XV.

The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shrill;The night’s baith mirk and rainy, O;But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll steal,An’ owre the hills to Nannie, O.

III.

My Nannie’s charming, sweet, an’ young;Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O:May ill befa’ the flattering tongueThat wad beguile my Nannie, O.

IV.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,As spotless as she’s bonnie, O:The op’ning gowan, wat wi’ dew,Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

A country lad is my degree,An’ few there be that ken me, O;But what care I how few they be?I’m welcome ay to Nannie, O.

VI.

My riches a’s my penny-fee,An’ I maun guide it cannie, O;But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,My thoughts are a’ my Nannie, O.

VII.

Our auld guidman delights to viewHis sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie, O;But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh,An’ has nae care but Nannie, O.

VIII.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O:Nae ither care in life have I,But live, an’ love my Nannie, O.

Tune—“John Anderson my jo.”

[This verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting verse of a song, was found among the papers of the poet.]

One night as I did wander,When corn begins to shoot,I sat me down to ponder,Upon an auld tree root:Auld Ayr ran by before me,And bicker’d to the seas;A cushat crooded o’er me,That echoed thro’ the braes.

Tune—“Braes o’ Balquihidder.”

[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out songs without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery’s Peggy, but this seems doubtful.]

CHORUS.

I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,An’ I’ll kiss thee o’er again;An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,My bonnie Peggy Alison!

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,I ever mair defy them, O;Young kings upon their hansel throneAre no sae blest as I am, O!

II.

When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,I clasp my countless treasure, O,I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to shareThan sic a moment’s pleasure, O!

III.

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,I swear, I’m thine for ever, O!—And on thy lips I seal my vow,And break it shall I never, O!I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,An’ I’ll kiss thee o’er again;An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,My bonnie Peggy Alison!

Tune—“Green grow the rashes.”

[“Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is the last and most perfect work of nature,” says an old writer, in a rare old book: a passagewhich expresses the sentiment of Burns; yet it is all but certain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with “Cupid’s Whirlygig,” where these words are to be found.]

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!Green grow the rashes, O!The sweetest hours that e’er I spendAre spent amang the lasses, O.

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,In every hour that passes, O:What signifies the life o’ man,An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.

II.

The warly race may riches chase,An’ riches still may fly them, O;An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

III.

But gie me a canny hour at e’en,My arms about my dearie, O;An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O.

IV.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dearsHer noblest work she classes, O:Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man,An’ then she made the lasses, O.Green grow the rashes, O!Green grow the rashes, O!The sweetest hours that e’er I spendAre spent amang the lasses, O.

Tune—“The Northern Lass.”

[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.]

Though cruel fate should bid us part,Far as the pole and line,Her dear idea round my heart,Should tenderly entwine.Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,And oceans roar between;Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,I still would love my Jean

Tune—“Daintie Davie.”

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin’s palm something which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips.]

There was a lad was born in Kyle,But whatna day o’ whatna styleI doubt it’s hardly worth the whileTo be sae nice wi’ Robin.Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!

II.

Our monarch’s hindmost year but aneWas five-and-twenty days begun,Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’Blew hansel in on Robin.

III.

The gossip keekit in his loof,Quo’ she, wha lives will see the proof.This waly boy will be nae coof,I think we’ll ca’ him Robin

IV.

He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’,But ay a heart aboon them a’;He’ll be a credit to us a’,We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine,I see by ilka score and line,This chap will dearly like our kin’,So leeze me on thee, Robin.

VI.

Guid faith, quo’ she, I doubt you gar,The bonnie lasses lie aspar,But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,So blessin’s on thee, Robin!Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;Robin was a rovin’ boy,Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!

Tune—(unknown.)

[One day—it is tradition that speaks—Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]

Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,Adown her neck and bosom hing;How sweet unto that breast to cling,And round that neck entwine her!Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,A crimson still diviner.

Tune—“Mauchline belles.”

[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:—

“Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland’s divine,Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;There’s beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton,But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.”]

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel;Such witching books are baited hooksFor rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

II.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,They make your youthful fancies reel;They heat your brains, and fire your veins,And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III.

Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung,A heart that warmly seems to feel;That feeling heart but acts a part—’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV.

The frank address, the soft caress,Are worse than poison’d darts of steel;The frank address and politesseAre all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

Tune—“Last time I cam o’er the muir.”

