Robert Burns: How To Know Him

[2] The melody to which the song is now sung is not that to which Burns wrote it, but was an old strathspey tune. It is possible, however, that he agreed to its adoption by Thomson.

It opens thus:

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never thought upon,

The Flames of Love extinguishèd

And freely past and gone?

Is thy kind Heart now grown so cold

In that Loving Breast of thine,

That thou can'st never once reflect

On old-long-syne.

And so on, for eighty lines.

Allan Ramsay rewrote it for his Tea-Table Miscellany (1724), and a specimen stanza will show that it was still going down-hill:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

Tho' they return with scars?

These are the noble hero's lot,

Obtain'd in glorious wars;

Welcome, my Varo, to my breast,

Thy arms about me twine,

And make me once again as blest

As I was lang syne.

The remaining four stanzas are worse. Burns may have had further hints to work on which are now lost; but the best, part of the song, stanzas three and four, are certainly his, and it is unlikely that he inherited more than some form of the first verse and the chorus.

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot old

And never brought to min'? mind

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne? long ago

For auld lang syne, my dear.

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, will pay for

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes, two have, hillsides

And pu'd the gowans fine; pulled, daisies

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot

Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn, waded, brook

From morning sun till dine; noon

But seas between us braid hae roar'd broad

Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, comrade

And gie's a hand o' thine; give me

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, draught of good will

For auld lang syne.

A more remarkable case of patchwork is A Red, Red Rose. Antiquarian research has discovered in chap-books and similar sources four songs, from each of which a stanza, in some such form as follows, seems to have proved suggestive to Burns:

Her cheeks are like the Roses

That blossom fresh in June,

O, she's like a new strung instrument

That's newly put in tune.
Altho' I go a thousand miles

I vow thy face to see,

Altho' I go ten thousand miles

I'll come again to thee, dear Love,

I'll come again to thee.
The seas they shall run dry,

And rocks melt into sands;

Then I'll love you still, my dear,

When all those things are done.
Fare you well, my own true love,

And fare you well for a while,

And I will be sure to return back again,

If I go ten thousand mile.

The genealogy of the lyric is still more complicated than these sources imply, but the specimens given are enough to show the nature of the ore from which Burns extracted the pure gold of his well-known song:

MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED RED ROSE

O, my love is like a red red rose

That's newly sprung in June:

O, my love is like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry. go

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,

And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my love,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Of the songs already quoted, the germ of Ae Fond Kiss lies in the first line of Robert Dodsley's Parting Kiss,

“One fond kiss before we part;”

I Hae a Wife o' My Ain, borrows with slight modification the first two lines; a model for My Nannie O has been found in an anonymous eighteenth-century fragment as well as in a song of Ramsay's, but neither contributes more than the phrase which names the tune as well as the words; The Rigs o' Barley was suggested by a verse of an old song:

O, corn rigs and rye rigs,

O, corn rigs are bonie;

And whene'er you meet a bonie lass

Preen up her cockernonie.

Handsome Nell, Mary Morison, Will Ye Go to the Indies, The Gloomy Night, and My Nannie's Awa are entirely original; and a comparison of their poetical quality with those having their model or starting point in an older song will show that, however brilliantly Burns acquitted himself in his task of refurbishing traditional material, he was in no way dependent upon such material for inspiration.

From what has been said of the occasions of these verses, however, it is clear that inspiration from the outside was not lacking. The traditional association of wine, woman, and song certainly held for Burns, nearly all his lyrics being the outcome of his devotion to at least two of these, some of them, like the following, to all three.

Similarly, most of the lyrics addressed to Clarinda in Edinburgh are marked by the sentimentalism and affectation of an affair that engaged only one side, and that among the least pleasing, of the many-sided temperament of the poet.

But, in general, with Burns as with other poets, it was not the catching of a first-hand emotion at white heat that resulted in the best poetry, but the stimulating of his imagination by the vision of a person or a situation that may have had but the hint of a prototype in the actual. We have already noted that the best of the Clarinda poems were written in absence, and that they drop the Arcadian names which typified the make-believe element in that complex affair. So a number of his most charming songs are addressed to girls of whom he had had but a glimpse. But that glimpse sufficed to kindle him, and for the poetry it was all advantage that it was no more.

His relations with women were extremely varied in nature. At one extreme there were friendships like that with Mrs. Dunlop, the letters to whom show that their common interests were mainly moral and intellectual, and were mingled with no emotion more fiery than gratitude. At the other extreme stand relations like that with Anne Park, the heroine of Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wine, which were purely passionate and transitory. Between these come a long procession affording excellent material for the ingenuity of those skilled in the casuistry of the sexes: the boyish flame for Handsome Nell; the slightly more mature feeling for Ellison Begbie; the various phases of his passion for Jean Armour; the perhaps partly factitious reverence for Highland Mary; the respectful adoration for Margaret Chalmers to whom he is supposed to have proposed marriage in Edinburgh; the deliberate posing in his compliments to Chloris (Jean Lorimer); the grateful gallantry to Jessie Lewars, who ministered to him on his deathbed.

In the later days in Dumfries, when his vitality was running low and he was laboring to supply Thomson with verses even when the spontaneous impulse to compose was rare, we find him theorizing on the necessity of enthroning a goddess for the nonce. Speaking of Craigieburn-wood and Jean Lorimer, he writes to his prosaic editor:

“The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him—a Mistress, or Friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely Friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy—could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your Book? No, no!!! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song; to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs, do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of Healing and Poesy when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!”

