The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn,By early Winter’s ravage torn;Across her placid, azure sky,She sees the scowling tempest fly:Chill runs my blood to hear it rave—I think upon the stormy wave,Where many a danger I must dare,Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn,By early Winter’s ravage torn;Across her placid, azure sky,She sees the scowling tempest fly:Chill runs my blood to hear it rave—I think upon the stormy wave,Where many a danger I must dare,Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
III.
’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,’Tis not that fatal deadly shore;Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,The wretched have no more to fear!But round my heart the ties are bound,That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
’Tis not the surging billow’s roar,’Tis not that fatal deadly shore;Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,The wretched have no more to fear!But round my heart the ties are bound,That heart transpierc’d with many a wound;These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
IV.
Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales,Her heathy moors and winding vales;The scenes where wretched fancy roves,Pursuing past, unhappy loves!Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!My peace with these, my love with those—The bursting tears my heart declare;Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales,Her heathy moors and winding vales;The scenes where wretched fancy roves,Pursuing past, unhappy loves!Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!My peace with these, my love with those—The bursting tears my heart declare;Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!
Tune—“Bonnie Dundee.”
[This is one of the first songs which Burns communicated to Johnson’s Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly old and partly new: the second is wholly by his hand.]
I.
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.O gin I saw the laddie that gae me’t!Aft has he doudl’d me up on his knee;May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.O gin I saw the laddie that gae me’t!Aft has he doudl’d me up on his knee;May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
II.
My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie,My blessin’s upon thy bonnie e’e brie!Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,Thou’s ay the dearer and dearer to me!But I’ll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,Where Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear;And I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie,My blessin’s upon thy bonnie e’e brie!Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,Thou’s ay the dearer and dearer to me!But I’ll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,Where Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear;And I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
Tune—“Maggy Lauder.”
[Most of this song is by Burns: his fancy was fierce with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them ever ready at the call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.]
I.
I married with a scolding wifeThe fourteenth of November;She made me weary of my life,By one unruly member.Long did I bear the heavy yoke,And many griefs attended;But to my comfort be it spoke,Now, now her life is ended.
I married with a scolding wifeThe fourteenth of November;She made me weary of my life,By one unruly member.Long did I bear the heavy yoke,And many griefs attended;But to my comfort be it spoke,Now, now her life is ended.
II.
We liv’d full one-and-twenty yearsA man and wife together;At length from me her course she steer’d,And gone I know not whither:Would I could guess, I do profess,I speak, and do not flatter,Of all the woman in the world,I never could come at her.
We liv’d full one-and-twenty yearsA man and wife together;At length from me her course she steer’d,And gone I know not whither:Would I could guess, I do profess,I speak, and do not flatter,Of all the woman in the world,I never could come at her.
III.
Her body is bestowed well,A handsome grave does hide her;But sure her soul is not in hell,The deil would ne’er abide her.I rather think she is aloft,And imitating thunder;For why,—methinks I hear her voiceTearing the clouds asunder.
Her body is bestowed well,A handsome grave does hide her;But sure her soul is not in hell,The deil would ne’er abide her.I rather think she is aloft,And imitating thunder;For why,—methinks I hear her voiceTearing the clouds asunder.
Tune—“Whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.”
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, a Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier version to the work of Thomson: this was written for the Museum of Johnson, where it was first published.]
CHORUS.
O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad;O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad:Tho’ father and mitherShould baith gae mad,O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad.Come down the back stairsWhen ye come to court me;Come down the back stairsWhen ye come to court me;Come down the back stairs,And let naebody see,And come as ye were naComing to me.
O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad;O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad:Tho’ father and mitherShould baith gae mad,O whistle, and I’ll comeTo you, my lad.
Come down the back stairsWhen ye come to court me;Come down the back stairsWhen ye come to court me;Come down the back stairs,And let naebody see,And come as ye were naComing to me.
Tune—“I’m o’er young to marry yet.”
[The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, are old; the rest is by Burns, and was written for Johnson.]
I.
I am my mammy’s ae bairn,Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir;And lying in a man’s bed,I’m fley’d it make me eerie, Sir.I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young—’twad be a sinTo tak’ me frae my mammy yet.
