Chapter III: Burns and Scottish Song (2)

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, [sore]
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.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free, [every]
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!

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O!

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew,
Oh, open the door to me, O!
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, O!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, O!
The frost, that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, O!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, O!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!
'My true love!' she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, O!

WANDERING WILLIE

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, [away]
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; [hold]
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, [one]
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Loud tho' the winter blew cauld at our parting,
'Twas na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie,
The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers;
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, [Awake]
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. [once more]

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! [own]

HOW LANG AND DREARY

How lang and dreary is the night.
When I am frae my dearie!
I restless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.

For O, her lanely nights are lang;
And O, her dreams are eerie; [fearful]
And O, her widow'd heart is sair, [sore]
That's absent frae her dearie.

When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi' thee, my dearie,
And now that seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;
The joyless day how drearie!
It wasna sae ye glinted by, [glanced]
When I was wi' my dearie.

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA

O how can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, [go, fine]
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa?

It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
But aye the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door, [put]
My friends they hae disown'd me a':
But I hae ane will tak my part, [have one]
The bonnie lad that's far awa.

A pair o' gloves he bought to me,
And silken snoods he gae me twa; [fillets, gave]
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.

O weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken shaw: [clothe, birch woods]
And my young babie will be born,
And he'll be hame that's far awa.

BRAW BRAW LADS

Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, [hills]
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws [woods]
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; [love]
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, [landlord]
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher, [much dowry]
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. [watch]

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, and pleasure; [bought]
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

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.

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.

The foregoing are all placed in the mouths of girls, and it is difficult to deny that they ring as true as the songs that are known to have sprung from the poet's direct experience. Scarcely less notable than their sincerity is their variety. Pathos of desertion, gay defiance of opposition, yearning in absence, confession of coquetry, joyous confession of affection returned--these are only a few of the phases of woman's love rendered here with a felicity that leaves nothing to be desired. What woman has so interpreted the feelings of her sex?

The next two express a girl's repugnance at the thought of marriage with an old man; and the two following form a pair treating the same theme, one from the girl's point of view, the other from the lover's. The later verses of _My Love She's but a Lassie Yet_, however, though full of vivacity, have so little to do with the first or with one another that the song seems to be a collection of scraps held together by a common melody.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie [mother]
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'! [money]

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin',
He boasts and he hirples the weary day lang: [coughs, limps]
He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, [stupid, benumbed]
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

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! [woe]

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity,
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan:
I'll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him,
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

TO DAUNTON ME

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. [tame]

To daunton me, and me sae young,
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, [false]
That is the thing you ne'er shall see;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.

For a' his meal and a' his maut, [malt]
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, [salt]
For a' his gold and white monie,
An auld man shall never daunton me.

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, [wealth, cows, ewes]
His gear may buy him glens and knowes; [knolls]
But me he shall not buy nor fee, [hire]
For an auld man shall never daunton me.

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, [limps double, can]
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, [mouth, bald head]
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd e'e--
That auld man shall never daunton me.

I'M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET

I am my mammie's ae bairn, [only child]
Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; [strange]
And lying in a man's bed,
I'm fley'd wad mak me eerie, Sir. [frightened, scared]

I'm owre young, I'm owre young, [too]
I'm owre young to marry yet;
I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammie yet.

[My mammie coft me a new gown, [bought]
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't; [must]
Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir,
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't.]

Hallowmas is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
And you an' I in ae bed,
In troth I dare na venture, Sir.

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; [timber]
But if ye come this gate again, [way]
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. [older, by]

MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET

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,
She'll no be half sae 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!

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, [Go]
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.]

_Bessy and Her Spinnin'-Wheel_ stands by itself as the rendering of the mood of contented solitude, and is further remarkable for its charming verses of natural description. _John Anderson My Jo_ is the classical expression of love in age, inimitable in its simplicity and tenderness. The two following poems supply a humorous contrast.

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN'-WHEEL

O leeze me on my spinnin'-wheel, [Blessings on]
O leeze me on my rock and reel; [distaff]
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, [top to toe, clothes, comfortably]
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! [wraps, well]
I'll set me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun, [low]
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal--
O leeze me on my spinnin'-wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, [every, brooklets]
And meet below my theekit cot; [thatched]
The scented birk and hawthorn white [birch]
Across the pool their arms unite,
Alike to screen the birdie's nest,
And little fishes' caller rest: [cool]
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', [shelter]
Where blythe I turn my spinnin'-wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, [oaks, pigeons]
And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; [repeats, doleful]
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, [linnets]
Delighted, rival ither's lays:
The craik amang the claver hay, [corn-crake, clover]
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. [partridge, meadow]
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, [dodging, cot]
Amuse me at my spinnin'-wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy, [Above]
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, [noisy]
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin'-wheel?

