof-- I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam! An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' song, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.
* * * * *
CXXII.
O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA.
Tune--"O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie."
[The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole was sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.]
I.
O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! O Kenmure's on and awa! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, That ever Galloway saw.
II.
Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! Success to Kenmure's band; There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand.
III.
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! Here's Kenmure's health in wine; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line.
IV.
O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie! O Kenmure's lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true-- And that their faes shall ken.
V.
They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie! They'll live or die wi' fame; But soon wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame.
VI.
Here's him that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far awa; And here's the flower that I love best-- The rose that's like the snaw!
* * * * *
CXXIII.
MY COLLIER LADDIE.
Tune--"The Collier Laddie."
[The Collier Laddie was communicated by Burns, and in his handwriting, to the Museum: it is chiefly his own composition, though coloured by an older strain.]
I.
Where live ye, my bonnie lass? An' tell me what they ca' ye; My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie. My name she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier Laddie.
II.
See you not yon hills and dales, The sun shines on sae brawlie! They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.
III.
Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel buskit up sae gaudy; And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.
IV.
Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly; I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie. I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie.
V.
I can win my five pennies a day, And spen't at night fu' brawlie; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie.
VI.
Luve for luve is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie.
* * * * *
CXXIV.
NITHSDALE'S WELCOME HAME.
[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum: the Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants of the Earls of Nithsdale.]
I.
The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o'er the border, And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, An' set them a' in order. And they declare Terreagles fair, For their abode they chuse it; There's no a heart in a' the land, But's lighter at the news o't.
II.
Tho' stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather: The weary night o' care and grief May hae a joyful morrow; So dawning day has brought relief-- Fareweel our night o' sorrow!
* * * * *
CXXV.
AS I WAS A-WAND'RING.
Tune--"Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh."
[The original song in the Gaelic language was translated for Burns by an Inverness-shire lady; he turned it into verse, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', The pipers and youngsters were making their game; Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him; I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane.
II.
I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin', The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain: Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, For, oh! luve forsaken's a tormenting pain.
III.
Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, I dinna envy him the gains he can win; I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane.
* * * * *
CXXVI.
BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL.
Tune--"The sweet lass that lo'es me."
[There are several variations of this song, but they neither affect the sentiment, nor afford matter for quotation.]
I.
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel, O leeze me on the rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! I'll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal-- O leeze me on my spinning-wheel!
II.
On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest: The sun blinks kindly in the biel', Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel.
III.
On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither's lays: The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.
IV.
Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great? Amid their flaring, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel?
* * * * *
CXXVII.
O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN.
Tune--"The Posie."
["The Posie is my composition," says Burns, in a letter to Thomson. "The air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice." It was first printed in the Museum.]
I.
O luve will venture in Where it daurna weel be seen; O luve will venture in Where wisdom ance has been. But I will down yon river rove, Among the wood sae green-- And a' to pu' a posie To my ain dear May.
II.
The primrose I will pu', The firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, The emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, And blooms without a peer-- And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.
III.
I'll pu' the budding rose, When Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss O' her sweet bonnie mou'; The hyacinth's for constancy, Wi' its unchanging blue-- And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.
IV.
The lily it is pure, And the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity, And unaffected air-- And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.
V.
The hawthorn I will pu' Wi' its locks o' siller gray, Where, like an aged man, It stands at break of day. But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away-- And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.
VI.
The woodbine I will pu' When the e'ening star is near, And the diamond drops o' dew Shall be her e'en sae clear; The violet's for modesty, Which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May.
VII.
I'll tie the posie round, Wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, And I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught of life The band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a posie To my ain dear May.
* * * * *
CXXVIII.
COUNTRY LASSIE.
Tune--"The Country Lass."
[A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's handwriting, presents two or three immaterial variations of this dramatic song.]
I.
In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says--I'll be wed, come o't what will; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild-- O' guid advisement comes nae ill.
II.
It's ye hae wooers mony ane, And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routhie ben: There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the luver's fire.
III.
For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me: But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.
IV.
O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, An hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend, and some will spare, An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.
V.
O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy; We may be poor--Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on; Content and luve brings peace and joy-- What mair hae queens upon a throne?
* * * * *
CXXIX.
FAIR ELIZA.
A Gaelic Air.
[The name of the heroine of this song was at first Rabina: but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting something new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted; which was a positive fraud; for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.]
I.
Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise!
II.
Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? The offence is loving thee: Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for time wad gladly die? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe; Turn again, thou lovely maiden. Ae sweet smile on me bestow.
III.
Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me.
* * * * *
CXXX.
YE JACOBITES BY NAME.
Tune--"Ye Jacobites by name."
["Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first time in the Museum: it was sent in the handwriting of Burns.]
I.
Ye Jacobites by name, give and ear, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame-- You shall hear.
II.
What is right, and what is wrang, by the law, by the law? What is right and what is wrang, by the law? What is right and what is wrang? A short sword, and a lang, A weak arm, and a strang For to draw.
III.
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife? To whet th' assassin's knife, Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war.
IV.
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; Then let your schemes alone in the state; Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun, And leave a man undone To his fate.
* * * * *
CXXXI.
THE BANKS OF DOON.
[FIRST VERSION.]
[An Ayrshire legend says the heroine of this affecting song was Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to her love for her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.]
I.
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!
II.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause love was true.
III.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.
IV.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine.
V.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree: And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me.
* * * * *
CXXXII.
THE BANKS O' DOON.
[SECOND VERSION.]
Tune--"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by adapting it to a new air, accidentally composed by an amateur who was directed, if he desired to create a Scottish air, to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve rhythm.]
I.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return!
II.
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
* * * * *
CXXXIII.
WILLIE WASTLE.
Tune--"The eight men of Moidart."
[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer's wife of the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, who lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.]
I.
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie. Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie; He had a wife was dour and din, O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.
II.
She has an e'e--she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller: A whiskin' beard about her mou', Her nose and chin they threaten ither-- Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.
III.
She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn'd, A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter; She's twisted right, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther-- Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.
IV.
Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin'; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water-- Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her.
* * * * *
CXXXIV.
LADY MARY ANN.
Tune--"Craigtown's growing."
[The poet sent this song to the Museum, in his own handwriting: yet part of it is believed to be old; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made his interpolations and changes.]
I.
O, Lady Mary Ann Looks o'er the castle wa', She saw three bonnie boys Playing at the ba'; The youngest he was The flower amang them a'-- My bonnie laddie's young, But he's growin' yet.
II.
O father! O father! An' ye think it fit, We'll send him a year To the college yet: We'll sew a green ribbon Round about his hat, And that will let them ken He's to marry yet.
III.
Lady Mary Ann Was a flower i' the dew, Sweet was its smell, And bonnie was its hue; And the langer it blossom'd The sweeter it grew; For the lily in the bud Will be bonnier yet.
IV.
Young Charlie Cochran Was the sprout of an aik; Bonnie and bloomin' And straught was its make: The sun took delight To shine for its sake, And it will be the brag O' the forest yet.
V.
The simmer is gane, When the leaves they were green, And the days are awa, That we hae seen; But far better days I trust will come again, For my bonnie laddie's young, But he's growin' yet.
* * * * *
CXXXV.
SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION.
Tune.--"A parcel of rogues in a nation."
[This song was written by Burns in a moment of honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of the south the independence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.]
I.
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean, To mark where England's province stands-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
II.
What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few For hireling traitor's wages. The English steel we could disdain; Secure in valour's station; But English gold has been our bane-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
III.
O would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could sell us, My auld gray head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour, I'll mak' this declaration; We've bought and sold for English gold-- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
* * * * *
CXXXVI.
THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES.
Tune--"Kellyburn Braes."
[Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her finger over the long list of lyrics which her husband had written or amended for the Museum, "Robert gae this one a terrible brushing." A considerable portion of the old still remains.]
I.
There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
II.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He met wi' the devil; says, "How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
III.
"I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."
IV.
"It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."
V.
"O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), "But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."
VI.
The devil has got the auld wife on his back; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
VII.
He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). Syne bade her gae in, for a b--h and a w--e, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
VIII.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
IX.
The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
X.
A reekit wee devil looks over the wa'; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), "O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."
XI.
The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He pitied the man that was tied to a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
XII.
The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
XIII.
Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And to her auld husband he's carried her back: And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
XIV.
"I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime."
* * * * *
CXXXVII.
JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS.
Tune--"Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss."
[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its origin: and he is silent about it in his memoranda.]
I.
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gane; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain.
II.
When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blithe his waukening be! He will think on her he loves, Fondly he'll repeat her name; For where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame.
* * * * *
CXXXVIII.
LADY ONLIE.
Tune--"The Ruffian's Rant."
[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not much, is believed to be old.]
I.
A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak' a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
II.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, I wat she is a dainty chucky; And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
* * * * *
CXXXIX.
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
Tune--"Captain O'Kean."
["Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at the desire of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air and subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to be Robert Cleghorn: he loved the air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.]
I.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
II.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none; But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn: My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial-- Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!
* * * * *
CXL.
SONG OF DEATH.
Air--"Oran an Aoig."
["I have just finished the following song," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."]
Scene--A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:
I.
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties-- Our race of existence is run!
II.
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe! Go frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!
III.
Thou strik'st the dull peasant--he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero--a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame!
IV.
In the field of proud honour--our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save-- While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, Oh! who would not die with the brave!
* * * * *
CXLI.
FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.
Tune--"Afton Water."
[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.]
I.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
II.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-- I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
III.
How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
IV.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow! There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
V.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
VI.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays! My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.
* * * * *
CXLII.
THE SMILING SPRING.
Tune--"The Bonnie Bell."
["Bonnie Bell," was first printed in the Museum: who the heroine was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it is a pity.]
I.
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonnie blue are the sunny skies; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; All creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.
II.
The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonnie Bell.
* * * * *
CXLIII.
THE CARLES OF DYSART.
Tune--"Hey ca' thro'."
[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part of it is his composition, and some believe the whole.]
I.
Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, And the lads o' Buckhaven, And the kimmers o' Largo, And the lasses o' Leven. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado; Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado.
II.
We hae tales to tell, And we hae sangs to sing; We hae pennies to spend, And we hae pints to bring.
III.
We'll live a' our days, And them that come behin', Let them do the like, And spend the gear they win. Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado, Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', For we hae mickle ado.
* * * * *
CXLIV.
THE GALLANT WEAVER.
Tune--"The Weavers' March."
[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms, in the west of Scotland.]
I.
