Young Charlie CochranWas the sprout of an aik;Bonnie and bloomin’And straught was its make:The sun took delightTo shine for its sake,And it will be the bragO’ the forest yet.
Young Charlie CochranWas the sprout of an aik;Bonnie and bloomin’And straught was its make:The sun took delightTo shine for its sake,And it will be the bragO’ the forest yet.
V.
The simmer is gane,When the leaves they were green,And the days are awa,That we hae seen;But far better daysI trust will come again,For my bonnie laddie’s young,But he’s growin’ yet.
The simmer is gane,When the leaves they were green,And the days are awa,That we hae seen;But far better daysI trust will come again,For my bonnie laddie’s young,But he’s growin’ yet.
Tune.—“A parcel of rogues in a nation.”
[This song was written by Burns in a moment of honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of the south the independence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.]
I.
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,Fareweel our ancient glory,Fareweel even to the Scottish name,Sae fam’d in martial story.Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands,And Tweed rins to the ocean,To mark where England’s province stands—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame,Fareweel our ancient glory,Fareweel even to the Scottish name,Sae fam’d in martial story.Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands,And Tweed rins to the ocean,To mark where England’s province stands—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
II.
What force or guile could not subdue,Thro’ many warlike ages,Is wrought now by a coward fewFor hireling traitor’s wages.The English steel we could disdain;Secure in valour’s station;But English gold has been our bane—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
What force or guile could not subdue,Thro’ many warlike ages,Is wrought now by a coward fewFor hireling traitor’s wages.The English steel we could disdain;Secure in valour’s station;But English gold has been our bane—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
III.
O would, or I had seen the dayThat treason thus could sell us,My auld gray head had lien in clay,Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!But pith and power, till my last hour,I’ll mak’ this declaration;We’ve bought and sold for English gold—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
O would, or I had seen the dayThat treason thus could sell us,My auld gray head had lien in clay,Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace!But pith and power, till my last hour,I’ll mak’ this declaration;We’ve bought and sold for English gold—Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
Tune—“Kellyburn Braes.”
[Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her finger over the long list of lyrics which her husband had written or amended for the Museum, “Robert gae this one a terrible brushing.” A considerable portion of the old still remains.]
I.
There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And he had a wife was the plague o’ his days;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And he had a wife was the plague o’ his days;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
II.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He met wi’ the devil; says, “How do yow fen?”And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He met wi’ the devil; says, “How do yow fen?”And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
III.
“I’ve got a bad wife, sir; that’s a’ my complaint;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),For, saving your presence, to her ye’re a saint;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
“I’ve got a bad wife, sir; that’s a’ my complaint;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),For, saving your presence, to her ye’re a saint;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
IV.
“It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
“It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
V.
“O welcome, most kindly,” the blythe carle said,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),“But if ye can match her, ye’re waur nor ye’re ca’d,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
“O welcome, most kindly,” the blythe carle said,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),“But if ye can match her, ye’re waur nor ye’re ca’d,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
VI.
The devil has got the auld wife on his back;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And, like a poor pedlar, he’s carried his pack;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The devil has got the auld wife on his back;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And, like a poor pedlar, he’s carried his pack;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
VII.
He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan-door;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme).Syne bade her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan-door;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme).Syne bade her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
VIII.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o’ his band,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o’ his band,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
IX.
The carlin gaed thro’ them like ony wud bear,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),Whate’er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The carlin gaed thro’ them like ony wud bear,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),Whate’er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
X.
A reekit wee devil looks over the wa’;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),“O, help, master, help, or she’ll ruin us a’,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
A reekit wee devil looks over the wa’;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),“O, help, master, help, or she’ll ruin us a’,And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
XI.
The devil he swore by the edge o’ his knife,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He pitied the man that was tied to a wife;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The devil he swore by the edge o’ his knife,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He pitied the man that was tied to a wife;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
XII.
The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He was not in wedlock, thank heav’n, but in hell;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),He was not in wedlock, thank heav’n, but in hell;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
XIII.
Then Satan has travelled again wi’ his pack;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And to her auld husband he’s carried her back:And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travelled again wi’ his pack;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),And to her auld husband he’s carried her back:And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.
XIV.
