Within your dear mansion may wayward contentionOr withering envy ne’er enter:May secrecy round be the mystical bound,And brotherly love be the centre.
Within your dear mansion may wayward contentionOr withering envy ne’er enter:May secrecy round be the mystical bound,And brotherly love be the centre.
Edinburgh, 23August, 1787.
[The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.]
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart,You’re welcome, Willie Stewart;There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May,That’s half sae welcome’s thou art.Come bumpers high, express your joy,The bowl we maun renew it;The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,To welcome Willie Stewart.My foes be strang, and friends be slack,Ilk action may he rue it,May woman on him turn her back,That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart,You’re welcome, Willie Stewart;There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May,That’s half sae welcome’s thou art.
Come bumpers high, express your joy,The bowl we maun renew it;The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,To welcome Willie Stewart.
My foes be strang, and friends be slack,Ilk action may he rue it,May woman on him turn her back,That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call “the deed of shame,” Adam Armour, the brother of the poet’s bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood: an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called “Riding the Stang.” This was resented by Geordie and Nanse, the girl’s master and mistress; law was restored to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met Burns who laughed when he heard the story, and said, “You have need of some one to pray for you.” “No one can do that better than yourself,” was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, as it is said, “clean off loof.” From Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in which the prayer originated.]
Lord, pity me, for I am little,An elf of mischief and of mettle,That can like ony wabster’s shuttle,Jink there or here,Though scarce as lang’s a gude kale-whittle,I’m unco queer.Lord pity now our waefu’ case,For Geordie’s Jurr we’re in disgrace,Because we stang’d her through the place,‘Mang hundreds laughin’,For which we daurna show our faceWithin the clachan.And now we’re dern’d in glens and hallows,And hunted as was William Wallace,By constables, those blackguard fellows,And bailies baith,O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows!That cursed death.Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie’s sel’,O shake him ewre the mouth o’ hell,And let him hing and roar and yell,Wi’ hideous din,And if he offers to rebelJust heave him in.When Death comes in wi’ glimmering blink,And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink’Gaur Satan gie her a—e a clinkBehint his yett,And fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,Red reeking het!There’s Jockie and the hav’rel Jenny,Some devil seize them in a hurry,And waft them in th’ infernal wherry,Straught through the lake,And gie their hides a noble curry,Wi’ oil of aik.As for the lass, lascivious body,She’s had mischief enough already,Weel stang’d by market, mill, and smiddie,She’s suffer’d sair;But may she wintle in a widdie,If she wh—re mair.
Lord, pity me, for I am little,An elf of mischief and of mettle,That can like ony wabster’s shuttle,Jink there or here,Though scarce as lang’s a gude kale-whittle,I’m unco queer.
Lord pity now our waefu’ case,For Geordie’s Jurr we’re in disgrace,Because we stang’d her through the place,‘Mang hundreds laughin’,For which we daurna show our faceWithin the clachan.
And now we’re dern’d in glens and hallows,And hunted as was William Wallace,By constables, those blackguard fellows,And bailies baith,O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows!That cursed death.
Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie’s sel’,O shake him ewre the mouth o’ hell,And let him hing and roar and yell,Wi’ hideous din,And if he offers to rebelJust heave him in.
When Death comes in wi’ glimmering blink,And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink’Gaur Satan gie her a—e a clinkBehint his yett,And fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,Red reeking het!
There’s Jockie and the hav’rel Jenny,Some devil seize them in a hurry,And waft them in th’ infernal wherry,Straught through the lake,And gie their hides a noble curry,Wi’ oil of aik.
As for the lass, lascivious body,She’s had mischief enough already,Weel stang’d by market, mill, and smiddie,She’s suffer’d sair;But may she wintle in a widdie,If she wh—re mair.
"HANDSOME NELL."“HANDSOME NELL.”
Tune.—“I am a man unmarried.”
[“This composition,” says Burns in his “Common-place Book,” “was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her.”]
I.
