CXVIII.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, and then for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.Who shall say that fortune grieves himWhile the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;Dark despair around benights me.

II.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her, was to love her;Love but her, and love for ever.—Had we never lov’d sae kindly,Had we never lov’d sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne’er been broken hearted.

III.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae farewell, alas! for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

Tune—“Miss Muir.”

[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davies.]

O how shall I, unskilfu’, tryThe poet’s occupation,The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours,That whispers inspiration?Even they maun dare an effort mair,Than aught they ever gave us,Or they rehearse, in equal verse,The charms o’ lovely Davies.Each eye it cheers, when she appears,Like Phœbus in the morning.When past the shower, and ev’ry flowerThe garden is adorning.As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s shore,When winter-bound the wave is;Sae droops our heart when we maun partFrae charming lovely Davies.

II.

Her smile’s a gift, frae ‘boon the lift,That maks us mair than princes;A scepter’d hand, a king’s command,Is in her darting glances:The man in arms, ‘gainst female charms,Even he her willing slave is;He hugs his chain, and owns the reignOf conquering, lovely Davies.My muse to dream of such a theme,Her feeble pow’rs surrender:The eagle’s gaze alone surveysThe sun’s meridian splendour:I wad in vain essay the strain,The deed too daring brave is!I’ll drap the lyre, and mute admireThe charms o’ lovely Davies.

Tune—“The weary Pund o’ Tow.”

[“This song,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “is in the Musical Museum; but it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns.” The critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many songs which he took without scruple from my edition, where they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet: I said “the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words.” It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own handwriting.]

The weary pund, the weary pund,The weary pund o’ tow:I think my wife will end her lifeBefore she spin her tow.I bought my wife a stane o’ lintAs gude as e’er did grow;And a’ that she has made o’ that,Is ae poor pund o’ tow.

II.

There sat a bottle in a bole,Beyont the ingle low,And ay she took the tither souk,To drouk the stowrie tow.

III.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,Gae spin your tap o’ tow!She took the rock, and wi’ a knockShe brak it o’er my pow.

IV.

At last her feet—I sang to see’t—Gaed foremost o’er the knowe;And or I wad anither jad,I’ll wallop in a tow.The weary pund, the weary pund,The weary pund o’ tow!I think my wife will end her lifeBefore she spin her tow.

Tune—“Naebody.”

[Burns had built his house at Ellisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.]

I hae a wife o’ my ain—I’ll partake wi’ naebody;I’ll tak cuckold frae nane,I’ll gie cuckold to naebody.I hae a penny to spend,There—thanks to naebody;I hae naething to lend,I’ll borrow frae naebody.

II.

I am naebody’s lord—I’ll be slave to naebody;I hae a guid braid sword,I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.I’ll be merry and free,I’ll be sad for naebody;Naebody cares for me,I’ll care for naebody.

Tune—“The Moudiewort.”

[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Burns says simply, “This song is mine.” The air for a century before had to bear the burthen of very ordinary words.]

CHORUS.

An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam,An’ hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam,I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang,An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

They snool me sair, and haud me down,And gar me look like bluntie, Tam!But three short years will soon wheel roun’—And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam.

II.

A gleib o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear,Was left me by my auntie, Tam,At kith or kin I need na spier,An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

III.

They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof,Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam;But hear’st thou, laddie—there’s my loof—I’m thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam.An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam!An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam!I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ song,An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

Tune—“O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie.”

[The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole was sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.]

O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie!O Kenmure’s on and awa!And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord,That ever Galloway saw.

II.

Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie!Success to Kenmure’s band;There’s no a heart that fears a Whig,That rides by Kenmure’s hand.

III.

Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie!Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine;There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude,Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.

IV.

O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie!O Kenmure’s lads are men;Their hearts and swords are metal true—And that their faes shall ken.

They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie!They’ll live or die wi’ fame;But soon wi’ sounding victorie,May Kenmure’s lord come hame.

VI.

Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie,Here’s him that’s far awa;And here’s the flower that I love best—The rose that’s like the snaw!

Tune—“The Collier Laddie.”

[The Collier Laddie was communicated by Burns, and in his handwriting, to the Museum: it is chiefly his own composition, though coloured by an older strain.]

Where live ye, my bonnie lass?An’ tell me what they ca’ ye;My name, she says, is Mistress Jean,And I follow the Collier Laddie.My name she says, is Mistress Jean,And I follow the Collier Laddie.

II.

See you not yon hills and dales,The sun shines on sae brawlie!They a’ are mine, and they shall be thine,Gin ye’ll leave your Collier Laddie.They a’ are mine, and they shall be thine,Gin ye’ll leave your Collier Laddie.

III.

Ye shall gang in gay attire,Weel buskit up sae gaudy;And ane to wait on every hand,Gin ye’ll leave your Collier Laddie.And ane to wait on every hand,Gin ye’ll leave your Collier Laddie.

IV.

Tho’ ye had a’ the sun shines on,And the earth conceals sae lowly;I wad turn my back on you and it a’,And embrace my Collier Laddie.I wad turn my back on you and it a’,And embrace my Collier Laddie.