“I hae been a devil the feck o’ my life;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),But ne’er was in hell, till I met wi’ a wife;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
“I hae been a devil the feck o’ my life;(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme),But ne’er was in hell, till I met wi’ a wife;And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime.”
Tune—“Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss.”
[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its origin: and he is silent about it in his memoranda.]
I.
Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss,O’er the mountains he is gane;And with him is a’ my bliss,Nought but griefs with me remain.Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,Plashy sleets and beating rain!Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,Drifting o’er the frozen plain.
Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss,O’er the mountains he is gane;And with him is a’ my bliss,Nought but griefs with me remain.Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,Plashy sleets and beating rain!Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,Drifting o’er the frozen plain.
II.
When the shades of evening creepO’er the day’s fair, gladsome e’e,Sound and safely may he sleep,Sweetly blithe his waukening be!He will think on her he loves,Fondly he’ll repeat her name;For where’er he distant roves,Jockey’s heart is still at hame.
When the shades of evening creepO’er the day’s fair, gladsome e’e,Sound and safely may he sleep,Sweetly blithe his waukening be!He will think on her he loves,Fondly he’ll repeat her name;For where’er he distant roves,Jockey’s heart is still at hame.
Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.”
[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not much, is believed to be old.]
I.
A’ the lads o’ Thornie-bank,When they gae to the shore o’ Bucky,They’ll step in an’ tak’ a pintWi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Brews good ale at shore o’ Bucky;I wish her sale for her gude ale,The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.
A’ the lads o’ Thornie-bank,When they gae to the shore o’ Bucky,They’ll step in an’ tak’ a pintWi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Brews good ale at shore o’ Bucky;I wish her sale for her gude ale,The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.
II.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean,I wat she is a dainty chucky;And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleedOf Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Lady Onlie, honest Lucky,Brews good ale at shore o’ BuckyI wish her sale for her gude ale,The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean,I wat she is a dainty chucky;And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleedOf Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!Lady Onlie, honest Lucky,Brews good ale at shore o’ BuckyI wish her sale for her gude ale,The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.
Tune—“Captain O’Kean.”
[“Composed,” says Burns to M’Murdo, “at the desire of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air and subject.” The friend alluded to is supposed to be Robert Cleghorn: he loved the air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.]
I.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale;The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale:But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,While the lingering moments are number’d by care?No flow’rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale;The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale:But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,While the lingering moments are number’d by care?No flow’rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
II.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,A king and a father to place on his throne?His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none;But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn:My brave gallant friends! ’tis your ruin I mourn;Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial—Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,A king and a father to place on his throne?His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none;But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn:My brave gallant friends! ’tis your ruin I mourn;Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial—Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!
Air—“Oran an Aoig.”
[“I have just finished the following song,” says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, “which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology.”]
Scene—A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:
I.
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,Now gay with the bright setting sun;Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties—Our race of existence is run!
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,Now gay with the bright setting sun;Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties—Our race of existence is run!
II.
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe!Go frighten the coward and slave;Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,No terrors hast thou to the brave!
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe!Go frighten the coward and slave;Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,No terrors hast thou to the brave!
III.
Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name;Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark!He falls in the blaze of his fame!
Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name;Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark!He falls in the blaze of his fame!
IV.
In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands,Our king and our country to save—While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands,Oh! who would not die with the brave!
In the field of proud honour—our swords in our hands,Our king and our country to save—While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands,Oh! who would not die with the brave!
Tune—“Afton Water.”
[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.]
I.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
II.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro’ the glen;Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear—I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro’ the glen;Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear—I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
III.
How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills,Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.
How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills,Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.
IV.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
V.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave.
VI.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.
Tune—“The Bonnie Bell.”
[“Bonnie Bell,” was first printed in the Museum: who the heroine was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it is a pity.]
I.
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,And surly Winter grimly flies;Now crystal clear are the falling waters,And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning,The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell;All creatures joy in the sun’s returning,And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,And surly Winter grimly flies;Now crystal clear are the falling waters,And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning,The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell;All creatures joy in the sun’s returning,And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.
II.
