Chapter 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.