Love In The Guise Of Friendship Your friendship much can make me blest,O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only,one request You know I will deny!
Your thought,if Love must harbour there,Conceal it in that thought;Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought.
Go On,Sweet Bird,And Sooth My Care For thee is laughing Nature gay,For thee she pours the vernal day;For me in vain is Nature drest,While Joy's a stranger to my breast.
Clarinda,Mistress Of My Soul Clarinda,mistres of my soul,The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie;Depriv'd of thee,his life and light,The sun of all his joy?
We part-but by these precious drops,That fill thy lovely eyes,No other light shall guide my steps,Till thy bright beams arise!
She,the fair sun of all her sex,Has blest my glorious day;And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?
I'm O'er Young To Marry Yet Chorus.-I'm o'er young,I'm o'er young,I'm o'er young to marry yet;I'm o'er young,'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet.
I am my mammny's ae bairn,Wi'unco folk I weary,sir;And lying in a man's bed,I'm fley'd it mak me eerie,sir.
I'm o'er young,&c.
My mammie coft me a new gown,The kirk maun hae the gracing o't;Were I to lie wi'you,kind Sir,I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
I'm o'er young,&c.
Hallowmass is come and gane,The nights are lang in winter,sir,And you an'I in ae bed,In trowth,I dare na venture,sir.
I'm o'er young,&c.
Fu'loud an'shill the frosty wind Blaws thro'the leafless timmer,sir;But if ye come this gate again;
I'll aulder be gin simmer,sir.
I'm o'er young,&c.
To The Weavers Gin Ye Go My heart was ance as blithe and free As simmer days were lang;But a bonie,westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang.
Chorus.-To the weaver's gin ye go,fair maids,To the weaver's gin ye go;I rede you right,gang ne'er at night,To the weaver's gin ye go.
My mither sent me to the town,To warp a plaiden wab;But the weary,weary warpin o't Has gart me sigh and sab.
To the weaver's,&c.
A bonie,westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom;He took my heart as wi'a net,In every knot and thrum.
To the weaver's,&c.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,And aye I ca'd it roun';But every shot and evey knock,My heart it gae a stoun.
To the weaver's,&c.
The moon was sinking in the west,Wi'visage pale and wan,As my bonie,westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro'the glen.
To the weaver's,&c.
But what was said,or what was done,Shame fa'me gin I tell;But Oh!I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel's myself!
To the weaver's,&c.
M'Pherson's Farewell tune-"M'Pherson's Rant."Farewell,ye dungeons dark and strong,The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus.-Sae rantingly,sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He play'd a spring,and danc'd it round,Below the gallows-tree.
O,what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain I've dared his face,and in this place I scorn him yet again!
Sae rantingly,&c.
Untie these bands from off my hands,And bring me to my sword;And there's no a man in all Scotland But I'll brave him at a word.
Sae rantingly,&c.
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.
Sae rantingly,&c.
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,&c.
Stay My Charmer tune-"An gille dubh ciar-dhubh."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!
By my love so ill-requited,By the faith you fondly plighted,By the pangs of lovers slighted,Do not,do not liave me so!
Do not,do not leave me so!
song-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 nocht but the roaring linn,Amang the braes sae scroggie.
But the houlet cry'd frau 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!
Raving Winds Around Her Blowing tune-"M'Grigor of Roro's Lament."I composed these verses 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 Loudoun,who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered,owing to the deranged state of his finances.-R.B.,1971.
Raving winds around her blowing,Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,By a river hoarsely roaring,Isabella stray'd deploring-"Farewell,hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;Hail,thou gloomy night of sorrow,Cheerless night that knows no morrow!
"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 wouldlI resign thee,And to dark oblivion join thee!"Up In The Morning Early Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,The drift is driving sairly;Sae loud and shill's I hear the blast-
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Chorus.-Up in the morning's no for me,Up in the morning early;When a'the hills are covered 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,&c.
How Long And Dreary Is The Night How long and dreary is the night,When I am frae my dearie!
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,Tho'I were ne'er so weary:
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,Tho'I were ne'er sae weary!
When I think on the happy days I spent wi'you my dearie:
And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
And now what lands between us lie,How can I be but eerie!
How slow ye move,ye heavy hours,As ye were wae and weary!
It wasna sae ye glinted by,When I was wi'my dearie!
It wasna sae ye glinted by,When I was wi'my dearie!
Hey,The Dusty 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 kiss That I gat frae the Miller.