O once I lov’d a bonnie lass,Ay, and I love her still;And whilst that honour warms my breast,I’ll love my handsome Nell.
O once I lov’d a bonnie lass,Ay, and I love her still;And whilst that honour warms my breast,I’ll love my handsome Nell.
II.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,And mony full as braw;But for a modest gracefu’ mienThe like I never saw.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,And mony full as braw;But for a modest gracefu’ mienThe like I never saw.
III.
A bonnie lass, I will confess,Is pleasant to the e’e,But without some better qualitiesShe’s no a lass for me.
A bonnie lass, I will confess,Is pleasant to the e’e,But without some better qualitiesShe’s no a lass for me.
IV.
But Nelly’s looks are blithe and sweet,And what is best of a’,Her reputation is complete,And fair without a flaw.
But Nelly’s looks are blithe and sweet,And what is best of a’,Her reputation is complete,And fair without a flaw.
V.
She dresses ay sae clean and neat,Both decent and genteel:And then there’s something in her gaitGars ony dress look weel.
She dresses ay sae clean and neat,Both decent and genteel:And then there’s something in her gaitGars ony dress look weel.
VI.
A gaudy dress and gentle airMay slightly touch the heart;But it’s innocence and modestyThat polishes the dart.
A gaudy dress and gentle airMay slightly touch the heart;But it’s innocence and modestyThat polishes the dart.
VII.
’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,’Tis this enchants my soul;For absolutely in my breastShe reigns without control
’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,’Tis this enchants my soul;For absolutely in my breastShe reigns without control
[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.]
O raging fortune’s withering blastHas laid my leaf full low, O!O raging fortune’s withering blastHas laid my leaf full low, O!My stem was fair, my bud was green,My blossom sweet did blow, O;The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,And made my branches grow, O.But luckless fortune’s northern stormsLaid a’ my blossoms low, O;But luckless fortune’s northern stormsLaid a’ my blossoms low, O.
O raging fortune’s withering blastHas laid my leaf full low, O!O raging fortune’s withering blastHas laid my leaf full low, O!My stem was fair, my bud was green,My blossom sweet did blow, O;The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,And made my branches grow, O.But luckless fortune’s northern stormsLaid a’ my blossoms low, O;But luckless fortune’s northern stormsLaid a’ my blossoms low, O.
[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]
I.
I dream’d I lay where flowers were springingGaily in the sunny beam;List’ning to the wild birds singing,By a falling crystal stream:Straight the sky grew black and daring;Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;Trees with aged arms were warring.O’er the swelling drumlie wave.
I dream’d I lay where flowers were springingGaily in the sunny beam;List’ning to the wild birds singing,By a falling crystal stream:Straight the sky grew black and daring;Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave;Trees with aged arms were warring.O’er the swelling drumlie wave.
II.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,Such the pleasure I enjoy’d:But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.Tho’ fickle fortune has deceiv’d me,She promis’d fair, and perform’d but ill;Of mony a joy and hope bereav’d me,I bear a heart shall support me still.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,Such the pleasure I enjoy’d:But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d.Tho’ fickle fortune has deceiv’d me,She promis’d fair, and perform’d but ill;Of mony a joy and hope bereav’d me,I bear a heart shall support me still.
Tune—“Invercald’s Reel.”
[The Tibbie who “spak na, but gaed by like stoure,” was, it is said, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.]
CHORUS.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,Ye wad na been sae shy;For lack o’ gear ye lightly me,But, trowth, I care na by.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,Ye wad na been sae shy;For lack o’ gear ye lightly me,But, trowth, I care na by.
I.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;Ye geck at me because I’m poor,But fient a hair care I.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;Ye geck at me because I’m poor,But fient a hair care I.
II.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,Because ye hae the name o’ clink,That ye can please me at a wink,Whene’er ye like to try.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,Because ye hae the name o’ clink,That ye can please me at a wink,Whene’er ye like to try.
III.
But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,Wha follows ony saucy quean,That looks sae proud and high.