I am my mammy’s ae bairn,Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir;And lying in a man’s bed,I’m fley’d it make me eerie, Sir.I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young—’twad be a sinTo tak’ me frae my mammy yet.
II.
Hallowmas is come and gane,The nights are lang in winter, Sir;And you an’ I in ae bed,In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir.
Hallowmas is come and gane,The nights are lang in winter, Sir;And you an’ I in ae bed,In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir.
III.
Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind,Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir;But, if ye come this gate again,I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sinTo tak me frae my mammy yet.
Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind,Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir;But, if ye come this gate again,I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young to marry yet;I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sinTo tak me frae my mammy yet.
Tune—“The birks of Aberfeldy.”
[An old strain, called “The Birks of Abergeldie,” was the forerunner of this sweet song: it was written, the poet says, standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours which he made to the north, in the year 1787.]
CHORUS.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,Will ye go, will ye go;Bonnie lassie, will ye goTo the birks of Aberfeldy?
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,Will ye go, will ye go;Bonnie lassie, will ye goTo the birks of Aberfeldy?
I.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,And o’er the crystal streamlet plays;Come let us spend the lightsome daysIn the birks of Aberfeldy.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,And o’er the crystal streamlet plays;Come let us spend the lightsome daysIn the birks of Aberfeldy.
II.
The little birdies blithely sing,While o’er their heads the hazels hing,Or lightly flit on wanton wingIn the birks of Aberfeldy.
The little birdies blithely sing,While o’er their heads the hazels hing,Or lightly flit on wanton wingIn the birks of Aberfeldy.
III.
The braes ascend, like lofty wa’s,The foamy stream deep-roaring fa’s,O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws,The birks of Aberfeldy.
The braes ascend, like lofty wa’s,The foamy stream deep-roaring fa’s,O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws,The birks of Aberfeldy.
IV.
The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers,White o’er the linns the burnie pours,And rising, weets wi’ misty showersThe birks of Aberfeldy.
The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers,White o’er the linns the burnie pours,And rising, weets wi’ misty showersThe birks of Aberfeldy.
V.
Let Fortune’s gifts at random flee,They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me,Supremely blest wi’ love and thee,In the birks of Aberfeldy.Bonnie lassie, will ye go,Will ye go, will ye go;Bonnie lassie, will ye goTo the birks of Aberfeldy?
Let Fortune’s gifts at random flee,They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me,Supremely blest wi’ love and thee,In the birks of Aberfeldy.Bonnie lassie, will ye go,Will ye go, will ye go;Bonnie lassie, will ye goTo the birks of Aberfeldy?
Tune—“M’Pherson’s Rant.”
[This vehement and daring song had its origin in an older and inferior strain, recording the feelings of a noted freebooter when brought to “Justify his deeds on the gallows-tree” at Inverness.]
I.
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,The wretch’s destinie!Macpherson’s time will not be longOn yonder gallows-tree.Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,Below the gallows-tree.
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,The wretch’s destinie!Macpherson’s time will not be longOn yonder gallows-tree.Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,Below the gallows-tree.
II.
Oh, what is death but parting breath?On many a bloody plainI’ve dar’d his face, and in this placeI scorn him yet again!
Oh, what is death but parting breath?On many a bloody plainI’ve dar’d his face, and in this placeI scorn him yet again!
III.
Untie these bands from off my hands,And bring to me my sword;And there’s no a man in all Scotland,But I’ll brave him at a word.
Untie these bands from off my hands,And bring to me my sword;And there’s no a man in all Scotland,But I’ll brave him at a word.
IV.
I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife;I die by treacherie:It burns my heart I must depart,And not avenged be.
I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife;I die by treacherie:It burns my heart I must depart,And not avenged be.
V.
Now farewell light—thou sunshine bright,And all beneath the sky!May coward shame distain his name,The wretch that dares not die!Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,Below the gallows-tree.
Now farewell light—thou sunshine bright,And all beneath the sky!May coward shame distain his name,The wretch that dares not die!Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,Below the gallows-tree.
Tune—“Galla Water.”