Hey,the dusty Miller,And his dusty sack;Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck:
Fills the dusty peck,Brings the dusty siller;I wad gie my coatie For the dusty Miller.
Duncan Davison 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 dreigh,and Meg was skeigh,Her favour Duncan could na win;For wi'the rock she wad him knock,And aye she shook the temper-pin.
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 aye she set the wheel between:
But Duncan swoor a haly aith,That Meg should be a bride the morn;Then Meg took up her spinning-graith,And flang them a'out o'er the burn.
We will big a wee,wee house,And we will live like king and queen;Sae blythe and merry's we will be,When 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 bonie lass,And aye be welcome back again!
The Lad They Ca'Jumpin John Her daddie forbad,her minnie forbad Forbidden she wadna be:
She wadna trow't the browst she brew'd,Wad taste sae bitterlie.
Chorus.-The lang lad they ca'Jumpin John Beguil'd the bonie lassie,The lang lad they ca'Jumpin John Beguil'd the bonie 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 bonie black e'e.
The lang lad,&c.
Talk Of Him That's Far Awa Musing on the roaring ocean,Which divides my love and me;Wearying heav'n in warm devotion,For his weal where'er he be.
Hope and Fear's alternate billow Yielding late to Nature's law,Whispering spirits round my pillow,Talk of him that's far awa.
Ye whom sorrow never wounded,Ye who never shed a tear,Care-untroubled,joy-surrounded,Gaudy day to you is dear.
Gentle night,do thou befriend me,Downy sleep,the curtain draw;Spirits kind,again attend me,Talk of him that's far awa!
To Daunton Me The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw,The simmer lilies bloom in snaw,The frost may freeze the deepest sea;But an auld man shall never daunton me.
Refrain.-To daunton me,to daunton me,And auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me,and me sae young,Wi'his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue,That is the thing you shall never see,For an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me,&c.
For a'his meal and a'his maut,For a'his fresh beef and his saut,For a'his gold and white monie,And auld men shall never daunton me.
To daunton me,&c.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes,His gear may buy him glens and knowes;But me he shall not buy nor fee,For an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me,&c.
He hirples twa fauld as he dow,Wi'his teethless gab and his auld beld pow,And the rain rains down frae his red blear'd e'e;That auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me,&c.
The Winter It Is Past The winter it is past,and the summer comes at last And the small birds,they sing on ev'ry tree;Now ev'ry thing is glad,while I am very sad,Since my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the breer,by the waters running clear,May have charms for the linnet or the bee;Their little loves are blest,and their little hearts at rest,But my true love is parted from me.
The Bonie Lad That's Far Awa O how can I be blythe and glad,Or how can I gang brisk and braw,When the bonie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa!
It's no the frosty winter wind,It's no the driving drift and snaw;But aye the tear comes in my e'e,To think on him that's far awa.
My father pat me frae his door,My friends they hae disown'd me a';But I hae ane will tak my part,The bonie lad that's far awa.
A pair o'glooves he bought to me,And silken snoods he gae me twa;And I will wear them for his sake,The bonie lad that's far awa.
O weary Winter soon will pass,And Spring will cleed the birken shaw;And my young babie will be born,And he'll be hame that's far awa.
Verses To Clarinda Sent with a Pair of Wine-Glasses.
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul,And Queen of Poetesses;Clarinda,take this little boon,This humble pair of glasses:
And fill them up with generous juice,As generous as your mind;And pledge them to the generous toast,"The whole of human kind!""To those who love us!"second fill;
But not to those whom we love;
Lest we love those who love not us-
A third-"To thee and me,Love!"
The Chevalier's Lament Air-"Captain O'Kean."The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro'the vale;The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure,or what can seem fair,When the lingering moments are numbered by care?
No birds sweetly singing,nor flow'rs gaily springing,Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared,could it merit their malice?
A king and a father to place on his throne!
His right are these hills,and his right are these valleys,Where the wild beasts find shelter,tho'I can find none!
But 'tis not my suff'rings,thus wretched,forlorn,My brave gallant friends,'tis your ruin I mourn;Your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,-Alas!I can make it no better return!