I can win my five pennies a day,And spen’t at night fu’ brawlie;And make my bed in the Collier’s neuk,And lie down wi’ my Collier Laddie.And make my bed in the Collier’s neuk,And lie down wi’ my Collier Laddie.

VI.

Luve for luve is the bargain for me,Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud me;And the world before me to win my bread,And fair fa’ my Collier Laddie.And the world before me to win my bread,And fair fa’ my Collier Laddie.

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum: the Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants of the Earls of Nithsdale.]

The noble Maxwells and their powersAre coming o’er the border,And they’ll gae bigg Terreagle’s towers,An’ set them a’ in order.And they declare Terreagles fair,For their abode they chuse it;There’s no a heart in a’ the land,But’s lighter at the news o’t.

II.

Tho’ stars in skies may disappear,And angry tempests gather;The happy hour may soon be nearThat brings us pleasant weather:The weary night o’ care and griefMay hae a joyful morrow;So dawning day has brought relief—Fareweel our night o’ sorrow!

Tune—“Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh.”

[The original song in the Gaelic language was translated for Burns by an Inverness-shire lady; he turned it into verse, and sent it to the Museum.]

As I was a-wand’ring ae midsummer e’enin’,The pipers and youngsters were making their game;Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover,Which bled a’ the wound o’ my dolour again.Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’ him;I may be distress’d, but I winna complain;I flatter my fancy I may get anither,My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

II.

I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin’,The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain:Had I na got greetin’, my heart wad a broken,For, oh! luve forsaken’s a tormenting pain.

III.

Although he has left me for greed o’ the siller,I dinna envy him the gains he can win;I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrowThan ever hae acted sae faithless to him.Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’ him,I may be distress’d, but I winna complain;I flatter my fancy I may get anither,My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

Tune—“The sweet lass that lo’es me.”

[There are several variations of this song, but they neither affect the sentiment, nor afford matter for quotation.]

O leeze me on my spinning-wheel,O leeze me on the rock and reel;Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,And haps me fiel and warm at e’en!I’ll set me down and sing and spin,While laigh descends the simmer sun,Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal—O leeze me on my spinning-wheel!

II.

On ilka hand the burnies trot,And meet below my theekit cot;The scented birk and hawthorn white,Across the pool their arms unite,Alike to screen the birdie’s nest,And little fishes’ caller rest:The sun blinks kindly in the biel’,Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel.

III.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,And Echo cons the doolfu’ tale;The lintwhites in the hazel braes,Delighted, rival ither’s lays:The craik amang the clover hay,The paitrick whirrin o’er the ley,The swallow jinkin round my shiel,Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.

IV.

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy,Aboon distress, below envy,O wha wad leave this humble state,For a’ the pride of a’ the great?Amid their flaring, idle toys,Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,Can they the peace and pleasure feelOf Bessy at her spinning-wheel?

Tune—“The Posie.”

[“The Posie is my composition,” says Burns, in a letter to Thomson. “The air was taken down from Mrs. Burns’s voice.” It was first printed in the Museum.]

O luve will venture inWhere it daurna weel be seen;O luve will venture inWhere wisdom ance has been.But I will down yon river rove,Among the wood sae green—And a’ to pu’ a posieTo my ain dear May.

II.

The primrose I will pu’,The firstling o’ the year,And I will pu’ the pink,The emblem o’ my dear,For she’s the pink o’ womankind,And blooms without a peer—And a’ to be a posieTo my ain dear May.

III.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose,When Phœbus peeps in view,For it’s like a baumy kissO’ her sweet bonnie mou’;The hyacinth’s for constancy,Wi’ its unchanging blue—And a’ to be a posieTo my ain dear May.

IV.

The lily it is pure,And the lily it is fair,And in her lovely bosomI’ll place the lily there;The daisy’s for simplicity,And unaffected air—And a’ to be a posieTo my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’Wi’ its locks o’ siller gray,Where, like an aged man,It stands at break of day.But the songster’s nest within the bushI winna tak away—And a’ to be a posieTo my ain dear May.

VI.

The woodbine I will pu’When the e’ening star is near,And the diamond drops o’ dewShall be her e’en sae clear;The violet’s for modesty,Which weel she fa’s to wear,And a’ to be a posieTo my ain dear May.

VII.

I’ll tie the posie round,Wi’ the silken band o’ luve,And I’ll place it in her breast,And I’ll swear by a’ above,That to my latest draught of lifeThe band shall ne’er remove,And this will be a posieTo my ain dear May.

Tune—“The Country Lass.”

[A manuscript copy before me, in the poet’s handwriting, presents two or three immaterial variations of this dramatic song.]

In simmer, when the hay was mawn,And corn wav’d green in ilka field,While claver blooms white o’er the lea,And roses blaw in ilka bield;Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,Says—I’ll be wed, come o’t what will;Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild—O’ guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

It’s ye hae wooers mony ane,And, lassie, ye’re but young ye ken;Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,A routhie butt, a routhie ben:There’s Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen,Fu’ is his burn, fu’ is his byre;Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,It’s plenty beets the luver’s fire.

