LXXVI.

What sighs and vows amang the knowesHae 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 meAs my sweet lovely Jean!

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.]

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.

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.]

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 dayI 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 onBeyond the sea, beyond the sun,Till my last weary sand was run;Till then—and then I love thee.

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.]

There’s a youth in this city,It were a great pityThat 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 hueOf 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 fortuneThe 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 mailenThat fain wad a haen him;And Susie, whose daddy was laird o’ the ha’;There’s lang-tocher’d NancyMaist fetters his fancy—But the laddie’s dear sel’ he lo’es dearest of a’.

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.]

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.

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 beganTo 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.”]

“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.

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’.

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 StateSurpasses 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 headsAre 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’.

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!

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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.]

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 mairShall birdie charm, or floweret smile;Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

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.]

Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray,That lov’st to greet the early morn,Again thou usherest in the dayMy 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 effaceThose 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 westProclaim’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?

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.]

An’ O! my Eppie,My jewel, my Eppie!Wha wadna be happyWi’ Eppie Adair?By love, and by beauty,By law, and by duty,I swear to be true toMy Eppie Adair!

II.

An’ O! my Eppie,My jewel, my Eppie!Wha wadna be happyWi’ Eppie Adair?A’ pleasure exile me,Dishonour defile me,If e’er I beguile thee,My Eppie Adair!

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.]

“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 WhigsAnd 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 pursueThe 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!”

My sister Kate cam up the gateWi’ crowdie unto me, man;She swore she saw some rebels runFrae Perth unto Dundee, man:Their left-hand general had nae skill,The Angus lads had nae good-willThat day their neebors’ blood to spill;For fear, by foes, that they should loseTheir 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.

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.]

Young Jockey was the blythest ladIn 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.

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.]

O, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut,And Rob and Allan came to see:Three blither hearts, that lee-lang nightYe 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.

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.]

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.

Air—“The blue-eyed lass.”

[This blue-eyed lass was Jean Jeffry, daughter to the minister of Lochmaben: she was then a rosy girl of seventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York.]

I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen,A gate, I fear, I’ll dearlie rue;I gat my death frae twa sweet een,Twa lovely een o’ bonnie blue.’Twas not her golden ringlets bright;Her lips, like roses, wat wi’ dew,Her heaving bosom, lily-white—It was her een sae bonnie blue.

II.

She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wyl’d;She charm’d my soul—I wist na how:And ay the stound, the deadly wound,Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.But spare to speak, and spare to speed;She’ll aiblins listen to my vow:Should she refuse, I’ll lay my deadTo her twa een sae bonnie blue.

Tune—“Robie donna Gorach.”

[The command which the Comyns held on the Nith was lost to the Douglasses: the Nithsdale power, on the downfall of that proud name, was divided; part went to the Charteris’s and the better portion to the Maxwells: the Johnstones afterwards came in for a share, and now the Scots prevail.]

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,Where royal cities stately stand;But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,Where Comyns ance had high command:When shall I see that honour’d land,That winding stream I love so dear!Must wayward Fortune’s adverse handFor ever, ever keep me here?

II.

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom!How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,Where lambkins wanton thro’ the broom!Tho’ wandering now, must be my doom,Far from thy bonnie banks and braes,May there my latest hours consume,Amang the friends of early days!

Tune—“Tam Glen.”

[Tam Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and older air: of the former all that remains is a portion of the chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museum.]

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie!Some counsel unto me come len’,To anger them a’ is a pity,But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?

II.

I’m thinking wi’ sic a braw fellow,In poortith I might make a fen’;What care I in riches to wallow,If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

III.

There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller,“Gude day to you, brute!” he comes ben:He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

IV.

My minnie does constantly deave me,And bids me beware o’ young men;They flatter, she says, to deceive me,But wha can think so o’ Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten:But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him,O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

VI.

Yestreen at the Valentine’s dealing,My heart to my mou’ gied a sten;For thrice I drew ane without failing,And thrice it was written—Tam Glen.

VII.

The last Halloween I was waukinMy droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;His likeness cam up the house staukin,And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen!

VIII.

Come counsel, dear Tittie! don’t tarry—I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen,Gif ye will advise me to marryThe lad that I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

Air—“Carron Side.”

[Burns says, “I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is.” The rest of the song is supposed to be from the same hand: the lines are not to be found in earlier collections.]

Frae the friends and land I love,Driv’n by fortune’s felly spite,Frae my best belov’d I rove,Never mair to taste delight;Never mair maun hope to find,Ease frae toil, relief frae care:When remembrance wracks the mind,Pleasures but unveil despair.

II.

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,Desert ilka blooming shore,Till the Fates, nae mair severe,Friendship, love, and peace restore;Till Revenge, wi’ laurell’d head,Bring our banish’d hame again;And ilka loyal bonnie ladCross the seas and win his ain.

Tune—“Craigie-burn-wood.”

[This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who for some time lived on the banks of the Craigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with her: but it did not prevail, for she married an officer of the name of Whelpdale, lived with him for a month or so: reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation necessary; she then took up her residence in Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing the poet. She lived till lately.]

CHORUS.

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