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me, He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers aught or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine; And I was fear'd my heart would tine, And I gied it to the weaver.
II.
My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, To gie the lad that has the land; But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; While bees delight in op'ning flowers; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver.
* * * * *
CXLV.
THE BAIRNS GAT OUT.
Tune--"The deuks dang o'er my daddie."
[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of the words of this song in a strain, rather rough and home-spun, of Scotland's elder day. He communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O! The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin body, O! He paidles out, an' he paidles in, An' he paidles late an' early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O!
II.
O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O! I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wadna been sae donsie, O! I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, And cuddled me late and early, O! But downa do's come o'er me now, And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!
* * * * *
CXLVI.
SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.
Tune--"She's fair and fause."
[One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of the North: the air is almost as happy as the words.]
I.
She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle and lang; She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, And I may e'en gae hang. A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear; But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
II.
Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind. O woman, lovely woman fair! An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair-- I mean an angel mind.
* * * * *
CXLVII.
THE EXCISEMAN.
Tune--"The Deil cam' fiddling through the town."
[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the excisemen of the Dumfries district.]
I.
The deil cam' fiddling through the town, And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, And ilka wife cries--"Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man!" The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman; He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman!
II.
We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
III.
There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land Was--the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman: He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
* * * * *
CXLVIII.
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.
Tune--"Lass of Inverness."
[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden, in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose on his fancy: the first four lines are partly old.]
I.
The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn, she cries, alas! And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e: Drumossie moor--Drumossie day-- A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.
II.
Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou host made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.
* * * * *
CXLIX.
A RED, RED ROSE.
Tune--"Graham's Strathspey."
[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments of this song in certain street ballads: it resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a drop-ripe damson.]
I.
O, my luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.
II.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry.
III.
'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
IV.
And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a-while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
* * * * *
CL.
LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. Tune--"Louis, what reck I by thee."
[The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.]
I.
Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean? Dyvor, beggar loons to me-- I reign in Jeannie's bosom.
II.
Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me. Kings and nations--swith, awa! Reif randies, I disown ye!
* * * * *
CLI.
HAD I THE WYTE.
Tune--"Had I the wyte she bade me."
[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, Had I the wyte she bade me; She watch'd me by the hie-gate side. And up the loan she shaw'd me; And when I wadna venture in, A coward loon she ca'd me; Had kirk and state been in the gate, I lighted when she bade me.
II.
Sae craftilie she took me ben, And bade me make nae clatter; "For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman Is out and owre the water:" Whae'er shall say I wanted grace When I did kiss and dawte her, Let him be planted in my place, Syne say I was the fautor.
III.
Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refused her? And wadna manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly used her? He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame, And blue and bluidy bruised her; When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but had excused her?
IV.
I dighted ay her een sae blue, And bann'd the cruel randy; And weel I wat her willing mou', Was e'en like sugar-candy. A gloamin-shot it was I wot, I lighted on the Monday; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, To wanton Willie's brandy.
* * * * *
CLII.
COMING THROUGH THE RYE.
Tune--"Coming through the rye."
[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, when it was first printed.]
I.
Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye. Jenny's a' wat, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.
II.
Gin a body meet a body-- Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body-- Need a body cry?
III.
Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body-- Need the world ken? Jenny's a' wat, poor body; Jenny's seldom dry; She draiglet a' her petticoatie, Coming through the rye.
* * * * *
CLIII.
YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN.
Tune--"The carlin o' the glen."
[Sent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part only is thought to be his]
I.
Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, And reign'd resistless king of love: But now wi' sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and briers; Or in the glens and rocky caves His sad complaining dowie raves.
II.
I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang'd with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear: The slighted maids my torment see, And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, Forbids me e'er to see her mair!
* * * * *
CLIV.
OUT OVER THE FORTH.
Tune--"Charlie Gordon's welcome hame."
[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th March 1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.]
I.
Out over the Forth I look to the north, But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.
II.
But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I Io'e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me.
* * * * *
CLV.
THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN.
Tune--"Jacky Latin."
[Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan was amused with a rough old district song, which some one sung: he rendered, at a leisure moment, the language more delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Gat ye me, O gat ye me, O gat ye me wi' naething? Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, A mickle quarter basin. Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A' for bye, my bonnie sel', The toss of Ecclefechan.
II.
O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, O hand your tongue and jauner; I held the gate till you I met, Syne I began to wander: I tint my whistle and my sang, I tint my peace and pleasure: But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, Wad airt me to my treasure.
* * * * *
CLVI.
THE COOPER O' CUDDIE.
Tune--"Bab at the bowster."
[The wit of this song is better than its delicacy: it is printed in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.]
I.
The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, And ca'd the girrs out owre us a'-- And our gudewife has gotten a ca' That anger'd the silly gude-man, O. We'll hide the cooper behind the door; Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O.
II.
He sought them out, he sought them in, Wi', deil hae her! and, deil hae him! But the body was sae doited and blin', He wist na where he was gaun, O.
III.
They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; On ilka brow she's planted a horn, And swears that they shall stan', O. We'll hide the cooper behind the door, Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O.
* * * * *
CLVII.
SOMEBODY.
Tune--"For the sake of somebody."
[Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines of this lyric from Ramsay: he sent it to the Museum.]
I.
My heart is sair--I dare na tell-- My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake o' somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody!
II.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do--what wad I not? For the sake o' somebody!
* * * * *
CLVIII.
THE CARDIN' O'T.
Tune--"Salt-fish and dumplings."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum, but not with Burns's name to it." It was given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.]
I.
I coft a stane o' haslock woo', To make a wat to Johnny o't; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo'e him best of ony yet. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o't.
II.
For though his locks be lyart gray, And tho' his brow be beld aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a' the parishen. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o't.
* * * * *
CLIX.
WHEN JANUAR' WIND.
Tune--"The lass that made the bed for me."
[Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, recording an adventure which Charles the Second, while under Presbyterian rule in Scotland, had with a young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercising his taste and skill upon it, produced the present--still too free song, for the Museum.]
I.
When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, As to the north I took my way, The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew na where to lodge till day.
II.
By my good luck a maid I met, Just in the middle o' my care; And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair.
III.
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And thank'd her for her courtesie; I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And bade her mak a bed to me.
IV.
She made the bed baith large and wide, Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; She put the cup to her rosy lips, And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye soun'."
V.
She snatch'd the candle in her hand, And frae my chamber went wi' speed; But I call'd her quickly back again To lay some mair below my head.
VI.
A cod she laid below my head, And served me wi' due respect; And to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck.
VII.
"Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, "And dinna sae uncivil be: If ye hae onto love for me, O wrang na my virginitie!"
VIII.
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me.
IX.
Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, The lass that made the bed to me.
X.
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, And ay she wist na what to say; I laid her between me and the wa'-- The lassie thought na lang till day.
XI.
Upon the morrow when we rose, I thank'd her for her courtesie; But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, And said, "Alas! ye've ruin'd me."
XII.
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e; I said, "My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall mak the bed to me."
XIII.
She took her mither's Holland sheets, And made them a' in sarks to me: Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me.
XIV.
The bonnie lass made the bed to me, The braw lass made the bed to me: I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, The lass that made the bed to me!
* * * * *
CLX.
SAE FAR AWA.
Tune--"Dalkeith Maiden Bridge."
[This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, in his own handwriting.]
I.
O, sad and heavy should I part, But for her sake sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa. Thou that of a' things Maker art, That form'd this fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start At this my way sae far awa.
II.
How true is love to pure desert, So love to her, sae far awa: And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, While, oh! she is sae far awa. Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but hers, sae far awa; But fairer never touch'd a heart Than hers, the fair sae far awa.
* * * * *
CLXI.
I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN.
Tune--"I'll gae nae mair to yon town."
[Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromek's Reliques: it was first printed in the Museum.]
I.
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sall ken, there's nane sall guess, What brings me back the gate again; But she my fairest faithfu' lass, And stownlins we sall meet again.
II.
She'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-time draws near again; And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she's doubly dear again! I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again.
* * * * *
CLXII.
O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.
Tune--"I'll ay ca' in by yon town."
[The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song: it was not, however, composed expressly in honour of her charms. "As I was a good deal pleased," he says in a letter to Syme, "with my performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He sent it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.]
CHORUS.
O, wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on.
I.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!
II.
How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear.
III.
The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
IV.
Without my love, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!
V.
My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there.
VI.
O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in you town His setting beam ne'er shone upon.
VII.
If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me--spare me, Lucy dear!
VIII.
For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she--as fairest is her form! She has the truest, kindest heart! O, wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town That e'enin sun is shining on.
* * * * *
CLXIII.
O MAY, THY MORN.
Tune--"May, thy morn."
[Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain to the accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his "People's Edition" of Burns.]
I.
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember. And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember.
II.
And here's to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum; And here's to them that wish us weel, May a' that's guid watch o'er them, And here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum. Ami here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum!
* * * * *
CLXIV.
LOVELY POLLY STEWART.
Tune--"Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart."
[The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind seems to have been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacobite ballads, when he penned these words;--they are in the Museum.]
I.
O lovely Polly Stewart! O charming Polly Stewart! There's not a flower that blooms in May That's half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, And art can ne'er renew it; But worth and truth eternal youth Will give to Polly Stewart.
II.
May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms Possess a leal and true heart; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. O lovely Polly Stewart! O charming Polly Stewart! There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half so sweet as thou art.
* * * * *
CLXV.
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.
Tune--"If thou'lt play me fair play."
[A long and wearisome ditty, called "The Highland Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed into these stanzas, for Johnson's Museum.]
I.
The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie.
II.
Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie; Lowland lassie; And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie.
III.
The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; And for your lawful king, his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie.
* * * * *
CLXVI.
ANNA, THY CHARMS.
Tune--"Bonnie Mary."
[The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown: it was inserted in the third edition of his Poems.]
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; But ah! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair! Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, To hope may be forgiv'n; For sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heav'n.
* * * * *
CLXVII.
CASSILLIS' BANKS.
Tune--[unknown.]
[It is supposed that "Highland Mary," who lived sometime on Cassillis's banks, is the heroine of these verses.]
I.
Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, An' scattered cowslips sweetly spring; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, There wi' my Mary let me flee, There catch her ilka glance of love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!
II.
The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth Is aften laird o' meikle care; But Mary she is a' my ain-- Ah! fortune canna gie me mair. Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, And catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e!
* * * * *
CLXVIII.
TO THEE, LOVED NITH.
Tune--[unknown.]