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

John Andersen my jo, John, [sweetheart]
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent; [straight]
But now your brow is beld, John, [bald]
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow, [head]
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John, [jolly]
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John, [must]
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot, [together]
John Anderson, my jo.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW

The weary pund, the weary pund, [pound]
The weary pund o' tow; [yarn]
I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint [stone, flax]
As gude as e'er did grow; [good]
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow. [one]

There sat a bottle in a bole, [niche]
Beyond the ingle lowe, [chimney flame]
And aye she took the tither souk [other suck]
To drouk the stowrie tow. [drench, dusty]

Quoth I, 'For shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!' [bunch]
She took the rock, and wi' a knock [distaff]
She brak it o'er my pow. [pate]

At last her feet--I sang to see't--
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; [went, hill]
And or I wad anither jad, [ere, wed]
I'll wallop in a tow. [kick, rope]

O MERRY HAE I BEEN

O, merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, [huckling-comb]
An' merry hae I been shapin' a spoon;
O, merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle, [patching]
An' kissin' my Katie when a' was done,
O, a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, [knock with]
An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing,
O, a' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, [mistress]
An' a' the lang night am as happy's a king.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins [sorrow, earnings]
O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave:
Bless'd be the hour she cool'd in her linens, [shroud]
And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave.
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,
An' come to my arms, an' kiss me again!
Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie!
And bless'd be the day I did it again.

_Had I the Wyte_ is, we may hope, also purely imaginative drama; it is certainly vividly imagined and carried through with a delightful mixture of sympathy and humorous detachment.

HAD I THE WYTE?

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, [blame]
Had I the wyte? she bade me!
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, [highroad]
And up the loan she shaw'd me; [lane]
And when I wadna venture in,
A coward loon she ca'd me: [rascal]
Had kirk and state been in the gate, [way (opposing)]
I lighted when she bade me.

Sae craftilie she took me ben, [in]
And bade me make nae clatter;
'For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman [surly]
Is o'er ayont the water;' [beyond]
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace,
When I did kiss and daut her, [pet]
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say I was the fautor. [Then, transgressor]

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 clawed her wi' the ripplin-kame, [wool-comb]
And blae and bluidy bruised her; [blue]
When sic a husband was frae hame,
What wife but had excused her?

I dighted ay her een sae blue, [wiped, eyes]
And bann'd the cruel randy; [cursed, scoundrel]
And weel I wat her willing mou' [wot, mouth]
Was e'en like sugar-candy.
At gloamin-shot it was, I trow, [sunset]
I lighted, on the Monday;
But I cam through the Tysday's dew, [Tuesday's]
To wanton Willie's brandy.

_Macpherson's Farewell_, made famous by Carlyle's appreciation, is a glorified version of the "Dying Words" of a condemned bandit, such as were familiar in broadsides after every notorious execution. Part of the refrain is old. One may imagine _The Highland Balou_ the lullaby of Macpherson's child.

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL

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, [jovially]
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring and danced it round, [lively tune]
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?
On mony a bloody plain
I've dared his face, and in his place
I scorn him yet again!

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.

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; [trouble]
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
And not avengèd be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

THE HIGHLAND BALOU

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald, [Lullaby]
Picture o' the great Clanronald;
Brawlie kens our wanton chief [Finely knows]
Wha got my young Highland thief.

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie! [Blessings on, throat]
An thou live, thou'll steal a naigie: [If, little nag]
Travel the country thro' and thro',
And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border,
Weel, my babie, may thou furder: [succeed]
Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, [Harry, rascals, low]
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. [Then]

Distinct from either of the foregoing groups are several songs in narrative form, told as a rule from the point of view of an onlooker, but hardly inferior to the others in vitality. In them the personal or dramatic emotion is replaced by a keen sense of the humor of the situation.

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Gray came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe Yule night when we were fou, [drunk]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, [cast, high]
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, [askance, very skittish]
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; [Made, aloof]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; [wheedled]
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', [Wept, eyes both]
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; [leaping, waterfall]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Slighted love is sair to bide, [sore, endure]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he,
'For a naughty hizzie die? [hussy]
She may gae to--France for me!'
Ha, ha, the wooing o't

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick as he grew haill, [whole]
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! [such]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

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; [smothered]
Now they're crouse and cantie baith! [lively, cheerful]
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

DUNCAN DAVISON

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, [called]
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, [dull, skittish]
Her favour Duncan could na win;
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, [distaff]
And ay she shook the temper-pin. [regulating pin of
the spinning-wheel]
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, [went]
A burn was clear, a glen was green,
Upon the banks they eased their shanks,
And aye she set the wheel between:
But Duncan swore a haly aith, [holy oath]
That Meg should be a bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, [implements]
And flung them a' out o'er the burn. [across]

We will big a wee, wee house, [build]
And we will live like King and Queen,
Sae blythe and merry's we will be
When ye set by the wheel at e'en, [aside]
A man may drink and no be drunk;
A man may fight and no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,
And aye be welcome back again.