III.

For Johnie o’ the Buskie-glen,I dinna care a single flie;He lo’es sae weel his craps and kye,He has nae luve to spare for me:But blithe’s the blink o’ Robie’s e’e,And weel I wat he lo’es me dear:Ae blink o’ him I wad nae gieFor Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.

IV.

O thoughtless lassie, life’s a faught;The canniest gate, the strife is sair;But ay fu’ han’t is fechtin best,An hungry care’s an unco care:But some will spend, and some will spare,An’ wilfu’ folk maun hae their will;Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

O, gear will buy me rigs o’ land,And gear will buy me sheep and kye;But the tender heart o’ leesome luve,The gowd and siller canna buy;We may be poor—Robie and I,Light is the burden luve lays on;Content and luve brings peace and joy—What mair hae queens upon a throne?

A Gaelic Air.

[The name of the heroine of this song was at first Rabina: but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting something new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted; which was a positive fraud; for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.]

Turn again, thou fair Eliza,Ae kind blink before we part,Rue on thy despairing lover!Canst thou break his faithfu’ heart?Turn again, thou fair Eliza;If to love thy heart denies,For pity hide the cruel sentenceUnder friendship’s kind disguise!

II.

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended?The offence is loving thee:Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,Wha for time wad gladly die?While the life beats in my bosom,Thou shalt mix in ilka throe;Turn again, thou lovely maiden.Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

III.

Not the bee upon the blossom,In the pride o’ sunny noon;Not the little sporting fairy,All beneath the simmer moon;Not the poet, in the momentFancy lightens in his e’e,Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,That thy presence gies to me.

Tune—“Ye Jacobites by name.”

[“Ye Jacobites by name,” appeared for the first time in the Museum: it was sent in the handwriting of Burns.]

Ye Jacobites by name, give and ear, give an ear;Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear;Ye Jacobites by name,Your fautes I will proclaim,Your doctrines I maun blame—You shall hear.

II.

What is right, and what is wrang, by the law, by the law?What is right and what is wrang, by the law?What is right and what is wrang?A short sword, and a lang,A weak arm, and a strangFor to draw.

III.

What makes heroic strife, fam’d afar, fam’d afar?What makes heroic strife, fam’d afar?What makes heroic strife?To whet th’ assassin’s knife,Or hunt a parent’s lifeWi’ bluidie war.

IV.

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state;Then let your schemes alone in the state;Then let your schemes alone,Adore the rising sun,And leave a man undoneTo his fate.

[FIRST VERSION.]

[An Ayrshire legend says the heroine of this affecting song was Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to her love for her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.]

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu’ o’ care!

II.

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o’ the happy daysWhen my fause love was true.

III.

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o’ my fate.

IV.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,To see the woodbine twine,And ilka bird sang o’ its love;And sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree:And my fause luver staw the rose,But left the thorn wi’ me.

[SECOND VERSION.]

Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s Delight.”

[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by adapting it to a new air, accidentally composed by an amateur who was directed, if he desired to create a Scottish air, to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve rhythm.]

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:Thou minds me o’ departed joys,Departed—never to return!

II.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,To see the rose and woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,And fondly sae did I o’ mine.Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;And my fause luver stole my rose,But, ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

Tune—“The eight men of Moidart.”

[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer’s wife of the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, who lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.]

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,The spot they call’d it Linkum-doddie.Willie was a wabster guid,Cou’d stown a clue wi’ onie bodie;He had a wife was dour and din,O Tinkler Madgie was her mither;Sic a wife as Willie had,I wad nae gie a button for her.

II.

She has an e’e—she has but ane,The cat has twa the very colour;Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller:A whiskin’ beard about her mou’,Her nose and chin they threaten ither—Sic a wife as Willie had,I wad nae gie a button for her.

III.

She’s bow hough’d, she’s hem shinn’d,A limpin’ leg, a hand-breed shorter;She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,To balance fair in ilka quarter:She has a hump upon her breast,The twin o’ that upon her shouther—Sic a wife as Willie had,I wad nae gie a button for her.

IV.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin’;But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion.Her walie nieves like midden-creels,Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water—Sic a wife as Willie had,I wad nae gie a button for her.

Tune—“Craigtown’s growing.”

[The poet sent this song to the Museum, in his own handwriting: yet part of it is believed to be old; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made his interpolations and changes.]

O, Lady Mary AnnLooks o’er the castle wa’,She saw three bonnie boysPlaying at the ba’;The youngest he wasThe flower amang them a’—My bonnie laddie’s young,But he’s growin’ yet.

II.

O father! O father!An’ ye think it fit,We’ll send him a yearTo the college yet:We’ll sew a green ribbonRound about his hat,And that will let them kenHe’s to marry yet.

III.

Lady Mary AnnWas a flower i’ the dew,Sweet was its smell,And bonnie was its hue;And the langer it blossom’dThe sweeter it grew;For the lily in the budWill be bonnier yet.

IV.

Back to Index Next