[Burns found this song in the collection of Herd; added the first verse, made other but not material emendations, and published it in Johnson: in 1793 he wrote another version for Thomson.]
CHORUS.
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;O braw lads of Galla Water:I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;O braw lads of Galla Water:I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
I.
Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie;Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou’,The mair I kiss she’s ay my dearie.
Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie;Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou’,The mair I kiss she’s ay my dearie.
II.
O’er yon bank and o’er yon brae,O’er yon moss amang the heather;I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
O’er yon bank and o’er yon brae,O’er yon moss amang the heather;I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
III.
Down amang the broom, the broom,Down amang the broom, my dearie,The lassie lost a silken snood,That cost her mony a blirt and bleary.Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;O braw lads of Galla-Water:I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
Down amang the broom, the broom,Down amang the broom, my dearie,The lassie lost a silken snood,That cost her mony a blirt and bleary.Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;O braw lads of Galla-Water:I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee,And follow my love thro’ the water.
Tune-“An Gille dubh ciar dhubh.”
[The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one of his northern tours: his Highland excursions coloured many of his lyric compositions.]
I.
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me?Cruel, cruel, to deceive me!Well you know how much you grieve me;Cruel charmer, can you go?Cruel charmer, can you go?
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me?Cruel, cruel, to deceive me!Well you know how much you grieve me;Cruel charmer, can you go?Cruel charmer, can you go?
II.
By my love so ill requited;By the faith you fondly plighted;By the pangs of lovers slighted;Do not, do not leave me so!Do not, do not leave me so!
By my love so ill requited;By the faith you fondly plighted;By the pangs of lovers slighted;Do not, do not leave me so!Do not, do not leave me so!
Tune—“Strathallan’s Lament.”
[The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song commemorates, was William Drummond: he was slain at the carnage of Culloden. It was long believed that he escaped to France and died in exile.]
I.
Thickest night, surround my dwelling!Howling tempests, o’er me rave!Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,Roaring by my lonely cave!
Thickest night, surround my dwelling!Howling tempests, o’er me rave!Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,Roaring by my lonely cave!
II.
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,Busy haunts of base mankind,Western breezes softly blowing,Suit not my distracted mind.
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,Busy haunts of base mankind,Western breezes softly blowing,Suit not my distracted mind.
III.
In the cause of Right engaged,Wrongs injurious to redress,Honour’s war we strongly waged,But the heavens denied success.
In the cause of Right engaged,Wrongs injurious to redress,Honour’s war we strongly waged,But the heavens denied success.
IV.
Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us,Not a hope that dare attend,The wild world is all before us—But a world without a friend.
Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us,Not a hope that dare attend,The wild world is all before us—But a world without a friend.
Tune—“What will I do gin my Hoggie die?”
[Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of this Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Museum: the first line only is old.]
What will I do gin my Hoggie die?My joy, my pride, my Hoggie!My only beast, I had nae mae,And vow but I was vogie!The lee-lang night we watch’d the fauld,Me and my faithfu’ doggie;We heard nought but the roaring linn,Amang the braes sae scroggie;But the houlet cry’d frae the castle wa’,The blitter frae the boggie,The tod reply’d upon the hill,I trembled for my Hoggie.When day did daw, and cocks did craw,The morning it was foggie;An’ unco tyke lap o’er the dyke,And maist has kill’d my Hoggie.
What will I do gin my Hoggie die?My joy, my pride, my Hoggie!My only beast, I had nae mae,And vow but I was vogie!The lee-lang night we watch’d the fauld,Me and my faithfu’ doggie;We heard nought but the roaring linn,Amang the braes sae scroggie;But the houlet cry’d frae the castle wa’,The blitter frae the boggie,The tod reply’d upon the hill,I trembled for my Hoggie.When day did daw, and cocks did craw,The morning it was foggie;An’ unco tyke lap o’er the dyke,And maist has kill’d my Hoggie.
Tune—“Jumpin’ John.”
[This is one of the old songs which Ritson accuses Burns of amending for the Museum: little of it, however, is his, save a touch here and there—but they are Burns’s touches.]
I.