[There are several variations extant of these verses, and among others one which transfers the praise from the Nith to the Dee: but to the Dee, if the poet spoke in his own person, no such influences could belong.]
I.
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.
II.
I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; For there he rov'd that brake my heart, Yet to that heart, ah! still how dear!
* * * * *
CLXIX.
BANNOCKS O' BARLEY.
Tune--"The Killogie."
["This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but without Burns's name." Burns took up an old song, and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite spirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o' barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley.
II.
Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley. Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley?
* * * * *
CLXX.
HEE BALOU.
Tune--"The Highland Balou."
["Published in the Musical Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "but without the name of the author." It is an old strain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to the Museum in his own handwriting.]
I.
Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald, Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton chief Wha got my young Highland thief.
II.
Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie: Travel the country thro' and thro', And bring hame a Carlisle cow.
III.
Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder: Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, Syne to the Highlands hame to me.
* * * * *
CLXXI.
WAE IS MY HEART.
Tune--"Wae is my heart."
[Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, Phillis M'Murdo.]
I.
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e; Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me; Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear.
II.
Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved; But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.
III.
O, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle green; For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e.
* * * * *
CLXXII.
HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER.
Tune--"The job of journey-work."
[Burns took the hint of this song from an older and less decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been said, in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Armour found herself before marriage; as if Burns could be capable of anything so insulting. The words are in the Museum.]
Altho' my back be at the wa', An' tho' he be the fautor; Altho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water! O! wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie he could flatter; Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter. But tho' my back be at the wa', And tho' he be the fautor; But tho' my back be at the wa', Yet here's his health in water!
* * * * *
CLXXIII.
MY PEGGY'S FACE.
Tune--"My Peggy's Face."
[Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, in the note in which he communicated it to Johnson, said he had a strong private reason for wishing it to appear in the second volume of the Museum.]
I.
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart.
II.
The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway? Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms-- These are all immortal charms.
* * * * *
CLXXIV.
GLOOMY DECEMBER.
Tune--"Wandering Willie."
[These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be taken as a record of his feelings at parting with one dear to him in the last moment of existence--the Mrs. Mac of many a toast, both in serious and festive hours.]
I.
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care: Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.
II.
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope and last comfort is gone! Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.
* * * * *
CLXXV.
MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T.
Tune--"Gregg's Pipes."
[Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he corrected the improprieties, and infused some of his own lyric genius into the old strain, and printed the result in the Museum.]
I.
My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. My lord a-hunting he is gane, But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane; By Colin's cottage lies his game, If Colin's Jenny be at hame.
II.
My lady's white, my lady's red, And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude; But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.
III.
Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness.
IV.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o' lovers' hymns: The diamond dew is her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
V.
My lady's dink, my lady's drest, The flower and fancy o' the west; But the lassie that a man lo'es best, O that's the lass to make him blest. My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon't.
* * * * *
CLXXVI.
AMANG THE TREES.
Tune--"The King of France, he rade a race."
[Burns wrote these verses in scorn of those, and they are many, who prefer
"The capon craws and queer ha ha's!"
of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious airs, Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song is a fragment--the more's the pity.]
I.
Amang the trees, where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O; 'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.
II.
Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and pike, 'Till we were wae and weary, O; But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the north That dang them tapsalteerie, O.
* * * * *
CLXXVII.
THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.
Tune--"Banks of Banna."
["Anne with the golden locks," one of the attendant maidens in Burns's Howff, in Dumfries, was very fair and very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the customers than the serving of wine. Burns recommended this song to Thomson; and one of his editors makes him say, "I think this is one of the best love-songs I ever composed," but these are not the words of Burns; this contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought that the bard had the bad taste to prefer this strain to dozens of others more simple, more impassioned, and more natural.]
I.
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.
II.
Ye monarchs tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna!
III.
Awa, thou flaunting god o' day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night! Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna!
IV.
The kirk an' state may join and tell-- To do sic things I maunna: The kirk and state may gang to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine of my e'e, To live but her I canna: Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.
* * * * *
CLXXVIII.
MY AIN KIND DEARIE O.
[This is the first song composed by Burns for the national collection of Thomson: it was written in October, 1792. "On reading over the Lea-rig," he says, "I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following." The first and second verses were only sent: Burns added the third and last verse in December.]
I.
When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary, O! Down by the burn, where scented birks[137] Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo; I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O!
II.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O; If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O! Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O!
III.
The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Alang the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, It maks my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-ring, My ain kind dearie O!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 137: For "scented birks," in some copies, "birken buds."]
* * * * *
CLXXIX.
TO MARY CAMPBELL.
["In my very early years," says Burns to Thomson "when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race." The heroine of this early composition was Highland Mary.]
I.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave old Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar?
II.
O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine.
III.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me When I forget my vow!
IV.
O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand.
V.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o' time!
* * * * *
CLXXX.
THE WINSOME WEE THING.
[These words were written for Thomson: or rather made extempore. "I might give you something more profound," says the poet, "yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air, so well as this random clink."]
I.
She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.
II.
I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; And niest my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.
III.
She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.
IV.
The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.
* * * * *
CLXXXI.
BONNIE LESLEY.
["I have just," says Burns to Thomson, "been looking over the 'Collier's bonnie Daughter,' and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome." This lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.]
I.
O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.
II.
To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither!
III.
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.
IV.
The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee."
V.
The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee: Thou'rt like themselves so lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
VI.
Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.
* * * * *
CLXXXII.
HIGHLAND MARY.
Tune--"Katherine Ogie."
[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns has sung with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a mariner, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted with the poet while on service at the castle of Montgomery, and their strolls in the woods and their roaming trysts only served to deepen and settle their affections. Their love had much of the solemn as well as of the romantic: on the day of their separation they plighted their mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles: they stood with a running-stream between them, and lifting up water in their hands vowed love while woods grew and waters ran. The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound: 'Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,' was written in the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath was his name, and his mark as a freemason. They parted to meet no more: Mary Campbell was carried off suddenly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited her friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whither she had gone to make arrangements for her marriage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations: we have seen a lock of her hair; it was very long and very bright, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song was written for Thomson's work.]
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.
* * * * *
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?
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
CCXIX.
THE FAREWELL.
Tune--"It was a' for our rightfu' king."
["It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "how much, even if any part of this song was written by Burns: it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with his name." Burns, it is believed, rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain entirely. Johnson received it from him in his own handwriting.]
I.
It was a' for our rightfu' king, We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' king We e'er saw Irish land, My dear; We e'er saw Irish land.
II.
Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear; For I maun cross the main.
III.
He turn'd him right, and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear; With adieu for evermore.
IV.
The sodger from the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear; Never to meet again
V.
When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear; The lee-lang night, and weep.
* * * * *
CCXX.
O STEER HER UP.
Tune--"O steer her up, and haud her gaun."
[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the Museum.]
I.
O steer her up and haud her gaun-- Her mother's at the mill, jo; And gin she winna take a man, E'en let her take her will, jo: First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, And ca' another gill, jo, And gin she take the thing amiss, E'en let her flyte her fill, jo.
II.
O steer her up, and be na blate, An' gin she take it ill, jo, Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, And time nae longer spill, jo: Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo, That gin the lassie winna do't, Ye'll fin' anither will, jo.
* * * * *
CCXXI.
O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.
Tune--"My wife she dang me."
[Other verses to the same air, belonging to the olden times, are still remembered in Scotland: but they are only sung when the wine is in, and the sense of delicacy out. This song is in the Museum.]
I.
O ay my wife she dang me, And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent, And fool I was I married; But never honest man's intent, As cursedly miscarried.
II.
Some sairie comfort still at last, When a' their days are done, man; My pains o' hell on earth are past, I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. O ay my wife she dang me, And aft my wife did bang me, If ye gie a woman a' her will, Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.
* * * * *
CCXXII.
OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.
Tune--"Lass o' Livistone."
[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars, the Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thomson's collection: variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are neither important nor curious.]
I.
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.
II.
Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
* * * * *
CCXXIII.
HERE IS THE GLEN.
Tune--"Banks of Cree."
[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the following account. "I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 'The Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."]
I.
Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour-- O what can stay my lovely maid?
II.
'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.
III.
It is Maria's voice I hear! So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little, faithful mate to cheer, At once 'tis music--and 'tis love.
IV.
And art thou come? and art thou true? O welcome, dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.
* * * * *
CCXXIV.
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.
Tune--"O'er the hills," &c.
["The last evening," 29th of August, 1794, "as I was straying out," says Burns, "and thinking of 'O'er the hills and far away,' I spun the following stanzas for it. I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness."]
I.
How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad? How can I the thought forego, He's on the seas to meet the foe? Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love: Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are with him that's far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that's far away.
II.
When in summer's noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun My sailor's thund'ring at his gun: Bullets, spare my only joy! Bullets, spare my darling boy! Fate, do with me what you may-- Spare but him that's far away!
III.
At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power: As the storms the forests tear, And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, All I can--I weep and pray, For his weal that's far away.
IV.
Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet: Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, Fill my sailor's welcome sails, To my arms their charge convey-- My dear lad that's far away. On the seas and far away On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that's far away.
* * * * *
CCXXV.
CA' THE YOWES.
[Burns formed this song upon an old lyric, an amended version of which he had previously communicated to the Museum: he was fond of musing in the shadow of Lincluden towers, and on the banks of Cluden Water.]
I.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather growes, Ca' them whare the burnie rowes-- My bonnie dearie! Hark the mavis' evening sang Sounding Cluden's woods amang! Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie.
II.
We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly.
III.
Yonder Cluden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance so cheery.
IV.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie.
V.
Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die--but canna part-- My bonnie dearie! Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather growes; Ca' them where the burnie rowes-- My bonnie dearie!
* * * * *
CCXXVI.
SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A'.
Tune--"Onagh's Waterfall."
[The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been noticed: she is described in this song with the accuracy of a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one: it is needless to add her name, or to say how fine her form and how resistless her smiles.]
I.
Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughin' een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow: Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.
II.
Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad mak a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature--auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.
III.
Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon; Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'?
* * * * *
CCXXVII.
SAW YE MY PHELY.
[QUASI DICAT PHILLIS.]
Tune--"When she came ben she bobbit."
[The despairing swain in this song was Stephen Clarke, musician, and the young lady whom he persuaded Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness was Phillis M'Murdo.]
I.
O saw ye my dear, my Phely? O saw ye my dear, my Phely? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love! She winna come hame to her Willy.
II.
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.
III.
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.
* * * * *
CCXXVIII.
HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
Tune--"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."
[On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former has more of elegance and order: the latter quite as much nature and truth: but there is less of the new than of the old in both.]
I.
How lang and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Though I were ne'er sae weary. For oh! her lanely nights are lang; And oh! her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.
II.
When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee my dearie; And now what seas between us roar-- How can I be but eerie?
III.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how dreary! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. For oh! her lanely nights are lang; And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie.
* * * * *
CCXXIX.
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.
Tune--"Duncan Gray."
["These English songs," thus complains the poet, in the letter which conveyed this lyric to Thomson, "gravel me to death: I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at 'Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:"]
I.
Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e'er complain Fickle man is apt to rove: Look abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove?
II.
Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow: Sun find moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go: Why then ask of silly man To oppose great nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can-- You can be no more, you know.
* * * * *
CCXXX.
THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS.
Tune--"Deil tak the Wars."
[Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by sitting till the dawn at the punch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home.]
I.
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy: Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wild nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
II.
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair, The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; But when, in beauty's light, She meets my ravish'd sight, When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart-- 'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.
* * * * *
CCXXXI.
CHLORIS.
Air--"My lodging is on the cold ground."
[The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thomson. "On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song." The poetic elevation of Chloris is great: she lived, when her charms faded, in want, and died all but destitute.]
I.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair: The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flaxen hair.
II.
The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, And o'er the cottage sings; For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To shepherds as to kings
III.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string In lordly lighted ha': The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blythe, in the birken shaw.
IV.
The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours, Beneath the milk-white thorn?
V.
The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale-- But is his heart as true?
VI.
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine: The courtier's gems may witness love-- But 'tis na love like mine.
* * * * *
CCXXXII.
CHLOE.
Air--"Daintie Davie."
[Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of his collection, took the liberty of bestowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ramsay's miscellany: the bombast is abated, and the whole much improved.]
I.
It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful charming Chloe.
II.
The feather'd people you might see, Perch'd all around, on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.
* * * * *
CCXXXIII.
LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.
Tune--"Rothemurche's Rant."
["Conjugal love," says the poet, "is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul." It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.]
I.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, O? Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joy wi' me, And say thoul't be my dearie, O?
II.
And when the welcome simmer shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O.
III.
When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love my dearie, O.
IV.
And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, O?
* * * * *
CCXXXIV.
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.
Air--"Nancy's to the greenwood gane."
[This song was written in November, 1794: Thomson pronounced it excellent.]
I.
Farewell, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling! O mem'ry! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish.
II.
Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover; The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer-- For pity's sake forgive me!
III.
The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 'Till fears no more had sav'd me: The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing; 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin.
* * * * *
CCXXXV.
O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY.
Tune-"The Sow's Tail."
["This morning" (19th November, 1794), "though a keen blowing frost," Burns writes to Thomson, "in my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."]
HE.
O Philly, happy be that day, When roving through the gather'd hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly.
SHE.
O Willy, ay I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, To be my ain dear Willy.
HE.
As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly.
SHE.
As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy.
HE.
The milder sun and bluer sky That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly.
SHE.
The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my Willy.
HE.
The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly.
SHE.
The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willy.
HE.
Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly.
SHE.
What's a' joys that gowd can gie? I care nae wealth a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy.
* * * * *
CCXXXVI.
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.
Tune--"Lumps o' Pudding."
[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. "Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and "Andro wi' his cutty Gun," the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, "Contented wi' Little."]
I.
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow end care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
II.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
III.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a': When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
IV.
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst word is--"Welcome, and welcome again!"
* * * * *
CCXXXVII.
CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.
Tune--"Roy's Wife."
[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, "Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady replied in a strain equally tender and forgiving.]
I.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Well thou know'st my aching heart-- And canst thou leave me thus for pity? In this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this thy faithful swain's reward-- An aching, broken heart, my Katy!
II.
Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear-- But not a love like mine, my Katy! Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Well thou know'st my aching heart-- And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
* * * * *
CCXXXVIII.
MY NANNIE'S AWA.
Tune--"There'll never be peace."
[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edinburgh: on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beautifully says, "The wine-cup shines in light," he seldom forgot to toast Mrs. Mac.]
I.
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless--my Nannie's awa!
II.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie--and Nanny's awa!
III.
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', Give over for pity--my Nannie's awa!
IV.
Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay: The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, Alane can delight me--now Nannie's awa!
* * * * *
CCXXXIX.
O WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME.
Tune--"Morag."
["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is said, in Thomson's collection, to have been written for that work by Burns: but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham's edition." If sir Harris would be so good as to look at page 245; vol. V., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, he will find the song; and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 of vol. III., of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed the error of which he accuses his fellow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II,. and at page 189, vol. III., and of "Ae day a braw wooer came down the lang glen," which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., and at page 183 of vol, III.]
I.
O wha is she that lo'es me, And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews of simmer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping! O that's the lassie of my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen of womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her.
II.
If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming, That e'en thy chosen lassie, Erewhile thy breast sae warming Had ne'er sic powers alarming.
III.
If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attentions plighted, That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted.
IV.
If thou hast met this fair one; When frae her thou hast parted, If every other fair one, But her, thou hast deserted, And thou art broken-hearted; O that's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her.
* * * * *
CCXL.
CALEDONIA.
Tune--"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
[There is both knowledge of history and elegance of allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed by Currie.]
I.
There was once a day--but old Time then was young-- That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.
II.
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore "Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.
III.
Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand: Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly-- The daring invaders they fled or they died.
IV.
The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore; O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.
V.
The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hope and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood: But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood.
VI.
Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.
* * * * *
CCXLI.
O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS.
Tune--"Cordwainer's March."
[The air to which these verses were written, is commonly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.]
I.
O lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. A slave to love's unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me meikle wae; But now he is my deadly fae, Unless thou be my ain.
II.
There's monie a lass has broke my rest, That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; But thou art queen within my breast, For ever to remain. O lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain.
* * * * *
CCXLII.
THE FETE CHAMPETRE.
Tune--"Killiecrankie."
[Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Enterkin, to the public. Tents were erected on the banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn with flowers, most of the names of note in the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among the "Commons," poured out his wine in vain.]
I.
O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, To do our errands there, man? O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? Or will we send a man-o'-law? Or will we send a sodger? Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' The meikle Ursa-Major?
II.
Come, will ye court a noble lord, Or buy a score o' lairds, man? For worth and honour pawn their word, Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man? Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter; Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, He gies a Fete Champetre.
III.
When Love and Beauty heard the news, The gay green-woods amang, man; Where gathering flowers and busking bowers, They heard the blackbird's sang, man; A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, Sir Politicks to fetter, As theirs alone, the patent-bliss To hold a Fete Champetre.
IV.
Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, O'er hill and dale she flew, man; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man: She summon'd every social sprite That sports by wood or water, On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Fete Champetre.
V.
Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, Were bound to stakes like kye, man; And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', Clamb up the starry sky, man: Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter; The western breeze steals thro' the trees, To view this Fete Champetre.
VI.
How many a robe sae gaily floats! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony's enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. The echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter, When angels met, at Adam's yett, To hold their Fete Champetre.
VII.
When Politics came there, to mix And make his ether-stane, man! He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man: He blush'd for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi' humble prayer to join and share This festive Fete Champetre.
* * * * *
CCXLIII.
HERE'S A HEALTH.
Tune--"Here's a health to them that's awa."
[The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox; Tammie was Lord Erskine; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these verses.]
I.
Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'! It's guid to be merry and wise, It's guid to be honest and true, It's good to support Caldonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue.
II.
Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to Charlie the chief of the clan, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil!
III.
Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law! Here's freedom to him that wad read, Here's freedom to him that wad write! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard, But they wham the truth wad indite.
IV.
Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw! Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa'!
* * * * *
CCXLIV.
IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.
Tune--"For a' that, and a' that."
[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the natural right of his species. He modestly says to Thomson, "I do not give you this song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." Thomson took the song, but hazarded no praise.]
I.
Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that!
II.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!
III.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd--a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.
IV.
A king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that, But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that.
V.
Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a' that-- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that!
* * * * *
CCXLV.
CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.
[Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson: the heroine was Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms of very indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.]
I.
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe awakes the morrow; But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
II.
I see the flowers and spreading trees I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing?
III.
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer.
IV.
If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shall love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither.
* * * * *
CCXLVI.
O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET.
Tune--"Let me in this ae night."
[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed this song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyric, of more spirit than decorum.]
I.
O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou waking, I would wit? For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo!
II.
Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet! Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: Tak pity on my weary feet, And shield me frae the rain, jo.
III.
The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo!
* * * * *
CCXLVII.
O TELL NA ME O' WIND AND RAIN.
[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, are, at all events, not borrowed from the sentiments expressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song CCXXXVII.; there she is tender and forgiving: here she in stern and cold.]
I.
O tell na me o' wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain! Gae back the gate ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo!
II.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That's trusted faithless man, jo.
III.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed: Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo.
IV.
The bird that charm'd his summer-day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in jo!
* * * * *
CCXLVIII.
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.
Tune--"Push about the jorum."
[This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had been at a public meeting, where he was less joyous than usual: as something had been expected from him, he made these verses, when he went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor of the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kindness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now before me.]
I.
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, Then let the loons beware, Sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!
II.
O let us not, like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided; Till slap come in an unco loon And wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted!
III.
The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in't; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it.
IV.
The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing, "God save the King," Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing, "God save the King," We'll ne'er forget the people.
* * * * *
CCXLIX.
ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.
Tune--"Where'll bonnie Ann lie."
[The old song to the same air is yet remembered: but the humour is richer than the delicacy; the same may be said of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.]
I.
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay! Nor quit for me the trembling spray; A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining.
II.
Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
III.
Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
IV.
Thou tells o' never-ending care; O' speechless grief and dark despair: For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken!
* * * * *
CCL.
ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.
Tune--"Ay wakin', O."
[An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance.
Ay waking, oh, Waking ay and weary; Sleep I canna get For thinking o' my dearie.]
I.
Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish? While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish?
II.
Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror; Slumber even I dread, Every dream is horror.
III.
Hear me, Pow'rs divine! Oh, in pity hear me! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me! Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight Is on her bed of sorrow.
* * * * *
CCLI.
CALEDONIA.
Tune--"Humours of Glen."
[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with his personal attachments, and in few more beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson the heroine was Mrs. Burns.]
I.
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom: Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
II.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?--The haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
* * * * *
CCLII.
'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN.