But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,Wha follows ony saucy quean,That looks sae proud and high.
IV.
Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,If that he want the yellow dirt,Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,And answer him fu’ dry.
Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,If that he want the yellow dirt,Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,And answer him fu’ dry.
V.
But if he hae the name o’ gear,Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,Be better than the kye.
But if he hae the name o’ gear,Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,Be better than the kye.
VI.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;The deil a ane wad spier your price,Were ye as poor as I.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;The deil a ane wad spier your price,Were ye as poor as I.
VII.
There lives a lass in yonder park,I would nae gie her in her sark,For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark;Ye need na look sae high.
There lives a lass in yonder park,I would nae gie her in her sark,For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark;Ye need na look sae high.
Tune—“The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.”
[“The following song,” says the poet, “is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over.”]
I.
My father was a farmerUpon the Carrick border, O,And carefully he bred me,In decency and order, O;He bade me act a manly part,Though I had ne’er a farthing, O;For without an honest manly heart,No man was worth regarding, O.
My father was a farmerUpon the Carrick border, O,And carefully he bred me,In decency and order, O;He bade me act a manly part,Though I had ne’er a farthing, O;For without an honest manly heart,No man was worth regarding, O.
II.
Then out into the worldMy course I did determine, O;Tho’ to be rich was not my wish,yet to be great was charming, O:My talents they were not the worst,Nor yet my education, O;Resolv’d was I, at least to try,To mend my situation, O.
Then out into the worldMy course I did determine, O;Tho’ to be rich was not my wish,yet to be great was charming, O:My talents they were not the worst,Nor yet my education, O;Resolv’d was I, at least to try,To mend my situation, O.
III.
In many a way, and vain essay,I courted fortune’s favour, O;Some cause unseen still stept between,To frustrate each endeavour, O:Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d,Sometimes by friends forsaken, O,And when my hope was at the top,I still was worst mistaken, O.
In many a way, and vain essay,I courted fortune’s favour, O;Some cause unseen still stept between,To frustrate each endeavour, O:Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d,Sometimes by friends forsaken, O,And when my hope was at the top,I still was worst mistaken, O.
IV.
Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last,With fortune’s vain delusion, O,I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,And came to this conclusion, O:The past was bad, and the future hid;Its good or ill untried, O;But the present hour, was in my pow’rAnd so I would enjoy it, O.
Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last,With fortune’s vain delusion, O,I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,And came to this conclusion, O:The past was bad, and the future hid;Its good or ill untried, O;But the present hour, was in my pow’rAnd so I would enjoy it, O.
V.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I,Nor person to befriend me, O;So I must toil, and sweat and broil,And labour to sustain me, O:To plough and sow, to reap and mow,My father bred me early, O;For one, he said, to labour bred,Was a match for fortune fairly, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I,Nor person to befriend me, O;So I must toil, and sweat and broil,And labour to sustain me, O:To plough and sow, to reap and mow,My father bred me early, O;For one, he said, to labour bred,Was a match for fortune fairly, O.
VI.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor,Thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O,Till down my weary bones I lay,In everlasting slumber, O.No view nor care, but shun whate’erMight breed me pain or sorrow, O:I live to-day as well’s I may,Regardless of to-morrow, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor,Thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O,Till down my weary bones I lay,In everlasting slumber, O.No view nor care, but shun whate’erMight breed me pain or sorrow, O:I live to-day as well’s I may,Regardless of to-morrow, O.
VII.
But cheerful still, I am as well,As a monarch in a palace, O,Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down,With all her wonted malice, O:I make indeed my daily bread,But ne’er can make it farther, O;But, as daily bread is all I need,I do not much regard her, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well,As a monarch in a palace, O,Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down,With all her wonted malice, O:I make indeed my daily bread,But ne’er can make it farther, O;But, as daily bread is all I need,I do not much regard her, O.
VIII.
