CLVII.

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.

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.]

My heart is sair—I dare na tell—My heart is sair for somebody;I could wake a winter nightFor 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!

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 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.

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.]

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 inviteTo 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’.”

She snatch’d the candle in her hand,And frae my chamber went wi’ speed;But I call’d her quickly back againTo 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.

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!

Tune—“Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.”

[This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, in his own handwriting.]

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 startAt 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 heartThan hers, the fair sae far awa.

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’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.

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.

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 charmsO’ Paradise could yield me joy;But gie me Lucy in my arms,And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky!

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 townHis 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 townThat e’enin sun is shining on.

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.]

O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweetAs 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!

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.]

O lovely Polly Stewart!O charming Polly Stewart!There’s not a flower that blooms in MayThat’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 youthWill give to Polly Stewart.

II.

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charmsPossess a leal and true heart;To him be given to ken the heavenHe grasps in Polly Stewart.O lovely Polly Stewart!O charming Polly Stewart!There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in MayThat’s half so sweet as thou art.

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.]

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.

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.

Tune—[unknown.]

[It is supposed that “Highland Mary,” who lived sometime on Cassillis’s banks, is the heroine of these verses.]

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 walthIs 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!

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.]

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!

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.]

Bannocks o’ bear meal,Bannocks o’ barley;Here’s to the Highlandman’sBannocks o’ barley.Wha in a brulzieWill 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-daysWere loyal to Charlie?Wha but the lads wi’The bannocks o’ barley?

Tune—“The Highland Balou.”

[“Published in the Musical Museum,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “but without the name of the author.” It is anold strain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to the Museum in his own handwriting.]

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald,Picture o’ the great Clanronald;Brawlie kens our wanton chiefWha 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.

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.]

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.

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!

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.]

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.

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.]

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.

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.]

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 guidWere 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.

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.

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.]

Amang the trees, where humming beesAt 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’dA prisoner aughteen year awa,He fir’d a fiddler in the northThat dang them tapsalteerie, O.

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.]

Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine,A place where body saw na’;Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mineThe gowden locks of Anna.The hungry Jew in wildernessRejoicing o’er his manna,Was naething to my hinny blissUpon the lips of Anna.

II.

Ye monarchs tak the east and west,Frae Indus to Savannah!Gie me within my straining graspThe melting form of Anna.There I’ll despise imperial charms,An empress or sultana,While dying raptures in her armsI 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 writeMy 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.

[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.]

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