Tune--"Laddie, lie near me."
[Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her name: yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that Jean Lorimer was the heroine.]
I.
'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.
II.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me! But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
III.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter-- Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
* * * * *
CCLIII.
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.
Tune--"John Anderson, my jo."
["I am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, "holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.]
I.
How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And, to the wealthy booby, Poor woman sacrifice! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife.
II.
The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinions tries: Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet!
* * * * *
CCLIV.
MARK YONDER POMP.
Tune--"Deil tak the wars."
[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. "You see," said he, "how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in honour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.]
I.
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion Round the wealthy, titled bride: But when compar'd with real passion, Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures? What are the noisy pleasures? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art: The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart.
II.
But did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day; O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worship'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.
* * * * *
CCLV.
THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.
Tune--"This is no my ain house."
[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the happiest modern songs. When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the "fair dame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus."]
I.
O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place: It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e.
II.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e.
III.
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the e'e.
IV.
It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e.
* * * * *
CCLVI.
NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE
GROVE IN GREEN.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,
"Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."]
I.
Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers: The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe?
II.
The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry.
III.
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the with'ring blast My youth and joy consume.
IV.
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flow'ry snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o' care.
V.
O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair." What tongue his woes can tell! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell.
* * * * *
CCLVII.
O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.
[To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.]
I.
O Bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin sun.
II.
Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green: But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen.
III.
All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care.
IV.
The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign.
* * * * *
CCLVIII.
FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT
NEAR.
Tune--"Let me in this ae night."
["How do you like the foregoing?" Burns asks Thomson, after having copies this song for his collection. "I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom?"]
I.
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love
II.
Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, love.
III.
Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love.
IV.
But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love.
* * * * *
CCLIX.
LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.
Tune--"The Lothian Lassie."
["Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, "is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Lowther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire: Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground." To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Waverley finds Old Mortality repairing the Cameronian grave-stones.]
I.
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me; I said there was naething I hated like men, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!
II.
He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love, he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying!
III.
A weel-stocked mailen--himsel' for the laird-- And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.
IV.
But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less-- The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
V.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there! I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.
VI.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
VII.
I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin', And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'.
VIII.
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow; So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to morrow.
* * * * *
CCLX.
CHLORIS.
Tune--"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
["I am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these verses, "quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare--such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it." This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris.]
I.
Why, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy: Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie?
II.
O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, Wake thy lover from his dream?
* * * * *
CCLXI.
THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.
[This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gaelic lament for the ruin which followed the rebellion of the year 1745: he sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me.
II.
It was na sae in the Highland hills, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me.
III.
For then I had a score o' kye, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Feeding on yon hills so high, And giving milk to me.
IV.
And there I had three score o' yowes, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, And casting woo' to me.
V.
I was the happiest of a' the clan, Sair, sair, may I repine; For Donald was the brawest lad, And Donald he was mine.
VI.
Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, Sae far to set us free; My Donald's arm was wanted then, For Scotland and for me.
VII.
Their waefu' fate what need I tell, Right to the wrang did yield: My Donald and his country fell Upon Culloden's field.
VIII.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the world wide Sae wretched now as me.
* * * * *
CCLXII.
TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.
PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.
[Burns wrote this "Welcome" on the unexpected defection of General Dumourier.]
I.
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier; You're welcome to despots, Dumourier; How does Dampiere do? Aye, and Bournonville, too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
II.
I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, I will take my chance with you; By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.
III.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till freedom's spark is out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.
* * * * *
CCLXIII.
PEG-A-RAMSEY.
Tune--"Cauld is the e'enin blast."
[Most of this song is old: Burns gave it a brushing for the Museum.]
I.
Cauld is the e'enin' blast O' Boreas o'er the pool, And dawin' it is dreary When birks are bare at Yule.
II.
O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast When bitter bites the frost, And in the mirk and dreary drift The hills and glens are lost.
III.
Ne'er sae murky blew the night That drifted o'er the hill, But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill.
* * * * *
CCLXIV.
THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.
[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum.]
I.
There was a bonnie lass, And a bonnie, bonnie lass, And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear; Till war's loud alarms Tore her laddie frae her arms, Wi' mony a sigh and tear.
II.
Over sea, over shore, Where the cannons loudly roar, He still was a stranger to fear; And nocht could him quell, Or his bosom assail, But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.
* * * * *
CCLXV.
O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.
[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Museum.]
I.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet.
II.
It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit, Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
III.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.
* * * * *
CCLXVI.
HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.
Tune--"Balinamona Ora."
[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish melodies: he calls it "a kind of rhapsody."]
I.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me.
II.
Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.
III.
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest; But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them--the mair they're carest. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me.
* * * * *
CCLXVII.
JESSY.
Tune--"Here's a health to them that's awa."
[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortality can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded.]
I.
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear--Jessy!
II.
Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Then aught in the world beside--Jessy!
III.
I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms: But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then I am lockt in thy arms--Jessy!
IV.
I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling e'e; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree?--Jessy! Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear--Jessy!
* * * * *
CCLXVIII.
FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS.
Tune--"Rothemurche."
[On the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on the Solway, his thoughts wandered to early days, and this song, the last he was to measure in this world, was dedicated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.]
I.
Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do? Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear! Could'st thou to malice lend an ear! O! did not love exclaim "Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so."
II.
Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do?
* * * * *
GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.
I.
TO WILLIAM BURNESS.
[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when learning flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has reached us. It has much of the scriptural deference to paternal authority, and more of the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in an original mind.]
Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781.
HONOURED SIR,
I have purposely delayed writing in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-Year's day; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way; I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life: for I assure you I am heartily tired of it; and if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it.
"The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come."[141]
It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing you a merry New-Year's day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son,
ROBERT BURNESS.
P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 141: Pope. Essay on Man]
* * * * *
II.
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH,
SCHOOLMASTER,
STABLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.
[John Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, removed from the west of Scotland to London, where he lived to a good old age, and loved to talk of the pious William Burness and his eminent son.]
Lochlea, 15th January, 1783.
DEAR SIR,
As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and friendship.
I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits; and, in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten; but, as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a father, who has figured pretty well as un homme des affaires, I might have been, what the world calls, a pushing, active fellow; but to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see and observe; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be anything original about him, which shows me human nature in a different light from anything I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to "study men, their manners, and their ways;" and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much terrify me: I know that even then, my talent for what country folks call a "sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, that even then--I would learn to be happy.[142] However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy; and in many things, expecially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist; not, indeed, for the sake of the money; but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living: above everything, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun--possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his "Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling"--a book I prize next to the Bible; "Man of the World;" Sterne, especially his "Sentimental Journey;" Macpherson's "Ossian," &c.; these are the glorious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame--the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race--he "who can soar above this little scene of things"--can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves! O how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and "catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle encumbrance in their way.--But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch--not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story; but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from,
Dear Sir, yours.--R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 142: The last shift alluded to here must be the condition of an itinerant beggar.--CURRIE]
* * * * *
III.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
WRITER, MONTROSE.[143]
[James Burness, son of the poet's uncle, lives at Montrose, and, as may be surmised, is now very old: fame has come to his house through his eminent cousin Robert, and dearer still through his own grandson, Sir Alexander Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is well acquainted.]
Lochlea, 21_st June_, 1783.
DEAR SIR,
My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family.
I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high; oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be gotten even at that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods in our improvements of farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last; and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them.
My mother sends you a small present of a cheese, 'tis but a very little one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier.
I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country, when opportunity serves.
My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and the rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of,
Dear Sir,
Your affectionate Cousin,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 143: This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my father's), when he was very young, lost his father, and having discovered in his father's repositories some of my father's letters, he requested that the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued till the last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother's letters to his cousin are introduced, for the purpose of exhibiting the poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his domestic family relations afterwards.--GILBERT BURNS.]
* * * * *
IV.
TO MISS E.
[The name of the lady to whom this and the three succeeding letters were addressed, seems to have been known to Dr. Currie, who introduced them in his first edition, but excluded them from his second. They were restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming the lady.]
Lochlea, 1783.
I verily believe, my dear E., that the pure, genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my endeavors to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is centred in her pocket; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and as we may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner.
R. B.
* * * * *
V.
TO MISS E.
Lochlea, 1783.
MY DEAR E.:
I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people of our station of life: I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person.
Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are.
It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves: some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us; and I must own, dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been describing; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they describe; but sure I am the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her.
"O! happy state when souls each other draw, When love is liberty and nature law."[144]
I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous; but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you.
When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no apology--I know your good nature will excuse what your goody sense may see amiss.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 144: Pope. Eloisa to Abelard.]
* * * * *
VI.
TO MISS E.
Lochlea, 1783.
I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, that though in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and fidelity, which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough to practise such detestable conduct: but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment and purity of manners--to such an one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak, or what to write, I am altogether at a loss.
There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent.
It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness; if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, and sincere lover.
R. B.
* * * * *
VII.
TO MISS E.
Lochlea, 1783.
I ought, in good manners, to have acknowledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked, with the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory; "you were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me," what without you I never can obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and unmanly to say that, without you I never can be happy; but sure I am, that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste.
Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, do not so much strike me; these, possibly, in a few instances may be met with in others; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart--these I never again expect to meet with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination had fondly flattered myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off, and you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon; and if an expression should perhaps escape me, rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss--(pardon me the dear expression for once) * * * *
R. B
* * * * *
VIII.
TO ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.
OF GLENRIDDEL
[These memoranda throw much light on the early days of Burns, and on the history of his mind and compositions. Robert Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, to whom these fragments were sent, was a good man as well as a distinguished antiquary.]
MY DEAR SIR,
On rummaging over some old papers I lighted on a MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to write myself out; as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that some time or other, even after I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of appreciating their value. It sets off thus:--
"OBSERVATIONS, HINTS, SONGS, SCRAPS OF POETRY, &c., by ROBERT BURNESS: a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational.--As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished, rustic way of life; but as I believe they are really his own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature to see how a ploughman thinks, and feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, on all the species."
"There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the same importance which they do to those which appear in print."--SHENSTONE.
"Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace The forms our pencil, or our pen designed! Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of our youthful mind."--Ibid.
* * * * *
April, 1783.
Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and weakness it lends a young inexperienced mind into; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest encomiums that have been passed upon it. If anything on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of affection.
* * * * *
August.
There is certainly some connexion between love and music, and poetry; and therefore, I have always thought it a fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love-composition:
"As towards her cot she jogged along, Her name was frequent in his song."