Epistle To Hugh Parker In this strange land,this uncouth clime,A land unknown to prose or rhyme;Where words ne'er cross't the Muse's heckles,Nor limpit in poetic shackles:
A land that Prose did never view it,Except when drunk he stacher't thro'it;Here,ambush'd by the chimla cheek,Hid in an atmosphere of reek,I hear a wheel thrum i'the neuk,I hear it-for in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams,a fiery kernel,Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here,for my wonted rhyming raptures,I sit and count my sins by chapters;For life and spunk like ither Christians,I'm dwindled down to mere existence,Wi'nae converse but Gallowa'bodies,Wi'nae kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes,Jenny,my Pegasean pride!
Dowie she saunters down Nithside,And aye a westlin leuk she throws,While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!
Was it for this,wi'cannie care,Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?
At howes,or hillocks never stumbled,And late or early never grumbled?-O had I power like inclination,I'd heeze thee up a constellation,To canter with the Sagitarre,Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or,when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,Down the zodiac urge the race,And cast dirt on his godship's face;For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo'thy tail.-Wi'a'this care and a'this grief,And sma',sma'prospect of relief,And nought but peat reek i'my head,How can I write what ye can read?-Tarbolton,twenty-fourth o'June,Ye'll find me in a better tune;But till we meet and weet our whistle,Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
Robert Burns.
Of A'The Airts The Wind Can Blaw^1
tune-"Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."
Of a'the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:
[Footnote 1:Written during a separation from Mrs.Burns in their honeymoon.
Burns was preparing a home at Ellisland;Mrs.Burns was at Mossgiel.-Lang.]
There's wild-woods grow,and rivers row,And mony a hill between:
But day and night my fancys'flight Is ever wi'my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu'birds,I hear her charm the air:
There's not a bonie flower that springs,By fountain,shaw,or green;There's not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o'my Jean.
song-I Hae a Wife O'My Ain I Hae a wife of my ain,I'll partake wi'naebody;I'll take Cuckold frae nane,I'll gie Cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,There-thanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,I'll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody's lord,I'll be slave to naebody;I hae a gude braid sword,I'll tak dunts frae naebody.
I'll be merry and free,I'll be sad for naebody;Naebody cares for me,I care for naebody.
Lines Written In Friars'-Carse Hermitage Glenriddel Hermitage,June 28th,1788.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,Be thou clad in russet weed,Be thou deckt in silken stole,Grave these maxims on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,Sprung from night,in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine every hour,Fear not clouds will always lour.
Happiness is but a name,Make content and ease thy aim,Ambition is a meteor-gleam;Fame,an idle restless dream;
Peace,the tend'rest flow'r of spring;
Pleasures,insects on the wing;
Those that sip the dew alone-
Make the butterflies thy own;
Those that would the bloom devour-
Crush the locusts,save the flower.
For the future be prepar'd,Guard wherever thou can'st guard;But thy utmost duly done,Welcome what thou can'st not shun.
Follies past,give thou to air,Make their consequence thy care:
Keep the name of Man in mind,And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart Him,whose wondrous work thou art;Keep His Goodness still in view,Thy trust,and thy example,too.
Stranger,go!Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman of Nidside.
To Alex.Cunningham,ESQ.,Writer Ellisland,Nithsdale,July 27th,1788.
My godlike friend-nay,do not stare,You think the phrase is odd-like;But God is love,the saints declare,Then surely thou art god-like.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,But thou art a volcano!
Ev'n Wedlock asks not love beyond Death's tie-dissolving portal;But thou,omnipotently fond,May'st promise love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing powers defy,Such symptoms dire attend them,That last great antihectic try-Marriage perhaps may mend them.
Sweet Anna has an air-a grace,Divine,magnetic,touching:
She talks,she charms-but who can trace The process of bewitching?
Song.-Anna,Thy Charms Anna,thy charms my bosom fire,And waste my soul with care;But ah!how bootless to admire,When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence,lovely Fair,To hope may be forgiven;For sure 'twere impious to despair So much in sight of heaven.
The Fete Champetre tune-"Killiecrankie."O Wha will to Saint Stephen's House,To do our errands there,man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen's House O'th'merry lads of Ayr,man?
Or will we send a man o'law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Ursa-Major?^1
Come,will ye court a noble lord,Or buy a score o'lairds,man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,Their vote shall be Glencaird's,^2man.
Ane gies them coin,ane gies them wine,Anither gies them clatter:
Annbank,^3wha guessed the ladies'taste,He gies a Fete Champetre.
When Love and Beauty heard the news,The gay green woods amang,man;Where,gathering flowers,and busking bowers,They heard the blackbird's sang,man:
A vow,they sealed it with a kiss,Sir Politics to fetter;As their's alone,the patent bliss,To hold a Fete Champetre.