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad;Forbidden she wadna be:She wadna trow’t, the browst she brew’dWad taste sae bitterlie.The lang lad they ca’ jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie,The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie.
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad;Forbidden she wadna be:She wadna trow’t, the browst she brew’dWad taste sae bitterlie.The lang lad they ca’ jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie,The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie.
II.
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf,And thretty gude shillin’s and three;A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man’s dochter,The lass wi’ the bonnie black e’e.The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie,The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie.
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf,And thretty gude shillin’s and three;A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man’s dochter,The lass wi’ the bonnie black e’e.The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie,The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ JohnBeguiled the bonnie lassie.
Tune—“Cold blows the wind.”
[“The chorus of this song,” says the poet, in his notes on the Scottish Lyrics, “is old, the two stanzas are mine.” The air is ancient, and was a favourite of Mary Stuart, the queen of William the Third.]
CHORUS.
Up in the morning’s no for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning’s no for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
I.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shill I hear the blast,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shill I hear the blast,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
II.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,A’ day they fare but sparely;And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn—I’m sure it’s winter fairly.Up in the morning’s no for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,A’ day they fare but sparely;And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn—I’m sure it’s winter fairly.Up in the morning’s no for me,Up in the morning early;When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Tune—“Morag.”
[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is supposed by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probability by others, to be a Gordon, as the song was composed in consequence of the poet’s visit to “bonnie Castle-Gordon,” in September, 1787.]
I.
Loud blaw the frosty breezes,The snaws the mountains cover;Like winter on me seizes,Since my young Highland roverFar wanders nations over.Where’er he go, where’er he stray.May Heaven be his warden:Return him safe to fair Strathspey,And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
Loud blaw the frosty breezes,The snaws the mountains cover;Like winter on me seizes,Since my young Highland roverFar wanders nations over.Where’er he go, where’er he stray.May Heaven be his warden:Return him safe to fair Strathspey,And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
II.
The trees now naked groaning,Shall Soon wi’ leaves be hinging.The birdies dowie moaning,Shall a’ be blithely singing,And every flower be springing.Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang dayWhen by his mighty WardenMy youth’s returned to fair Strathspey,And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
The trees now naked groaning,Shall Soon wi’ leaves be hinging.The birdies dowie moaning,Shall a’ be blithely singing,And every flower be springing.Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang dayWhen by his mighty WardenMy youth’s returned to fair Strathspey,And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
Tune—“The Dusty Miller.”
[The Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for the Museum by Burns: it is a happy specimen of his taste and skill in making the new look like the old.]
I.
Hey, the dusty miller,And his dusty coat;He will win a shilling,Or he spend a groat.Dusty was the coat,Dusty was the colour,Dusty was the kissThat I got frae the miller.
Hey, the dusty miller,And his dusty coat;He will win a shilling,Or he spend a groat.Dusty was the coat,Dusty was the colour,Dusty was the kissThat I got frae the miller.
II.
Hey, the dusty miller,And his dusty sack;Leeze me on the callingFills the dusty peck.Fills the dusty peck,Brings the dusty siller;I wad gie my coatieFor the dusty miller.
Hey, the dusty miller,And his dusty sack;Leeze me on the callingFills the dusty peck.Fills the dusty peck,Brings the dusty siller;I wad gie my coatieFor the dusty miller.
Tune—“Duncan Davison.”
[There are several other versions of Duncan Davison, which it is more delicate to allude to than to quote: this one is in the Museum.]
I.
There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg,And she held o’er the moors to spin;There was a lad that follow’d her,They ca’d him Duncan Davison.The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,Her favour Duncan could na win;For wi’ the roke she wad him knock.And ay she shook the temper-pin.
There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg,And she held o’er the moors to spin;There was a lad that follow’d her,They ca’d him Duncan Davison.The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,Her favour Duncan could na win;For wi’ the roke she wad him knock.And ay she shook the temper-pin.
II.
As o’er the moor they lightly foor,A burn was clear, a glen was green,Upon the banks they eas’d-their shanks,And ay she set the wheel between:But Duncan swore a haly aith,That Meg should be a bride the morn,Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith,And flang them a’ out o’er the burn.