For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The following composition was the first of my performances, and done at an early period of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The performance is indeed, very puerile and silly; but I am always pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had this opinion of her then--but I actually think so still, now that the spell is long since broken, and the enchantment at an end.
O once I lov'd a bonnie lass.[145]
Lest my works should be thought below criticism: or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and favourable an eye, I am determined to criticise them myself.
The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street ballads: and, on the other hand, the second distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little awkward, and the sentiment too serious. Stanza the second I am well pleased with; and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of the sex--the agreeables; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it; and the third line has rather too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very indifferent one; the first line, is, indeed, all in the strain of the second stanza, but the rest is most expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favourite idea--a sweet sonsie lass: the last line, however, halts a little. The same sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza, but the second and fourth lines ending with short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults; but I remember I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance.
* * * * *
September.
I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our own follies, or crimes, have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitent sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command.
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;' But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added--'Blame thy foolish self!' Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-- Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, Nay, more, that every love their cause of ruin! O burning hell; in all thy store of torments, There's not a keener lash! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O, happy! happy! enviable man! O glorious magnanimity of soul!
* * * * *
March, 1784.
I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about him; though very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason no man can say in what degree any other person, besides himself, can be, with strict justice, called wicked. Let any, of the strictest character for regularity of conduct among us, examine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such temptation; and, what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does not know all: I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye.
I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind, commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who by thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay sometimes, stained with guilt, I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty.
* * * * *
April.
As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out-of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there is something even in the--
"Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth,"--
which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to everything great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more--I do not know if I should call it pleasure--but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me--than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following:--
The wintry west extends his blast.[146]
Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits; and I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery and conceit from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, because it is my own; only I can say it was, at the time, genuine from the heart:--
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows.[147]
* * * * *
March, 1784.
There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following:--
O thou Great Being! what Thou art.[148]
* * * * *
April.
The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over.
My father was a farmer Upon the Carrick border, O.[149]
* * * * *
April.
I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry; though, by the by, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but, without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature: the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent--in particular he who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life--generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those whose heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling.
* * * * *
August.
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer observation throw more light on the subject.--In the mean time I shall set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I belong to:
There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O.[150]
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the above verses describe--one who spends the hours and thoughts which the vocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c.; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear bonnie lass in view--I say I do not see that the turn of mind and pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours: and I do not see but he may gain heaven as well--which, by the by, is no mean consideration--who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, as he, who straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminencies, where, after all, he can only see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him.
* * * * *
August.
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm:--
O thou unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear![151]
* * * * *
August.
Misgivings in the hour of despondency and prospect of death:--
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene.[152]
* * * * *
EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS.
May.
I don't well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other, though I am when I have a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never could get the art of commanding respect.--I imagine it is owing to my being deficient in what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue of discretion."--I am so apt to a lapsus linguae, that I sometimes think the character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very much apropos to myself--that he was a compound of great talents and great folly.--N.B. To try if I can discover the causes of this wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it.
* * * * *
August.
However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods, haughs, &c., immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants; a country where civil, and particularly religious liberty have ever found their first support, and their last asylum; a country, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers, statesman, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious WALLACE, the SAVIOUR of his country; yet, we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the healthy mountainous source and winding sweep of DOON, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's heart, ever beat more fondly for fame than mine--
"And if there is no other scene of being Where my insatiate wish may have its fill,-- This something at my heart that heaves for room, My best, my dearest part, was made in vain."
* * * * *
September.
There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that the English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously, with the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the fine old song of "The Mill, Mill, O,"[153] to give it a plain prosaic reading, it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the song set to the same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs, which begins "To Fanny fair could I impart," &c., it is most exact measure, and yet, let them both be sung before a real critic, one above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,--how flat and spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely methodical, compared with the wild warbling cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first!--This is particularly the case with all those airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people--a certain happy arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently, nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of jingle, at the ends of the lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our most favourite airs, particularly that class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether.
* * * * *
There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand: and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old bards--bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature--that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity!) are now "buried among the wreck of things which were."
O ye illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly and describe so well: the last, the meanest of the muses' train--one who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you--a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world--unfortunate in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse: she taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse! May the turf lie lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love!
* * * * *
September.
The following fragment is done something in imitation of the manner of a noble old Scottish piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the tune of Galla Water.--My Montgomery's Peggy was my deity for six or eight months. She had been bred (though, as the world says, without any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather elegant; but, as Vanbrugh says in one of his comedies, my "d----d star found me out" there too: for though I began the affair merely in a gaitie de coeur, or, to tell the truth, which will scarcely be believed, a vanity of showing my parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at a billet-doux, which I always piqued myself upon, made me lay siege to her; and when, as I always do in my foolish gallantries, I had fettered myself into a very warm affection for her, she told me one day, in a flag of truce, that her fortress had been for some time before the rightful property of another; but, with the greatest friendship and politeness, she offered me every allegiance except actual possession. I found out afterwards that what she told me of a pre-engagement was really true; but it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair.
I have even tried to imitate in this extempore thing that irregularity in the rhymes, which, when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on the ear.
"Altho' my bed were in yon muir."[154]
* * * * *
September.
There is another fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well known among the country ingle-sides.--I cannot tell the name, neither of the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another.--By the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one would compose to them, to "south the tune," as our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration, and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times:--
When clouds in skies do come together To hide the brightness of the sun, There will surely be some pleasant weather When a' their storms are past and gone.[155]
Though fickle fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already, and though the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness.--However, as I hope my poor country muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside--as I hope she will not then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to soothe my misery.
'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch style.--I am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tune properly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great matter; but the following were the verses I composed to suit it:--
O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O![156]
The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went through the whole air.
* * * * *
October, 1785.
If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dear-bought experience.--I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon, "turned my eyes to behold madness and folly." Nay, I have, with all the ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship.
In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. * * * *
This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and more than all.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 145: See Songs and Ballads, No. I.]
[Footnote 146: See Winter. A Dirge. Poem I.]
[Footnote 147: Song XIV.]
[Footnote 148: Poem IX.]
[Footnote 149: Song V]
[Footnote 150: Song XVII.]
[Footnote 151: Poem X.]
[Footnote 152: Poem XI.]
[Footnote 153: "The Mill, Mill, O," is by Allan Ramsay.]
[Footnote 154: Song VIII.]
[Footnote 155: Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before this verse. (This is the author's note.)]
[Footnote 156: Song II.]
* * * * *
IX.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[The elder Burns, whose death this letter intimates, lies buried in the kirk-yard of Alloway, with a tombstone recording his worth.]
Lochlea, 17_th Feb._ 1784.
DEAR COUSIN,
I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from day to day expected.
On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke; still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn.
I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure--with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and revere.
I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige,
My dear Cousin, yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
X.
TO JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravagance and absurdity of Joanna Southcote, after attempting to fix her tent among the hills of the west and the vales of the Nith, finally set up her staff at Auchengibbert-Hill, in Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and held out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in this life. She died early: one or two of her people, as she called them, survived till within these half-dozen years.]
Mossgiel, August, 1784.
We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the moral world which, I dare say, had happened in the course of this half century. We have had a party of Presbytery relief, as they call themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two years ago, a Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, and began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in a short time, made many converts; and, among others, their preacher, Mr. Whyte, who, upon that account, has been suspended and formally deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and was supported, both he and their spiritual mother, as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, several of whom were in good circumstances; till, in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town; on which all her followers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their doors behind them; one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellowing at the crib without food, or anybody to mind her, and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon; among others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them, which she does with postures and practices that are scandalously indecent; they have likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no mortal sin. I am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the above mentioned are facts.
This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving the guidance of sound reason and common sense in matters of religion.
Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdities, will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have often thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to them.
R. B.
* * * * *
XI.
TO MISS ----.
[This has generally been printed among the early letters of Burns. Cromek thinks that the person addressed was the "Peggy" of the Common-place Book. This is questioned by Robert Chambers, who, however, leaves both name and date unsettled.]
MY DEAR COUNTRYWOMAN,
I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I will forward them by you; if not, you must apologize for me.
I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly convince me what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom; when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no formed design in all this; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me; but I wish you would not: just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of friendship.
I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I think at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of deceit.
R. B.
* * * * *
XII.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND,
OF EDINBURGH.
[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchline friends, to whom we are indebted for much valuable information concerning Burns and his productions--Connel was the Mauchline carrier.]
Mossgiel, Feb. 17, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among several others, "The Ordination," a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; "Scotch Drink," a poem; "The Cotter's Saturday Night;" "An Address to the Devil," &c. I have likewise completed my poem on the "Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some very important news with respect to myself, not the most agreeable--news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith; he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither good nor bad fortune should strange of alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XIII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY,
DUMFRIES HOUSE.
[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addressed this note, enclosing "The Cotter's Saturday night," it is now, perhaps, vain to inquire: the Kennedy to whom Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas--perhaps a relation.]
Mossgiel, 3d March, 1786.
SIR,
I have done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in sending you my Cottager.--If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad you would copy it, and return me either the original or the transcript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and I have a friend who wishes to see it.
"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse."[157]
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 157: Poem LXXV.]
* * * * *
XIV.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[The Muirs--there were two brothers--were kind and generous patrons of the poet. They subscribed for half-a-hundred copies of the Kilmarnock edition of his works, and befriended him when friends were few.]
Mossgiel, 20_th March_, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you returned through Mauchline; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening.
I here enclose you my "Scotch Drink," and "may the ---- follow with a blessing for your edification." I hope, some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup; which will be a great comfort and consolation to,
Dear Sir,
Your humble servant,
ROBT. BURNESS.
* * * * *
XV.
TO MR. AIKEN.
[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the "Cotter's Saturday Night" is inscribed, is also introduced in the "Brigs of Ayr." This is the last letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed his name in the spelling of his ancestors.]
Mossgiel, 3d April, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I received your kind letter with double pleasure, on account of the second flattering instance of Mrs. C.'s notice and approbation, I assure you I
"Turn out the burnt o' my shin,"
as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, at such a patroness. Present her my most grateful acknowledgment in your very best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank leaf of Miss More's Work:--[158]
My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect to hear from you by the first opportunity.
I am ever, dear Sir,
Yours,
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 158: See Poem LXXVIII.]
* * * * *
XVI.
TO MR. M'WHINNIE,
WRITER, AYR.
[Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several subscriptions for the first edition of his Poems, of which this note enclosed the proposals.]
Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786.