Burns is here, of course, on his rhetorical high horse, and the songs to Chloris hardly bear him out; but there is much in the passage to enlighten us as to his composing processes. In his younger days his hot blood welcomed every occasion of emotional experience; toward the end, he sought such occasions for the sake of the patriotic task that lightened with its idealism the gathering gloom of his breakdown. But throughout, and this is the important point to note in relating his poetry to his life, his one mode of complimentary address to a woman was in terms of gallantry.

The following group of love songs illustrate the various phases of his temperament which we have been discussing. The first two are to Mary Campbell, and exhibit Burns in his most reverential attitude toward women:

HIGHLAND MARY

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie! muddy

There Simmer first unfauld her robes, may S. f. unfold

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, birch

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o'er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, cold

That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance,

That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mould'ring now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! loved

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,

Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love?

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace—

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,

Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care!

Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

The group that follow are addressed either to unknown divinities or to girls who inspired only a passing devotion. In the case of Bonnie Lesley, there was no question of a love-affair: the song is merely a compliment to a young lady he met and admired. Auld Rob Morris is probably purely dramatic.

CA' THE YOWES
(Second Version)

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, ewes, knolls

Ca' them where the heather grows,

Ca' them where the burnie rows, brooklet rolls

My bonnie dearie.

Hark! the mavis' evening sang thrush's

Sounding Clouden's woods amang;

Then a-faulding let us gang, a-folding, go

My bonnie dearie.

We'll gae down by Clouden side, go

Thro' the hazels, spreading wide

O'er the waves that sweetly glide

To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,

Where at moonshine's midnight hours,

O'er the dewy bending flowers,

Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shall thou fear; Ghost, goblin

Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear,

Nocht of ill may come thee near, Nought

My bonnie dearie.

Fair and lovely as thou art,

Thou hast stown my very heart; stolen

I can die—but canna part,

My bonnie dearie.

AFTON WATER

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,

Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;

There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;

There oft as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. birch

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, went, road last night

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, got, eyes

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, wet

Her heaving bosom lily-white;

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, beguiled

She charm'd my soul I wist na how;

And aye the stound, the deadly wound, pang

Came frae her een sae bonnie blue. from

But ‘spare to speak, and spare to speed’—

She'll aiblins listen to my vow: perhaps

Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead death

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

BONNIE LESLEY

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? went

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is,

And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects, we before thee:

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee, harm

Or aught that wad belang thee;

He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’

The Powers aboon will tent thee; above, guard

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; shall not disturb

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!

That we may brag we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonnie. no other

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, flaxen

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? watch

Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, clothes

And a' is young and sweet like thee;

O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,

And say thou'lt be my dearie, O.

The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, winding

The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn,

The wanton lambs at early morn

Shall welcome thee, my dearie, O.

And when the welcome simmer-shower

Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, every

We'll to the breathing woodbine bower

At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,

The weary shearer's hameward way. reaper's

Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,

And talk o' love, my dearie, O.

And when the howling wintry blast

Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;

Enclaspèd to my faithfu' breast,

I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.

MONTGOMERIE'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 Montgomerie'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 arms

I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

Were I a Baron proud and high,

And horse and servants waiting ready,

Then a' 't wad gie o' joy to me, it would give

The sharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy.

THE LEA-RIG

When o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; folding-

And owsen frae the furrow'd field oxen

Return sae dowf and wearie O; dull

Down by the burn, where scented birks

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, sweetheart

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, grassy ridge

My ain kind dearie O. own

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, darkest

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, scared

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, went

My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie O,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, loves

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;

At noon the fisher takes the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;

Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey twilight

It maks my heart sae cheery O,

To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

AULD ROB MORRIS

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, dwells

He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men; pick

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, gold, oxen

And ae bonnie lassie, his dautie and mine. one, darling

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;

She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;

As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,

And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,

And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; garden

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, must not

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. death

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;

I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, alone, ghost

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me;

O how past descriving had then been my bliss, describing

As now my distraction no words can express!

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast, besides being one of the most exquisite of his songs, has a pathetic interest from the circumstances under which it was composed. During the last few months of his life, a young girl called Jessie Lewars, sister of one of his colleagues in the excise, came much to his house and was of great service to Mrs. Burns and him in his last illness. One day he offered to write new verses to any tune she might play him. She sat down and played over several times the melody of an old song, beginning,

The robin came to the wren's nest,

And keekit in, and keekit in.

The following lines were the characteristic result:

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast, cold

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt, direction

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee,

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom, shelter

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,

The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,

The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

This group may well close with his great hymn of general allegiance to the sex.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES

Green grow the rashes, O,

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In ev'ry hour that passes, O;

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase, worldly

An' riches still may fly them, O;

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, quiet

My arms about my dearie, O;

An' warly cares, an' warly men,

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! upside-down

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, sedate

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 dears

Her noblest work she classes, O;

Her prentice han' she tried on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.

Equally personal, but not connected with love, are a few autobiographical poems of which the following are typical. The third of these, though prosaic enough, is interesting as perhaps Burns's most elaborate summing up of the philosophy of his own career.