As o’er the moor they lightly foor,A burn was clear, a glen was green,Upon the banks they eas’d-their shanks,And ay she set the wheel between:But Duncan swore a haly aith,That Meg should be a bride the morn,Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith,And flang them a’ out o’er the burn.
III.
We’ll big a house,—a wee, wee house,And we will live like king and queen,Sae blythe and merry we will beWhen ye set by the wheel at e’en.A man may drink and no be drunk;A man may fight and no be slain;A man may kiss a bonnie lass,And ay be welcome back again.
We’ll big a house,—a wee, wee house,And we will live like king and queen,Sae blythe and merry we will beWhen ye set by the wheel at e’en.A man may drink and no be drunk;A man may fight and no be slain;A man may kiss a bonnie lass,And ay be welcome back again.
Tune.—“The Ruffian’s Rant.”
[Burns, it is believed, wrote this song during his first Highland tour, when he danced among the northern dames, to the tune of “Bab at the Bowster,” till the morning sun rose and reproved them from the top of Ben Lomond.]
I.
In coming by the brig o’ Dye,At Darlet we a blink did tarry;As day was dawin in the sky,We drank a health to bonnie Mary.Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.
In coming by the brig o’ Dye,At Darlet we a blink did tarry;As day was dawin in the sky,We drank a health to bonnie Mary.Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.
II.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white,Her haffet locks as brown’s a berry;And ay, they dimpl’t wi’ a smile,The rosy checks o’ bonnie Mary.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white,Her haffet locks as brown’s a berry;And ay, they dimpl’t wi’ a smile,The rosy checks o’ bonnie Mary.
III.
We lap and danced the lee lang day,Till piper lads were wae and weary;But Charlie gat the spring to pay,For kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.
We lap and danced the lee lang day,Till piper lads were wae and weary;But Charlie gat the spring to pay,For kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary;Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary.
Tune.—“Bhannerach dhon na chri.”
[These verses were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet’s friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan.]
I.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!But the bonniest flower on the banks of the DevonWas once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!But the bonniest flower on the banks of the DevonWas once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.
II.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn;And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizesThe verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies,And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose:A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn;And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizesThe verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies,And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose:A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
Tune—“Duncan Gray.”
[The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called a lad of grace: another version, and in a happier mood, was written for Thomson.]
I.
Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!When a’ the lave gae to their play,Then I maun sit the lee lang day,And jog the cradle wi’ my tae,And a’ for the girdin o’t!
Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!When a’ the lave gae to their play,Then I maun sit the lee lang day,And jog the cradle wi’ my tae,And a’ for the girdin o’t!
II.
Bonnie was the Lammas moon—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Glowrin’ a’ the hills aboon—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!The girdin brak, the beast cam down,I tint my curch, and baith my shoon;Ah! Duncan, ye’re an unco loon—Wae on the bad girdin o’t!
Bonnie was the Lammas moon—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Glowrin’ a’ the hills aboon—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!The girdin brak, the beast cam down,I tint my curch, and baith my shoon;Ah! Duncan, ye’re an unco loon—Wae on the bad girdin o’t!
III.
But, Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!I’se bless you wi’ my hindmost breath—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith,The beast again can bear us baith,And auld Mess John will mend the skaith,And clout the bad girdin o’t.
But, Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!I’se bless you wi’ my hindmost breath—Ha, ha, the girdin o’t!Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith,The beast again can bear us baith,And auld Mess John will mend the skaith,And clout the bad girdin o’t.
Tune—“Up wi’ the ploughman.”
[The old words, of which these in the Museum are an altered and amended version, are in the collection of Herd.]
I.
The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad,His mind is ever true, jo,His garters knit below his knee,His bonnet it is blue, jo.Then up wi’ him my ploughman lad,And hey my merry ploughman!Of a’ the trades that I do ken,Commend me to the ploughman.
The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad,His mind is ever true, jo,His garters knit below his knee,His bonnet it is blue, jo.Then up wi’ him my ploughman lad,And hey my merry ploughman!Of a’ the trades that I do ken,Commend me to the ploughman.
II.