THE DE'IL'S AWA WI' TH' EXCISEMAN

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town.
And danced awa wi' th' Exciseman;
And ilka wife cried 'Auld Mahoun, [every, Mahomet (Devil)]
I wish you luck o' your prize, man.'

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink, [malt]
We'll laugh, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony braw thanks to the muckle black De'il [big]
That danced awa wi' th' Exciseman.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; [dance tunes]
But the ae best dance e'er cam to the lan'. [one]
Was--_The De'il's awa wi' th' Exciseman_.

COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE

Comin' thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin' thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie, [draggled]
Comin' thro' the rye.

Gin a body meet a body [If]
Comin' thro' the rye;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Comin' thro' the glen;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken?

O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body; [all wet]
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' thro' the rye.

THE DEUK'S DANG O'ER MY DADDIE

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, [children, surprising]
The deuk's dang o'er my daddie, O! [duck has knocked]
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife, [devil may, lusty]
He was but a paidlin body, O! [tottering creature]
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
An' he paidles late and early, O;
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. [pithless old fellow]

O, haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, [hold]
O, haud your tongue now, Nansie, O:
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wad na been sae donsie, O; [would not have, testy]
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, [oatmeal and hot water]
And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O;
But downa-do's come o'er me now, [cannot-do is]
And, oh, I find it sairly, O! [feel it sorely]

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

'Wha is that at my bower door?'
'O wha is it but Findlay?'
'Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!' [go, way, shall not]
'Indeed maun I,' quo' Findlay. [must]
'What mak ye, sae like a thief?' [do]
'O, come and see,' quo' Findlay;
'Before the morn ye'll work mischief;'
'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.

'Gif I rise and let you in--' [If]
'Let me in,' quo' Findlay--
'Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;' [awake]
'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.
'In my bower if ye should stay--'
'Let me stay,' quo' Findlay--,
'I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;'
'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.

'Here this night if ye remain--'
'I'll remain,' quo' Findlay--,
'I dread ye'll learn the gate again;' [way]
'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay,
'What may pass within this bower--'
'Let it pass,' quo' Findlay--
'Ye maun conceal till your last hour;' [must]
'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.

WILLIE'S WIFE

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster guid, [weaver good]
Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony body. [have stolen]
He had a wife was dour and din, [stubborn, sallow]
O, Tinkler Madgie was her mither; [Tinker]
Sic a wife as Willie had, [Such]
I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e'e, she has but ane, [eye]
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, [besides]
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; [deafen]
A whiskin beard about her mou, [mouth]
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd, [bandy, crooked]
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; [One, hand-breadth]
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter: [either]
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, [Old pussy, fireside]
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; [palm]
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, [trim]
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; [wipes, snout, stocking-leg]
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, [ample fists, dung baskets]
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water; [dirty]
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

The songs written by Burns in connection with politics are often lively and pointed, but they have little imagination, and the passing of the issues they dealt with has deprived them of general interest. Two classes of exceptions may be noted. He was, as we have seen, sympathetically interested in the French Revolution, and the fundamental doctrine of Liberty, Fraternity, Equality was cast by him into a poem which, he himself said, is "not really poetry," but is admirably vigorous rhetoric in verse, and has become the classic utterance of the democratic faith.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

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

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that; [coarse gray]
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, [Give]
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, [fellow]
Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that: [dolt]
For a' that, an' a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might, [above]
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! [must not claim]
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that.

But 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, an' a' that. [first place]
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.

Another, equally famous, sprang from his patriotic enthusiasm for the heroes of the Scottish war of independence, but was written with more than a slight consciousness of what seemed to him the similarity of the spirit then abroad in France.

SCOTS, WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

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

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

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!

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

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

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

The other class of exceptions is the group of songs on Jacobite themes. The rebellion led by Prince Charles Edward in 1745 had produced a considerable quantity of campaign verse, almost all without poetic value; but after the turmoil had died down and the Stuart cause was regarded as finally lost, there appeared in Scotland a peculiar sentimental tenderness for the picturesque and unfortunate family that had sunk from the splendors of a throne that had been theirs for centuries into the sordid misery of royal pauperism. Burns, whose ancestors had been "out" in the '45, shared this sentiment, as Walter Scott later shared it, both realizing that it had nothing to do with practical politics. Out of this feeling there grew a considerable body of poetry, a poetry full of idealism, touched with melancholy, and atoning for its lack of reality by a richness of imaginative emotion. Burns led the way in this unique movement, and was worthily followed by such writers as Lady Nairne, James Hogg, and Sir Walter himself. He followed his usual custom of availing himself of fragments of the older lyrics, but as usual he polished the pebbles into jewels and set them in gold. Here are a few specimens of this poetry of a lost cause.

IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING

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.

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, [must]
My dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, [gave]
With adieu for evermore,
My dear,
Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns, [soldier]
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear,
Never to meet again.

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, [live-long]
My dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er,
Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, [half-penny]
To boat me o'er to Charlie.

We'll o'er the water, we'll 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.

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, [love]
Tho' some there be abhor him:
But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, [going]
And Charlie's faes before him! [foes]

I swear and vow by moon and stars,
And sun that shines so clearly,
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I'd die as aft for Charlie.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, [gaily dressed]
Bonnie Highland laddie.
On his head a bonnet blue,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
His royal heart was firm and true,
Bonnie Highland laddie.

Trumpets sound and cannons roar,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.
Glory, Honour, now invite,
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie,
For Freedom and my King to fight,
Bonnie Lawland lassie.

The sun a backward course shall take,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
Ere aught thy manly courage shake,
Bonnie Highland laddie.
Go, for yoursel procure renown,
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie,
And for your lawful King his crown,
Bonnie Highland laddie!

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY

Bannocks o' bear meal, [Cakes, barley]
Bannocks o' barley;
Here's to the Highlandman's
Bannocks o' barley.
Wha in a brulzie [broil]
Will first cry a parley?
Never the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley.

Bannocks o' bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley;
Here's to the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley;
Wha in his wae-days [woful-]
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi'
The bannocks o' barley.

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA

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.

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.

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, [blood]
Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

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.

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!

Here's him that's far awa, Willie!
Here's him that's far awa;
And here's the flower that I lo'e best--
The rose that's like the snaw!

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey:
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 dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

'My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, [handsome]
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; [weep, churchyard]
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

'Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; [lost, children]
But till my last moment my words are the same--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.'

I HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN

I hae been at Crookieden-- [Hell]
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
Viewing Willie and his men-- [Duke of Cumberland]
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
There our foes that burnt and slew--
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
There at last they gat their due--
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

Satan sits in his black neuk-- [corner]
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
Breaking sticks to roast the Duke--
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
The bloody monster gae a yell-- [gave]
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!
And loud the laugh gaed round a' Hell-- [went]
My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING

'Twas on a Monday morning
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town--
The Young Chevalier!

CHORUS

An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling--
The Young Chevalier!

As he was walking up the street
The city for to view,
O, there he spied a bonie lass
The window looking thro!

Sae light's he jumped up the stair,
And tirl'd at the pin; [rattled]
And wha sae ready as hersel'
To let the laddie in!

He set his Jenny on his knee,
All in his Highland dress;
And brawlie weel he kend the way
To please a bonie lass.

It's up yon heathery mountain
And down yon scraggy glen,
We daurna gang a-milking
For Charlie and his men!

Such in nature and origin are the songs of Burns. Of some three hundred written or rewritten by him, a large number are negligible in estimating his poetical capacity. One cause lay in his unfortunate ambition to write in the style of his eighteenth-century predecessors in English, with the accompanying mythological allusions, personifications, and scraps of artificial diction. Another was his pathetic eagerness to supply Thomson with material in his undertaking to preserve the old melodies--an eagerness which often led him to send in verses of which he himself felt that their only defense was that they were better than none. Thus his collected works are burdened with a considerable mass of very indifferent stuff. But when this has all been removed, we have left a body of song such as probably no writer in any language has bequeathed to his country. It is marked, first of all, by its peculiar harmony of expression with the utterance of the common people. Direct and simple, its diction was still capable of carrying intense feeling, a humor incomparable in its archness and sly mirth, and a power of idealizing ordinary experience without effort or affectation. The union of these words with the traditional melodies, on which we have so strongly insisted, gave them a superb singing quality, which has had as much to do with their popularity as their thought or their feeling. This union, however, has its drawbacks when we come to consider the songs as literature; for to present them as here in bare print without the living tune is to perpetuate a divorce which their author never contemplated. No editor of Burns can fail to feel a pang when he thinks that these words may be heard by ears that carry no echo of the airs to which they were born. Here lies the fundamental reason for what seems to outsiders the exaggerated estimate of Burns in the judgment of his countrymen. What they extol is not mere literature, but song, the combination of poetry and music; and it is only when Burns is judged as an artist in this double sense that he is judged fairly.