LIV.

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.

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.]

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 billowYielding late to nature’s law,Whisp’ring spirits round my pillowTalk 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!

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.

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;But Phemie was a bonnier lassThan 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 meekAs 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 lassThat 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.

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.]

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.

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.]

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!

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.]

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 nestA little linnet fondly prest,The dew sat chilly on her breastSae 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 careThat tends thy early morning.So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,And bless the parent’s evening rayThat watch’d thy early morning.

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.”]

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’ dayMy fiddle and I hae had.

III.

As I cam by Crochallan,I cannily keekit ben—Rattlin’, roarin’ WillieWas sittin’ at yon board en’;Sitting at yon board en’,And amang good companie;Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,Ye’re welcome hame to me I

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.]

Where, braving angry winter’s storms,The lofty Ochels rise,Far in their shade my Peggy’s charmsFirst 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 soulMust be a stronger death.

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.]

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 meFor better for waur—And come in thy coatie,Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!

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.]

Streams that glide in orient plains,Never bound by winter’s chains;Glowing here on golden sands,There commix’d with foulest stainsFrom tyranny’s empurpled bands;These, their richly gleaming waves,I leave to tyrants and their slaves;Give me the stream that sweetly lavesThe 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 braveThe 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.

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.]

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 landFor 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 landFor Highland Harry back again.

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.]

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 fainTo see the bit tailor come skippin’ again.

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.]

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 naneFor thinking on my dearie.

II.

When I sleep I dream,When I wauk I’m eerie;Sleep I can get naneFor thinking on my dearie.

III.

Lanely night comes on,A’ the lave are sleeping;I think on my bonnie ladAnd I bleer my een with greetin’.Ay waukin O,Waukin still and wearie:Sleep I can get naneFor thinking on my dearie.

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.]

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!

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.]

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 paidleThe 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 hareTo 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.

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.]

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 breezeHer 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 maidForgiving all and good.

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.]

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.

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.]

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.

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.

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.

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.]

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 shoreWad make me langer wish to tarry;Nor shouts o’ war that’s heard afar—It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

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.]

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.

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.

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 foeSues 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.

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 duringthe honeymoon.” Other versions are abroad; this one is from the manuscripts of the poet.]

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 flightIs 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 springsBy 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 saftAmong the leafy trees,Wi’ balmy gale, frae hill and daleBring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to meThat’s aye sae neat and clean;Ae smile o’ her wad banish care,Sae charming is my Jean.

IV.

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