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the impression of the good Creator, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of your power.
I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need.
Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment which stamps the die with--with--with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of,
My dear Sir,
Your humble,
afflicted, tormented,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
XVII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
["The small piece," the very last of his productions, which the poet enclosed in this letter, was "The Mountain Daisy," called in the manuscript more properly "The Gowan."]
Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786.
SIR,
By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request for a subscription paper 'till this day. I will not attempt any acknowledgment for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in Mr. Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me only to say, Sir, I feel the weight of the debt.
I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray says, "melancholy has marked for her own."
Our race comes on a-pace; that much-expected scene of revelry and mirth; but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which your last flattered the expectation of,
Sir,
Your indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XVIII.
TO MON. JAMES SMITH,
MAUCHLINE.
[James Smith, of whom Burns said he was small of stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper's shop in Mauchline, and was comrade to the poet in many a wild adventure.]
Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the opportunity of Captain Smith: but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in consequence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of September, right for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish: with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it;--
"I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow."
On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still happiness for me among them:
"O woman, lovely woman! Heaven design'd you To temper man!--we had been brutes without you."[159]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 159: Otway. Venice Preserved.]
* * * * *
XIX.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
[Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present: he was seeking patrons in every quarter for his contemplated volume, and was composing for it some of his most exquisite poetry.]
Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796.
DEAR SIR,
I have sent you the above hasty copy as I promised. In about three or four weeks I shall probably set the press a-going. I am much hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my subscription, should have a more lengthened acknowledgment from,
Dear Sir,
Your obliged servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XX.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
[David Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the confidence of the poet in his love affairs. He was working in Glasgow when this letter was written.]
Mossgiel, June 12, 1786.
DEAR BRICE,
I received your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear.
Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do know--she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored a woman more than I did her; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. * * * *
May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul forgive her: and may his grace be with her and bless her in all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! and farewell dear ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more.
You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages--it is just the last foolish action I intend to do; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.
Believe me to be, dear Brice,
Your friend and well-wisher,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXI.
TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN.
[This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation which Burns records in "The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place between him and Jean Armour, and it would appear, that for a time at least a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occasioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sorrow and disquiet. The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly here.]
[Ayrshire, 1786.]
SIR,
I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost me about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know, is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow rich! an epoch which I think will arrive at the payment of the British national debt.
There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of "The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my greateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home; and besides I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know--the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer--the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the scale against it. * * * *
You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence; if so, then, how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy? O, thou great unknown Power!--thou almighty God! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality!--I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me! * * * *
Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present resolution; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther misery-- * * * *
To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining, distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unlit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while all defenceless I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast); still, more than these passive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the "hallachores" of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was "standing idle in the market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. * * * *
You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance; but according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it. * * * *
R. B.
* * * * *
XXII.
TO JOHN RICHMOND,
EDINBURGH.
[The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burns a single man, as he intimates in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that the law of the land and the law of the church were at variance on the subject no one can deny.]
Mossgiel, 9_th July_, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your health goes on; if it is in any way re-establishing, or if Leith promises well; in short, how you feel in the inner man.
No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the country-side as witness against him. He still stands out steady and denying: but proof was led yesternight of circumstances highly suspicious: almost de facto one of the servant girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered the house--to speak in your cant, "in the hour of cause."
I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from any the least view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health and--to you I will confess it--from a foolish hankering fondness--very ill placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend to do.
I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous: amen, amen.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIII.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE,
OF AYR.
[There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of the lines of marriage which united, as far as a civil contract in a manner civil can, the poet and Jean Armour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed.]
HONOURED SIR,
My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing that you would wish to have it in your power to do me a service as early as anybody, I enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character as an honest man, I would do it with all my soul; but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you believe it? though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. Perdition seize her falsehood!
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIV.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW.
[The letters of Burns at the sad period of his life are full of his private sorrows. Had Jean Armour been left to the guidance of her own heart, the story of her early years would have been brighter.]
Mossgiel, 17th July, 1786.
I have been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I leave the country. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am,
Dear Brice,
Yours,--R. B.
* * * * *
XXV.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND.
[When this letter was written the poet was skulking from place to place: the merciless pack of the law had been uncoupled at his heels. Mr. Armour did not wish to imprison, but to drive him from the country.]
Old Rome Forest, 30th July, 1786.
MY DEAR RICHMOND,
My hour is now come--you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and call at Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like a true son of the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my head." I know you will pour an execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her mother until her latest hour! I write in a moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation--exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write no more--let me hear from you by the return of coach. I will write you ere I go.
I am dear Sir,
Yours, here and hereafter,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXVI.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[Burns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sorrows: he sent copies of his favorite pieces, and intimations of much that befel him to his chief friends and comrades--this brief note was made to carry double.]
Mossgiel, Friday noon.
MY FRIEND, MY BROTHER,
Warm recollection of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart, that I send him the prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of distant language of friendship.
You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my soul.
The poem was nearly an extemporaneous production, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given time.
If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and that which is to come.
I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit from,
My dear Sir,
Your most devoted,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXVII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP,
OF DUNLOP.
[Mrs. Dunlop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces in her veins: though she disliked the irregularities of the poet, she scorned to got into a fine moral passion about follies which could not be helped, and continued her friendship to the last of his life.]
Ayrshire, 1786.
MADAM,
I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus: nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those, whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country.
"Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!"[160]
The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was, "The Life Of Hannibal;" the next was, "The History of Sir William Wallace:" for several of my earlier years I had few other authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur--
"Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, To make a silent and safe retreat."
I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 160: Thomson.]
* * * * *
XXVIII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
[It is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to count the number of letters which he wrote, the number of fine poems he composed, and the number of places which he visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of 1786.]
Kilmarnock, August, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day.--I have at last made my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class.--Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my authorship; but now you have them, let them speak for themselves.--
Farewell, my dear friend! may guid luck hit you, And 'mang her favourites admit you! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him! And ony de'il that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIX.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[The good and generous James Burness, of Montrose, was ever ready to rejoice with his cousin's success or sympathize with his sorrows, but he did not like the change which came over the old northern surname of Burness, when the bard modified it into Burns: the name now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.]
Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
I this moment receive yours--receive it with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that man is blest! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above the trodden clod! The grateful reverence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being--the burning glow when he clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom--the tender yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence--these nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence.
My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not comply with your friendly invitation. When it will be I don't know, but if I can make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some time before. My best compliments to Mrs. ----; I should [be] equally mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I suppose there is little chance.
What I have wrote heaven knows; I have not time to review it; so accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase--perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity,
I am, dear Sir,
Ever yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXX.
TO MISS ALEXANDER.
[This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded with requesting Miss Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's letters have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts found among the poet's papers at his death. This is one.]
Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786.
MADAM,
Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent.
The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western hills; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you--your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene,--and such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object.
What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor measure.
The enclosed song was the work of my return home: and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene.
I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most obedient and very
humble Servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXI.
TO MRS. STEWART,
OF STAIR AND AFTON.
[Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was the first person of note in the West who had the taste to see and feel the genius of Burns. He used to relate how his heart fluttered when he first walked into the parlour of the towers of Stair, to hear the lady's opinion of some of his songs.]
[1786]
MADAM,
The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertainment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of "Ettrick Banks" [The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit: both as a tolerable description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman;[161] but I have no common friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy.
I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and godlike qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found--the company of your compeers: and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion.
One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remember;--the reception I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 161: Miss Alexander.]
* * * * *
XXXII.
IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN.
[The song or ballad which one of the "Deil's yeld Nowte" was commanded to burn, was "Holy Willie's Prayer," it is believed. Currie interprets the "Deil's yeld Nowte," to mean old bachelors, which, if right, points to some other of his compositions, for purgation by fire. Gilbert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes given to sheriff's officers and other executors of the law.]
We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine,[162] Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John M'Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right and wrong.
RIGHT TRUSTY:
Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and venders of poesy; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female--We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof We have here enclosed; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that most execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte: and after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in the presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in person We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal.
Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six.
God save the Bard!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 162: His birth-day.]
* * * * *
XXXIII.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.
[The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short letter alludes, was undertaken, it is needless to say, in consequence of a warm and generous commendation of the genius of Burns written by Dr. Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie, and communicated by Gavin Hamilton to the poet, when he was on the wing for the West Indies.]
Mossgiel, 18th Nov., 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
Enclosed you have "Tam Samson," as I intend to print him. I am thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come se'ennight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first.
I am ever,
Your much indebted,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXIV.
TO DR. MACKENZIE,
MAUCHLINE;
ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER.
[To the kind and venerable Dr. Mackenzie, the poet was indebted for some valuable friendships, and his biographers for some valuable information respecting the early days of Burns.]
Wednesday Morning.
DEAR SIR,
I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to the plain, honest, worthy man, the professor. [Dugald Stewart.] I would be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I were not the object; he does it with such a grace. I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus--four parts Socrates--four parts Nathaniel--and two parts Shakspeare's Brutus.
The foregoing verses were really extempore, but a little corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of,
Dear Sir,
Your very humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXV.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.,
MAUCHLINE.
[From Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the farm of Mossgiel: the landlord was not slow in perceiving the genius of Robert: he had him frequently at his table, and the poet repaid this notice by verse not likely soon to die.]
Edinburgh, Dec. 7th, 1786.
HONOURED SIR,
I have paid every attention to your commands, but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adamhill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks.--This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor better.
For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell bridge.--My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man in the world. Through my lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition.--My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post.--I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls "a friend that sticketh closer than a brother."--The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet.
I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse.
May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, Nor hunger but in plenty's lap! Amen!
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXVI.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ.,
BANKER, AYR.
[This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after his arrival in Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because it distinctly imputes his introduction to the Earl of Glencairn, to Dalrymple, of Orangefield; though he elsewhere says this was done by Mr. Dalzell;--perhaps both those gentlemen had a hand in this good deed.]
Edinburgh, 13th Dec. 1786.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,
I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task.--I arrived here on Tuesday was se'ennight, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better.--I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember when time shall be no more.--By his interest it is passed in the "Caledonian Hunt," and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea.--I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses are the Duchess of Gordon--the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty[163]--the Dean of Faculty--Sir John Whitefoord--I have likewise warm friends among the literati; Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie--the Man of Feeling.--An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got.--I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with him, by invitation, at his own house, yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post; when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is very well.
Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodical paper, called The Lounger,[164] a copy of which I here enclose you.--I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation.
I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle.