[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he had, according to his own account, wasted eights months of courtship. We hear no more of Montgomery’s Peggy.]

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,Her blush is like the morning,The rosy dawn, the springing grass,With early gems adorning:Her eyes outshone the radiant beamsThat gild the passing shower,And glitter o’er the crystal streams,And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

II.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright,A richer dye has graced them;They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,And sweetly tempt to taste them:Her smile is, as the evening mild,When feather’d tribes are courting,And little lambkins wanton wild,In playful bands disporting.

III.

Were fortune lovely Peggy’s foe,Such sweetness would relent her,As blooming spring unbends the browOf surly, savage winter.Detraction’s eye no aim can gain,Her winning powers to lessen;And fretful envy grins in vainThe poison’d tooth to fasten.

IV.

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth,From every ill defend her;Inspire the highly-favour’d youth,The destinies intend her:Still fan the sweet connubial flameResponsive in each bosom,And bless the dear parental nameWith many a filial blossom.

Tune—“Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavernlet’s fly.”

[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcely an exception.]

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,No sly man of business, contriving to snare—For a big-bellied bottle’s the whole of my care.

II.

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;I scorn not the peasant, tho’ ever so low;But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

III.

Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

IV.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;For sweet consolation to church I did fly;I found that old Solomon proved it fair,That a big-bellied bottle’s a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;—But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

VI.

“Life’s cares they are comforts,”[136]—a maxim laid downBy the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair;For a big-bellied bottle’s a heav’n of care.

VII.

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.

Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow.The honours masonic prepare for to throw;May every true brother of the compass and squareHave a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care!

FOOTNOTES:[136]Young’s Night Thoughts.

[136]Young’s Night Thoughts.

Tune—“Gilderoy.”

[My late excellent friend, John Galt, informed me that the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Barbour.]

From thee, Eliza, I must go,And from my native shore;The cruel Fates between us throwA boundless ocean’s roar:But boundless oceans roaring wideBetween my love and me,They never, never can divideMy heart and soul from thee!

II.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,The maid that I adore!A boding voice is in mine ear,We part to meet no more!The latest throb that leaves my heart,While death stands victor by,That throb, Eliza, is thy part,And thine that latest sigh!

Tune—“Shawnboy.”

[“This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge.”These interesting words are on the original, in the poet’s handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.]

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,To follow the noble vocation;Your thrifty old mother has scarce such anotherTo sit in that honoured station.I’ve little to say, but only to pray,As praying’s the ton of your fashion;A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,’Tis seldom her favourite passion.

II.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind and the tide,Who marked each element’s border;Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,Whose sovereign statute is order;Within this dear mansion, may wayward contentionOr withered envy ne’er enter;May secrecy round be the mystical bound,And brotherly love be the centre.

Tune.—“Johnny’s grey breeks.”

[Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account: It first appeared in the second edition of the poet’s works, and as the chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.]

Again rejoicing nature seesHer robe assume its vernal hues,Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,All freshly steep’d in morning dews.And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,An’ it winna let a body be.

II.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,In vain to me the vi’lets spring;In vain to me, in glen or shaw,The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

III.

The merry plough-boy cheers his team,Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks;But life to me’s a weary dream,A dream of ane that never wauks.

IV.

The wanton coot the water skims,Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,The stately swan majestic swims,And every thing is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,And owre the moorland whistles shrill;Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,I meet him on the dewy hill.

VI.

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,And mounts and sings on flittering wings,A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

VII.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,And raging bend the naked tree:Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul,When nature all is sad like me!And maun I still on Menie doat,And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,An’ it winna let a body be.

Tune—“Good-night, and joy be wi’ you a’.”

[Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James’s Lodge of Tarbolton, when his chest was on the way to Greenock: men are yet living who had the honour of hearing him—the concluding verse affected the whole lodge.]

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu!Dear brothers of the mystic tie!Ye favour’d, ye enlighten’d few,Companions of my social joy!Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie,Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’,With melting heart, and brimful eye,I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa’.

II.

Oft have I met your social band,And spent the cheerful, festive night;Oft honour’d with supreme command,Presided o’er the sons of light:And by that hieroglyphic bright,Which none but craftsmen ever saw!Strong mem’ry on my heart shall writeThose happy scenes when far awa’.