My ploughman he comes hame at e’en,He’s aften wat and weary;Cast off the wat, put on the dry,And gae to bed, my dearie!
My ploughman he comes hame at e’en,He’s aften wat and weary;Cast off the wat, put on the dry,And gae to bed, my dearie!
III.
I will wash my ploughman’s hose,And I will dress his o’erlay;I will mak my ploughman’s bed,And cheer him late and early.
I will wash my ploughman’s hose,And I will dress his o’erlay;I will mak my ploughman’s bed,And cheer him late and early.
IV.
I hae been east, I hae been west,I hae been at Saint Johnston;The bonniest sight that e’er I sawWas the ploughman laddie dancin’.
I hae been east, I hae been west,I hae been at Saint Johnston;The bonniest sight that e’er I sawWas the ploughman laddie dancin’.
V.
Snaw-white stockins on his legs,And siller buckles glancin’;A gude blue bonnet on his head—And O, but he was handsome!
Snaw-white stockins on his legs,And siller buckles glancin’;A gude blue bonnet on his head—And O, but he was handsome!
VI.
Commend me to the barn-yard,And the corn-mou, man;I never gat my coggie fou,Till I met wi’ the ploughman.Up wi’ him my ploughman lad,And hey my merry ploughman!Of a’ the trades that I do ken,Commend me to the ploughman.
Commend me to the barn-yard,And the corn-mou, man;I never gat my coggie fou,Till I met wi’ the ploughman.Up wi’ him my ploughman lad,And hey my merry ploughman!Of a’ the trades that I do ken,Commend me to the ploughman.
Tune—“Hey tutti, taiti.”
[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns: the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line of the Stuarts.]
I.
Landlady, count the lawin,The day is near the dawin;Ye’re a’ blind drunk, boys,And I’m but jolly fou,Hey tutti, taiti,How tutti, taiti—Wha’s fou now?
Landlady, count the lawin,The day is near the dawin;Ye’re a’ blind drunk, boys,And I’m but jolly fou,Hey tutti, taiti,How tutti, taiti—Wha’s fou now?
II.
Cog an’ ye were ay fou,Cog an’ ye were ay fou,I wad sit and sing to youIf ye were ay fou.
Cog an’ ye were ay fou,Cog an’ ye were ay fou,I wad sit and sing to youIf ye were ay fou.
III.
Weel may ye a’ be!Ill may we never see!God bless the king,And the companie!Hey tutti, taiti,How tutti, taiti—Wha’s fou now?
Weel may ye a’ be!Ill may we never see!God bless the king,And the companie!Hey tutti, taiti,How tutti, taiti—Wha’s fou now?
Tune—“Macgregor of Rura’s Lament.”
[“I composed these verses,” says Burns, “on Miss Isabella M’Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796.”]
I.
Raving winds around her blowing,Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,By a river hoarsely roaring,Isabella stray’d deploring—“Farewell hours that late did measureSunshine days of joy and pleasure;Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
Raving winds around her blowing,Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,By a river hoarsely roaring,Isabella stray’d deploring—“Farewell hours that late did measureSunshine days of joy and pleasure;Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
II.
“O’er the past too fondly wandering,On the hopeless future pondering;Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,Fell despair my fancy seizes.Life, thou soul of every blessing,Load to misery most distressing,Gladly how would I resign thee,And to dark oblivion join thee!”
“O’er the past too fondly wandering,On the hopeless future pondering;Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,Fell despair my fancy seizes.Life, thou soul of every blessing,Load to misery most distressing,Gladly how would I resign thee,And to dark oblivion join thee!”
To a Gaelic air.
[Composed for the Museum: the air of this affecting strain is true Highland: Burns, though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.]
I.
How long and dreary is the nightWhen I am frae my dearie!I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn,Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary.I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn,Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary.
How long and dreary is the nightWhen I am frae my dearie!I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn,Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary.I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn,Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary.
II.
When I think on the happy daysI spent wi’ you, my dearie,And now what lands between us lie,How can I but be eerie!And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
When I think on the happy daysI spent wi’ you, my dearie,And now what lands between us lie,How can I but be eerie!And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
III.