The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,And yellow Autumn presses near,Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,Till smiling Spring again appear.Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing,Old Time and Nature their changes tell,But never ranging, still unchanging,I adore my bonnie Bell.
The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,And yellow Autumn presses near,Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,Till smiling Spring again appear.Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing,Old Time and Nature their changes tell,But never ranging, still unchanging,I adore my bonnie Bell.
Tune—“Hey ca’ thro’.”
[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part of it is his composition, and some believe the whole.]
I.
Up wi’ the carles o’ Dysart,And the lads o’ Buckhaven,And the kimmers o’ Largo,And the lasses o’ Leven.Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado;Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado.
Up wi’ the carles o’ Dysart,And the lads o’ Buckhaven,And the kimmers o’ Largo,And the lasses o’ Leven.Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado;Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado.
II.
We hae tales to tell,And we hae sangs to sing;We hae pennies to spend,And we hae pints to bring.
We hae tales to tell,And we hae sangs to sing;We hae pennies to spend,And we hae pints to bring.
III.
We’ll live a’ our days,And them that come behin’,Let them do the like,And spend the gear they win.Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado,Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado.
We’ll live a’ our days,And them that come behin’,Let them do the like,And spend the gear they win.Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado,Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,For we hae mickle ado.
Tune—“The Weavers’ March.”
[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms, in the west of Scotland.]
I.
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea,By mony a flow’r and spreading tree,There lives a lad, the lad for me,He is a gallant weaver.Oh, I had wooers aught or nine,They gied me rings and ribbons fine;And I was fear’d my heart would tine,And I gied it to the weaver.
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea,By mony a flow’r and spreading tree,There lives a lad, the lad for me,He is a gallant weaver.Oh, I had wooers aught or nine,They gied me rings and ribbons fine;And I was fear’d my heart would tine,And I gied it to the weaver.
II.
My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,To gie the lad that has the land;But to my heart I’ll add my hand,And gie it to the weaver.While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;While bees delight in op’ning flowers;While corn grows green in simmer showers,I’ll love my gallant weaver.
My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,To gie the lad that has the land;But to my heart I’ll add my hand,And gie it to the weaver.While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;While bees delight in op’ning flowers;While corn grows green in simmer showers,I’ll love my gallant weaver.
Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddie.”
[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of the words of this song in a strain, rather rough and home-spun, of Scotland’s elder day. He communicated it to the Museum.]
I.
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout,The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O!The fien’-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife,He was but a paidlin body, O!He paidles out, an’ he paidles in,An’ he paidles late an’ early, O!This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O!
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout,The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O!The fien’-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife,He was but a paidlin body, O!He paidles out, an’ he paidles in,An’ he paidles late an’ early, O!This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O!
II.
O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O!I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,Ye wadna been sae donsie, O!I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose,And cuddled me late and early, O!But downa do’s come o’er me now,And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!
O, hand your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O!I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,Ye wadna been sae donsie, O!I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose,And cuddled me late and early, O!But downa do’s come o’er me now,And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!
Tune—“She’s fair and fause.”
[One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of the North: the air is almost as happy as the words.]
I.
She’s fair and fause that causes my smart,I lo’ed her meikle and lang;She’s broken her vow, she’s broken my heart,And I may e’en gae hang.A coof cam in wi’ routh o’ gear,And I hae tint my dearest dear;But woman is but warld’s gear,Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
She’s fair and fause that causes my smart,I lo’ed her meikle and lang;She’s broken her vow, she’s broken my heart,And I may e’en gae hang.A coof cam in wi’ routh o’ gear,And I hae tint my dearest dear;But woman is but warld’s gear,Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
II.
Whae’er ye be that woman love,To this be never blind,Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove,A woman has’t by kind.O woman, lovely woman fair!An angel form’s fa’n to thy share,’Twad been o’er meikle to gien thee mair—I mean an angel mind.
Whae’er ye be that woman love,To this be never blind,Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove,A woman has’t by kind.O woman, lovely woman fair!An angel form’s fa’n to thy share,’Twad been o’er meikle to gien thee mair—I mean an angel mind.
Tune—“The Deil cam’ fiddling through the town.”
[Composed and sung by the poet at a festive meeting of the excisemen of the Dumfries district.]
I.