When sometimes by my labourI earn a little money, O,Some unforeseen misfortuneComes gen’rally upon me, O:Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,Or my goodnatur’d folly, O;But come what will, I’ve sworn it still,I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.
When sometimes by my labourI earn a little money, O,Some unforeseen misfortuneComes gen’rally upon me, O:Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,Or my goodnatur’d folly, O;But come what will, I’ve sworn it still,I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.
IX.
All you who follow wealth and power,With unremitting ardour, O,The more in this you look for bliss,You leave your view the farther, O:Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,Or nations to adorn you, O,A cheerful honest-hearted clownI will prefer before you, O.
All you who follow wealth and power,With unremitting ardour, O,The more in this you look for bliss,You leave your view the farther, O:Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,Or nations to adorn you, O,A cheerful honest-hearted clownI will prefer before you, O.
[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.]
I.
There were three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high;And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.
There were three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high;And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.
II.
They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head;And they ha’e sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.
They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head;And they ha’e sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.
III.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.
IV.
The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong;His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spearsThat no one should him wrong.
The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong;His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spearsThat no one should him wrong.
V.
The sober autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His beading joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.
The sober autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His beading joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.
VI.
His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.
His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.
VII.
They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.
They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.
VIII.
They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm.And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm.And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
IX.
They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim;They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.
They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim;They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.
X.
They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe;And still, as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.
They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe;And still, as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.
XI.
They wasted o’er a scorching flameThe marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all—He crush’d him ’tween the stones.
They wasted o’er a scorching flameThe marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all—He crush’d him ’tween the stones.
XII.
And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.
And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.
XIII.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.
XIV.
’Twill make a man forget his woe;’Twill heighten all his joy:’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
’Twill make a man forget his woe;’Twill heighten all his joy:’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
XV.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!
Tune—“Corn rigs are bonnie.”
[Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditions, been claimed as the heroine of this early song.]
I.
It was upon a Lammas night,When corn rigs are bonnie,Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,I held awa to Annie:The time flew by wi’ tentless heed,’Till ’tween the late and early,Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed,To see me through the barley.
It was upon a Lammas night,When corn rigs are bonnie,Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,I held awa to Annie:The time flew by wi’ tentless heed,’Till ’tween the late and early,Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed,To see me through the barley.
II.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,The moon was shining clearly;I set her down wi’ right good will,Amang the rigs o’ barley:I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain;I lov’d her most sincerely;I kiss’d her owre and owre again,Amang the rigs o’ barley.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,The moon was shining clearly;I set her down wi’ right good will,Amang the rigs o’ barley:I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain;I lov’d her most sincerely;I kiss’d her owre and owre again,Amang the rigs o’ barley.
III.
I lock’d her in my fond embrace!Her heart was beating rarely:My blessings on that happy place.Amang the rigs o’ barley!But by the moon and stars so bright.That shone that hour so clearly?She ay shall bless that happy night,Amang the rigs o’ barley!
I lock’d her in my fond embrace!Her heart was beating rarely:My blessings on that happy place.Amang the rigs o’ barley!But by the moon and stars so bright.That shone that hour so clearly?She ay shall bless that happy night,Amang the rigs o’ barley!
IV.
I hae been blithe wi’ comrades dear;I hae been merry drinkin’;I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin’ gear;I hae been happy thinkin’:But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,Tho’ three times doubled fairly,That happy night was worth them a’,Amang the rigs o’ barley.
I hae been blithe wi’ comrades dear;I hae been merry drinkin’;I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin’ gear;I hae been happy thinkin’:But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,Tho’ three times doubled fairly,That happy night was worth them a’,Amang the rigs o’ barley.
CHORUS.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs,An’ corn rigs are bonnie:I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs,An’ corn rigs are bonnie:I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
Tune—“Galla-Water.”
[“My Montgomery’s Peggy,” says Burns, “was my deity for six or eight months: she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant: it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair.” The young lady listened to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an interview, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another.]
I.