I have the honour to be,
Good Sir,
Your ever grateful humble servant,
R. B.
If any of my friends write me, my direction is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 163: Lady Betty Cunningham.]
[Footnote 164: The paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated author of "The Man of Feeling."]
* * * * *
XXXVII.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.
["Muir, thy weaknesses," says Burns, writing of this gentleman to Mrs. Dunlop, "thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature; but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble: and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a human form, it was thine."]
Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your letter; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said she "did na ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o' the bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. I enclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it would not be like me to comply.
Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr. Parker.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXVIII.
TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS,
WRITER, AYR.
[William Chalmers drew out the assignment of the copyright of Burns's Poems, in favour of his brother Gilbert, and for the maintenance of his natural child, when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the autumn of 1786.]
Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness--ingratitude to friendship--in not writing you sooner; but of all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited majesty, preside over the dull routine of business--a heavily solemn oath this!--I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the Less--after throwing him into a cauldron of boiling oil, from which he was miraculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh; which, a circumstance not very uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out.
To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck.
One blank in the address to Edinburgh--"Fair B----," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence.
My direction is--care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge-street.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXIX.
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTOUN.
[Archibald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, and Colonel Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfield, who succeeded his brother in his titles and estates, were patrons, and kind ones, of Burns.]
Edinburgh, January 1787.
MY LORD,
As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour and welfare of my country: and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine to be distinguished; though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gratified with the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest.
R. B.
* * * * *
XL.
TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.
[This letter was first published by Hubert Chambers, who considered it as closing the enquiry, "was Burns a married man?" No doubt Burns thought himself unmarried, and the Rev. Mr. Auld was of the same opinion, since he offered him a certificate that he was single: but no opinion of priest or lawyer, including the disclamation of Jean Armour, and the belief of Burns, could have, in my opinion, barred the claim of the children to full legitimacy, according to the law of Scotland.]
Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787.
To tell the truth among friends, I feel a miserable blank in my heart, with the want of her, and I don't think I shall ever meet with so delicious an armful again. She has her faults; and so have you and I; and so has everybody:
Their tricks and craft hae put me daft; They've ta'en me in and a' that; But clear your decks, and here's the sex, I like the jads for a' that. For a' that and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that.
* * * * *
I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian farmer's daughter, whom I have almost persuaded to accompany me to the west country, should I ever return to settle there. By the bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire squire of the lower kind; and I had a most delicious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, in a hackney-coach with her brother and two sisters, and brother's wife. We had dined altogether at a common friend's house in Leith, and danced, drank, and sang till late enough. The night was dark, the claret had been good, and I thirsty. * * * * *
R. B.
* * * * *
XLI.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ.
[This letter contains the first intimation that the poet desired to resume the labours of the farmer. The old saw of "Willie Gaw's Skate," he picked up from his mother, who had a vast collection of such sayings.]
Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,
It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate, "past redemption;" for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I do it.
I am still "dark as was Chaos"[165] in respect to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately bought, near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May.
I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant; all the different lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and mason, among other general toasts, gave "Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns," which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, "Very well indeed!" which set me something to rights again.
I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My best good wishes to Mr. Aiken.
I am ever,
Dear Sir,
Your much indebted humble servant,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 165: See Blair's Grave. This was a favourite quotation with Burns.]
* * * * *
XLII.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE.
[I have not hesitated to insert all letters which show what Burns was musing on as a poet, or planning as a man.]
January ----, 1787.
While here I sit, sad and solitary by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens! say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will sent my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. Here it is--
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care![166]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 166: Song CXXXI.]
* * * * *
XLIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop purified, while it strengthened the national prejudices of Burns.]
Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787.
MADAM,
Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib--I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you; but though every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of "the sons of little men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be disgracing the little character I have; and to write the author of "The View of Society and Manners" a letter of sentiment--I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, by way of subscription for two copies of my next edition.
The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thomson; but it does not strike me us an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace, except what you have, seen in print; and the enclosed, which I will print in this edition. You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my "Vision" long ago, I had attempted a description of Koyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the "Saviour of his Country," which sooner or later I shall at least attempt.
You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet; alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of man of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company--to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head--I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. I have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy; and, however a friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about it--But,
"When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,"
you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph.
Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in; it exalts me in my own idea; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace?
R. B.
* * * * *
XLIV.
TO DR. MOORE.
[Dr. Moore, the accomplished author of Zeluco and father of Sir John Moore, interested himself in the fame and fortune of Burns, as soon as the publication of his Poems made his name known to the world.]
Edinburgh, Jan. 1787.
SIR,
Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticism, Sir, I receive with reverence; only I am sorry they mostly came too late: a peccant passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone to the press.
The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by far the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice I have lately had; and in a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttelton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame.
R. B.
* * * * *
XLV.
TO THE REV. G. LAURIE,
NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK.
[It has been said in the Life of Burns, that for some time after he went to Edinburgh, he did not visit Dr. Blacklock, whose high opinion of his genius induced him to try his fortune in that city: it will be seen by this letter that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, to write to Dr. Laurie, who introduced him to the Doctor.]
Edinburgh, Feb. 5th, 1787.
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,
When I look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted attention: do me the justice to believe that my delay by no means proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father.
I thank you, Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports; but, in reality, I have no great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the attention of mankind awhile; to it I owe my present eclat; but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide which has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of modesty; I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers before I came here; I have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early years.
In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I would have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart.
By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be placed to the account of Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated "Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Laurie, the other night, at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr. Mackenzie he asked me who she was; I told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He returned, there was something very striking, to his idea, in her appearance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say, "She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl."
My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret's.
R. B.
* * * * *
XLVI.
TO DR. MOORE.
[In the answer to this letter, Dr. Moore says that the poet was a great favourite in his family, and that his youngest son, at Winchester school, had translated part of "Halloween" into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades.]
Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787.
SIR,
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment: but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny; but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities.
For the honour Miss Williams has done me, please, Sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her; but the other day I got her poems, which for several reasons, some belonging to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore; there are, I think, two characteristic features in her poetry--the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous sombre tenderness of "time-settled sorrow."
I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why.
R. B.
* * * * *
XLVII.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ.
[The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait alluded to in this letter, was painted by the now venerable Alexander Nasmyth--the eldest of living British artists:--it is, with the exception of a profile by Miers, the only portrait for which we are quite sure that the poet sat.]
Edinburgh, Feb. 24th, 1787.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,
I will soon be with you now, in guid black prent;--in a week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print subscribers' names; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they must be sent in to Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in my book, looking like all other fools to my title-page.
R. B.
* * * * *
XLVIII.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
[The Earl of Glencairn seems to have refused, from motives of delicacy, the request of the poet: the verses, long lost, were at last found, and are now, through the kindness of my friend, Major James Glencairn Burns, printed with the rest of his eminent father's works.]
Edinburgh, 1787
MY LORD,
I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, which I was told was to be got in town; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled a "human face divine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could I have been so happy as to procure one with anything of a likeness.
As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a material object for my gratitude; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition. I owe much to your lordship: and, what has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as independent as your lordship's, than which I can say nothing more; and I would not be beholden to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride; and I would be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of the much favoured sons of fortune.
Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country; allow me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I have the honour to be,
Your lordship's highly indebted,
And ever grateful humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XLIX.
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.
[The Earl of Buchan, a man of talent, but more than tolerably vain, advised Burns to visit the battle-fields and scenes celebrated in song on the Scottish border, with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a few of his happy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his lordship.]
MY LORD,
The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever gratefully remember:--
"Praise from thy lips, 'tis mine with joy to boast, They best can give it who deserve it most."[167]
Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my native country; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words:--
"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain: I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have despised: I have given you line upon line and precept upon precept; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the path, contemning me to my face: you know the consequences. It is not yet three months since home was so hot for you that you were on the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune.
"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin? I grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a step from the veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppression: you know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, independence, and character, on the one hand; I tender you civility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a choice."
This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades; ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 167: Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard.]
* * * * *
L.
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.
[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with the poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, "Mary's Dream," and at the request of Burns sent Lowe's classic song of "Pompey's Ghost," to the Musical Museum.]
Edinburgh, March 21, 1787.
MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,
I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares me: the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured in "the daring path Spinosa trod;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion.
I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his deeds," as when we were sporting about the "Lady Thorn." I shall be four weeks here yet at least; and so I shall expect to hear from you; welcome sense, welcome nonsense.
I am, with the warmest sincerity,
R. B.
* * * * *
LI.
TO ----.
[The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet to the original headstone. The cost to the poet was L5 10s.]
Edinburgh, March, 1787.
MY DEAR SIR,
You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you; but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use; but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun: and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the damned.
I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me.
The inscription on the stone is as follows:--
"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born, September 5th, 1751--Died, 16th October 1774.
"No scuptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 'No storied urn or animated bust;' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust."
On the other side of the stone is as follows:
"By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson."
* * * * *
Session-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, the twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hundred eighty-seven years.
Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kirk-Yard funds of Canongate.
Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the 6th current, which was read and appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor follows:--
"To the honourable baillies of Canongate, Edinburgh.--Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents for ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown.
"Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the 'narrow house' of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's memory: a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying.
"I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant (sic subscribitur),
ROBERT BURNS."
Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the managers, by
WILLIAM SPROTT, Clerk.
* * * * *
LII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter to the profits of the Edinburgh edition of his Poems: the exact sum is no where stated, but it could not have been less than seven hundred pounds.]
Edinburgh, March 22d, 1787.
MADAM,
I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom: now I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Karl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honor of giving me his strictures: his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly.
You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects; there I can give you no light. It is all
"Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound."[168]
The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far my highest pride; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes.
But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have dallied long enough with life; 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for: and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character; but where God and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions will not rouse to exertion.
I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the plough, and if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry; being bred to labour, secures me independence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life; but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace.
Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 168: Blair's Grave.]
* * * * *
LIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[This seems to be a letter acknowledging the payment of Mrs. Dunlop's subscription for his poems.]
Edinburgh, 15 April, 1787.
MADAM,
There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your letter, but
"Rude am I in speech, And therefore little can I grace my cause In speaking for myself--"[169]
so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart and say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness.
I come abroad in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams's copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting on you.
Dr. Smith[170] was just gone to London the morning before I received your letter to him.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 169: From Othello.]
[Footnote 170: Adam Smith.]
* * * * *
LIV.
TO MR. SIBBALD,
BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH.
[This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, Nicholl's Illustrations of Literature.]
Lawn Market.
SIR,