III.

May freedom, harmony, and loveUnite you in the grand design,Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above,The glorious architect divine!That you may keep th’ unerring line,Still rising by the plummet’s law,Till order bright completely shine,Shall be my pray’r when far awa’.

IV.

And you farewell! whose merits claim,Justly, that highest badge to wear!Heav’n bless your honour’d, noble name,To masonry and Scotia dear!A last request permit me here,When yearly ye assemble a’,One round—I ask it with a tear,—To him, the Bard that’s far awa’.

Tune—“If he be a butcher neat and trim.”

[There are many variations of this song, which was first printed by Cromek from the oral communication of a Glasgow Lady, on whose charms, the poet, in early life, composed it.]

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells;Could I describe her shape and mien;Our lasses a’ she far excels,An she has twa sparkling roguish een.

II.

She’s sweeter than the morning dawnWhen rising Phœbus first is seen,And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een

III.

She’s stately like yon youthful ash,That grows the cowslip braes between,And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

IV.

She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn,With flow’rs so white and leaves so green,When purest in the dewy morn;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

Her looks are like the vernal May,When evening Phœbus shines serene,While birds rejoice on every spray—An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

VI.

Her hair is like the curling mistThat climbs the mountain-sides at e’en,When flow’r-reviving rains are past;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

VII.

Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow,When gleaming sunbeams intervene,And gild the distant mountain’s brow;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

VIII.

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,The pride of all the flow’ry scene,Just opening on its thorny stem;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

IX.

Her teeth are like the nightly snowWhen pale the morning rises keen,While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,That sunny walls from Boreas screen—They tempt the taste and charm the sight;An’ she has twa, sparkling roguish een.

XI.

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,With fleeces newly washen clean,That slowly mount the rising steep;An’ she has twa glancin’ roguish een.

XII.

Her breath is like the fragrant breezeThat gently stirs the blossom’d bean,When Phœbus sinks behind the seas;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

XIII.

Her voice is like the ev’ning thrushThat sings on Cessnock banks unseen,While his mate sits nestling in the bush;An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

XIV.

But it’s not her air, her form, her face,Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen,’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry grace,An’ chiefly in her roguish een.

Tune—“Blue Bonnets.”

[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song “A Prayer for Mary;” his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.]

Powers celestial! whose protectionEver guards the virtuous fair,While in distant climes I wander,Let my Mary be your care:Let her form sae fair and faultless,Fair and faultless as your own,Let my Mary’s kindred spiritDraw your choicest influence down.

II.

Make the gales you waft around herSoft and peaceful as her breast;Breathing in the breeze that fans her,Soothe her bosom into rest:Guardian angels! O protect her,When in distant lands I roam;To realms unknown while fate exiles me,Make her bosom still my home.

Tune—“Miss Forbes’s Farewell to Banff.”

[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells her in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popular song. He chanced to meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander, perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of the muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time: it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber—as it deserves to be.]

’Twas even—the dewy fields were green,On every blade the pearls hang,The zephyr wanton’d round the bean,And bore its fragrant sweets alang:In ev’ry glen the mavis sang,All nature listening seem’d the while,Except where greenwood echoes rangAmang the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

II.

With careless step I onward stray’d,My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy,When musing in a lonely glade,A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy;Her look was like the morning’s eye,Her air like nature’s vernal smile,Perfection whisper’d passing by,Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!

III.

Fair is the morn in flow’ry May,And sweet is night in autumn mildWhen roving thro’ the garden gay,Or wand’ring in the lonely wild;But woman, nature’s darling child!There all her charms she does compile;Even there her other works are foil’dBy the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

IV.

O, had she been a country maid,And I the happy country swain,Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shedThat ever rose on Scotland’s plain,Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,With joy, with rapture, I would toil;And nightly to my bosom strainThe bonnie lass of Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,Where fame and honours lofty shine:And thirst of gold might tempt the deepOr downward seek the Indian mine;Give me the cot below the pine,To tend the flocks, or till the soil,And ev’ry day have joys divineWith the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Tune—“Roslin Castle.”

[“I had taken,” says Burns, “the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia—

’The gloomy night is gathering fast.’”]

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast,Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,I see it driving o’er the plain;The hunter now has left the moor,The scatter’d coveys meet secure;While here I wander, prest with care,Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

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