Altho’ my bed were in yon muir,Amang the heather, in my plaidie,Yet happy, happy would I be,Had I my dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
Altho’ my bed were in yon muir,Amang the heather, in my plaidie,Yet happy, happy would I be,Had I my dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
II.
When o’er the hill beat surly storms,And winter nights were dark and rainy;I’d seek some dell, and in my armsI’d shelter dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
When o’er the hill beat surly storms,And winter nights were dark and rainy;I’d seek some dell, and in my armsI’d shelter dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
III.
Were I a baron proud and high,And horse and servants waiting ready,Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me,The sharin’t with Montgomery’s Peggy.
Were I a baron proud and high,And horse and servants waiting ready,Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me,The sharin’t with Montgomery’s Peggy.
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
[The Mauchline lady who won the poet’s heart was Jean Armour: she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog run across some linen webs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this interview the world owes some of our most impassioned strains.]
When first I came to Stewart Kyle,My mind it was nae steady;Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,A mistress still I had ay:But when I came roun’ by Mauchline town,Not dreadin’ any body,My heart was caught before I thought,And by a Mauchline lady.
When first I came to Stewart Kyle,My mind it was nae steady;Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,A mistress still I had ay:But when I came roun’ by Mauchline town,Not dreadin’ any body,My heart was caught before I thought,And by a Mauchline lady.
Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy!”
[“The Highland Lassie” was Mary Campbell, whose too early death the poet sung in strains that will endurewhile the language lasts. “She was,” says Burns, “a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love.”]
I.
Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair,Shall ever be my muse’s care:Their titles a’ are empty show;Gie me my Highland lassie, O.Within the glen sae bushy, O,Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,I set me down wi’ right good-will,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair,Shall ever be my muse’s care:Their titles a’ are empty show;Gie me my Highland lassie, O.Within the glen sae bushy, O,Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,I set me down wi’ right good-will,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
II.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,Yon palace and yon gardens fine,The world then the love should knowI bear my Highland lassie, O.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,Yon palace and yon gardens fine,The world then the love should knowI bear my Highland lassie, O.
III.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,And I maun cross the raging sea;But while my crimson currents flow,I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,And I maun cross the raging sea;But while my crimson currents flow,I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.
IV.
Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range,I know her heart will never change,For her bosom burns with honour’s glow,My faithful Highland lassie, O.
Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range,I know her heart will never change,For her bosom burns with honour’s glow,My faithful Highland lassie, O.
V.
For her I’ll dare the billows’ roar,For her I’ll trace a distant shore,That Indian wealth may lustre throwAround my Highland lassie, O.
For her I’ll dare the billows’ roar,For her I’ll trace a distant shore,That Indian wealth may lustre throwAround my Highland lassie, O.
VI.
She has my heart, she has my hand,by sacred truth and honour’s band!’Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!To other lands I now must go,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
She has my heart, she has my hand,by sacred truth and honour’s band!’Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!To other lands I now must go,To sing my Highland lassie, O.
[The heroine of this song is said to have been “Montgomery’s Peggy.”]
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
I.
Now westlin winds and slaughtering gunsBring autumn’s pleasant weather;The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings,Amang the blooming heather:Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,Delights the weary farmer;And the moon shines bright, when I rove at nightTo muse upon my charmer.
Now westlin winds and slaughtering gunsBring autumn’s pleasant weather;The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings,Amang the blooming heather:Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,Delights the weary farmer;And the moon shines bright, when I rove at nightTo muse upon my charmer.
II.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;The plover loves the mountains;The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;The soaring hern the fountains;Thro’ lofty groves the cushat rovesThe path of man to shun it;The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,The spreading thorn the linnet.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;The plover loves the mountains;The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;The soaring hern the fountains;Thro’ lofty groves the cushat rovesThe path of man to shun it;The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,The spreading thorn the linnet.
III.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,The savage and the tender;Some social join, and leagues combine;Some solitary wander:Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,Tyrannic man’s dominion;The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,The flutt’ring, gory pinion.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,The savage and the tender;Some social join, and leagues combine;Some solitary wander:Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,Tyrannic man’s dominion;The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,The flutt’ring, gory pinion.