The deil cam’ fiddling through the town,And danced awa wi’ the Exciseman,And ilka wife cries—“Auld Mahoun,I wish you luck o’ the prize, man!”The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman;He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa,He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman!
The deil cam’ fiddling through the town,And danced awa wi’ the Exciseman,And ilka wife cries—“Auld Mahoun,I wish you luck o’ the prize, man!”The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman;He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa,He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman!
II.
We’ll mak our maut, we’ll brew our drink,We’ll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deilThat danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.
We’ll mak our maut, we’ll brew our drink,We’ll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deilThat danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.
III.
There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels,There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man;But the ae best dance e’er cam to the landWas—the deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman.The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman:He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa,He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.
There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels,There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man;But the ae best dance e’er cam to the landWas—the deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman.The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman:He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa,He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman.
Tune—“Lass of Inverness.”
[As Burns passed slowly over the moor of Culloden, in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of Inverness, it is said, rose on his fancy: the first four lines are partly old.]
I.
The lovely lass o’ Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For e’en and morn, she cries, alas!And ay the saut tear blin’s her e’e:Drumossie moor—Drumossie day—A waefu’ day it was to me!For there I lost my father dear,My father dear, and brethren three.
The lovely lass o’ Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For e’en and morn, she cries, alas!And ay the saut tear blin’s her e’e:Drumossie moor—Drumossie day—A waefu’ day it was to me!For there I lost my father dear,My father dear, and brethren three.
II.
Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growing green to see:And by them lies the dearest ladThat ever blest a woman’s e’e!Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For mony a heart thou host made sair,That ne’er did wrong to thine or thee.
Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growing green to see:And by them lies the dearest ladThat ever blest a woman’s e’e!Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For mony a heart thou host made sair,That ne’er did wrong to thine or thee.
Tune—“Graham’s Strathspey.”
[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing the sentiments of this song in certain street ballads: it resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a drop-ripe damson.]
I.
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,That’s newly sprung in June:O, my luve’s like the melodie,That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,That’s newly sprung in June:O, my luve’s like the melodie,That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
II.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,’Till a’ the seas gang dry.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,’Till a’ the seas gang dry.
III.
’Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.
’Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.
IV.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!And fare thee weel a-while!And I will come again, my luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!And fare thee weel a-while!And I will come again, my luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
Tune—“Louis, what reck I by thee.”
[The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, is Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from the earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.]
I.
Louis, what reck I by thee,Or Geordie on his ocean?Dyvor, beggar loons to me—I reign in Jeannie’s bosom.
Louis, what reck I by thee,Or Geordie on his ocean?Dyvor, beggar loons to me—I reign in Jeannie’s bosom.
II.
Let her crown my love her law,And in her breast enthrone me.Kings and nations—swith, awa!Reif randies, I disown ye!
Let her crown my love her law,And in her breast enthrone me.Kings and nations—swith, awa!Reif randies, I disown ye!
Tune—“Had I the wyte she bade me.”
[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses did not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in which our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,Had I the wyte she bade me;She watch’d me by the hie-gate side.And up the loan she shaw’d me;And when I wadna venture in,A coward loon she ca’d me;Had kirk and state been in the gate,I lighted when she bade me.
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,Had I the wyte she bade me;She watch’d me by the hie-gate side.And up the loan she shaw’d me;And when I wadna venture in,A coward loon she ca’d me;Had kirk and state been in the gate,I lighted when she bade me.
II.
Sae craftilie she took me ben,And bade me make nae clatter;“For our ramgunshoch glum gudemanIs out and owre the water:”Whae’er shall say I wanted graceWhen I did kiss and dawte her,Let him be planted in my place,Syne say I was the fautor.
Sae craftilie she took me ben,And bade me make nae clatter;“For our ramgunshoch glum gudemanIs out and owre the water:”Whae’er shall say I wanted graceWhen I did kiss and dawte her,Let him be planted in my place,Syne say I was the fautor.
III.
Could I for shame, could I for shame,Could I for shame refused her?And wadna manhood been to blame,Had I unkindly used her?He claw’d her wi’ the ripplin-kame,And blue and bluidy bruised her;When sic a husband was frae hame,What wife but had excused her?