IV.
But Peggy, dear, the ev’ning’s clear,Thick flies the skimming swallow;The sky is blue, the fields in view,All fading-green and yellow:Come, let us stray our gladsome way,And view the charms of nature;The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,And every happy creature.
But Peggy, dear, the ev’ning’s clear,Thick flies the skimming swallow;The sky is blue, the fields in view,All fading-green and yellow:Come, let us stray our gladsome way,And view the charms of nature;The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,And every happy creature.
V.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,Till the silent moon shine clearly;I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,Swear how I love thee dearly:Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,Not autumn to the farmer,So dear can be as thou to me,My fair, my lovely charmer!
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,Till the silent moon shine clearly;I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,Swear how I love thee dearly:Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,Not autumn to the farmer,So dear can be as thou to me,My fair, my lovely charmer!
Tune—“East nook o’ Fife.”
[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother of “Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,” a person whom the poet regarded, as he says, both for her form and her grace.]
I.
O wha my babie-clouts will buy?O wha will tent me when I cry?Wha will kiss me where I lie?—The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
O wha my babie-clouts will buy?O wha will tent me when I cry?Wha will kiss me where I lie?—The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
II.
O wha will own he did the fau’t?O wha will buy the groanin’ maut?O wha will tell me how to ca’t?The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
O wha will own he did the fau’t?O wha will buy the groanin’ maut?O wha will tell me how to ca’t?The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
III.
When I mount the creepie chair,Wha will sit beside me there?Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
When I mount the creepie chair,Wha will sit beside me there?Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
IV.
Wha will crack to me my lane?Wha will make me fidgin’ fain?Wha will kiss me o’er again?—The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
Wha will crack to me my lane?Wha will make me fidgin’ fain?Wha will kiss me o’er again?—The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
Tune—“To the weavers gin ye go.”
[“The chorus of this song,” says Burns, in his note to the Museum, “is old, the rest is mine.” The “bonnie, westlin weaver lad” is said to have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affection of a west landlady.]
I.
My heart was ance as blythe and freeAs simmer days were lang,But a bonnie, westlin weaver ladHas gart me change my sang.To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne’er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
My heart was ance as blythe and freeAs simmer days were lang,But a bonnie, westlin weaver ladHas gart me change my sang.To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne’er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
II.
My mither sent me to the town,To warp a plaiden wab;But the weary, weary warpin o’tHas gart me sigh and sab.
My mither sent me to the town,To warp a plaiden wab;But the weary, weary warpin o’tHas gart me sigh and sab.
III.
A bonnie westlin weaver lad,Sat working at his loom;He took my heart as wi’ a net,In every knot and thrum.
A bonnie westlin weaver lad,Sat working at his loom;He took my heart as wi’ a net,In every knot and thrum.
IV.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,And ay I ca’d it roun’;But every shot and every knock,My heart it gae a stoun.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,And ay I ca’d it roun’;But every shot and every knock,My heart it gae a stoun.
V.
The moon was sinking in the westWi’ visage pale and wan,As my bonnie westlin weaver ladConvoy’d me thro’ the glen.
The moon was sinking in the westWi’ visage pale and wan,As my bonnie westlin weaver ladConvoy’d me thro’ the glen.
VI.
But what was said, or what was done,Shame fa’ me gin I tell;But, oh! I fear the kintra soonWill ken as weel’s mysel.To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne’er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
But what was said, or what was done,Shame fa’ me gin I tell;But, oh! I fear the kintra soonWill ken as weel’s mysel.To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne’er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
Tune—“My Nannie, O.”
[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and said, “Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me.”]
I.
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,‘Mang moors an’ mosses many, O,The wintry sun the day has closed,And I’ll awa to Nannie, O.
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,‘Mang moors an’ mosses many, O,The wintry sun the day has closed,And I’ll awa to Nannie, O.
II.