Could I for shame, could I for shame,Could I for shame refused her?And wadna manhood been to blame,Had I unkindly used her?He claw’d her wi’ the ripplin-kame,And blue and bluidy bruised her;When sic a husband was frae hame,What wife but had excused her?
IV.
I dighted ay her een sae blue,And bann’d the cruel randy;And weel I wat her willing mou’,Was e’en like sugar-candy.A gloamin-shot it was I wot,I lighted on the Monday;But I cam through the Tysday’s dew,To wanton Willie’s brandy.
I dighted ay her een sae blue,And bann’d the cruel randy;And weel I wat her willing mou’,Was e’en like sugar-candy.A gloamin-shot it was I wot,I lighted on the Monday;But I cam through the Tysday’s dew,To wanton Willie’s brandy.
Tune—“Coming through the rye.”
[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse chaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, when it was first printed.]
I.
Coming through the rye, poor body,Coming through the rye,She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,Jenny’s seldom dry;She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.
Coming through the rye, poor body,Coming through the rye,She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,Jenny’s seldom dry;She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.
II.
Gin a body meet a body—Coming through the rye,Gin a body kiss a body—Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body—Coming through the rye,Gin a body kiss a body—Need a body cry?
III.
Gin a body meet a bodyComing through the glen,Gin a body kiss a body—Need the world ken?Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body;Jenny’s seldom dry;She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.
Gin a body meet a bodyComing through the glen,Gin a body kiss a body—Need the world ken?Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body;Jenny’s seldom dry;She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,Coming through the rye.
Tune—“The carlin o’ the glen.”
[Sent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part only is thought to be his]
I.
Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain,Sae gallant and sae gay a swain;Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove,And reign’d resistless king of love:But now wi’ sighs and starting tears,He strays amang the woods and briers;Or in the glens and rocky cavesHis sad complaining dowie raves.
Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain,Sae gallant and sae gay a swain;Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove,And reign’d resistless king of love:But now wi’ sighs and starting tears,He strays amang the woods and briers;Or in the glens and rocky cavesHis sad complaining dowie raves.
II.
I wha sae late did range and rove,And chang’d with every moon my love,I little thought the time was near,Repentance I should buy sae dear:The slighted maids my torment see,And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree;While she, my cruel, scornfu’ fair,Forbids me e’er to see her mair!
I wha sae late did range and rove,And chang’d with every moon my love,I little thought the time was near,Repentance I should buy sae dear:The slighted maids my torment see,And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree;While she, my cruel, scornfu’ fair,Forbids me e’er to see her mair!
Tune—“Charlie Gordon’s welcome hame.”
[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th March 1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.]
I.
Out over the Forth I look to the north,But what is the north and its Highlands to me?The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.
Out over the Forth I look to the north,But what is the north and its Highlands to me?The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.
II.
But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;For far in the west lives he I Io’e best,The lad that is dear to my babie and me.
But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;For far in the west lives he I Io’e best,The lad that is dear to my babie and me.
Tune—“Jacky Latin.”
[Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan was amused with a rough old district song, which some one sung: he rendered, at a leisure moment, the language more delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it to the Museum.]
I.
Gat ye me, O gat ye me,O gat ye me wi’ naething?Rock and reel, and spinnin’ wheel,A mickle quarter basin.Bye attour, my gutcher hasA hich house and a laigh ane,A’ for bye, my bonnie sel’,The toss of Ecclefechan.
Gat ye me, O gat ye me,O gat ye me wi’ naething?Rock and reel, and spinnin’ wheel,A mickle quarter basin.Bye attour, my gutcher hasA hich house and a laigh ane,A’ for bye, my bonnie sel’,The toss of Ecclefechan.
II.
O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing,O hand your tongue and jauner;I held the gate till you I met,Syne I began to wander:I tint my whistle and my sang,I tint my peace and pleasure:But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,Wad airt me to my treasure.
O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing,O hand your tongue and jauner;I held the gate till you I met,Syne I began to wander:I tint my whistle and my sang,I tint my peace and pleasure:But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,Wad airt me to my treasure.
Tune—“Bab at the bowster.”
[The wit of this song is better than its delicacy: it is printed in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.]
I.