Or withering envy ne’er enter:
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.
Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787.
LXXX.
IMPROMPTU.
[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;
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May,
That’s half sae welcome’s thou art.
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.
Ilk action may he rue it,
May woman on him turn her back,
That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.
LXXXI.
PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR.
[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.]
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.
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 face
Within the clachan.
And hunted as was William Wallace,
By constables, those blackguard fellows,
And bailies baith,
O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows!
That cursed death.
O shake him ewre the mouth o’ hell,
And let him hing and roar and yell,
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel
Just heave him in.
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink’
Gaur Satan gie her a—e a clink
Behint his yett,
And fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
Red reeking het!
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.
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.
SONGS AND BALLADS.
“HANDSOME NELL.”
I.
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.
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that honour warms my breast,
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
II.
And mony full as braw;
But for a modest gracefu’ mien
The like I never saw.
III.
IV.
V.
Both decent and genteel:
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
VI.
May slightly touch the heart;
But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
VII.
’Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control
II.
LUCKLESS FORTUNE.
[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.]
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
O raging fortune’s withering blast
Has 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 storms
Laid a’ my blossoms low, O;
But luckless fortune’s northern storms
Laid a’ my blossoms low, O.
III.
I DREAM’D I LAY.
[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen years old: his early days were typical of his latter.]
I.
Gaily 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 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.
IV.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
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.
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
I.
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.
II.
Because ye hae the name o’ clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene’er ye like to try.
III.
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
IV.
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry.
V.
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
VI.
Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
VII.
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
V.
MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.
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.
Upon 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.
My 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.
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.
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’r
And so I would enjoy it, O.
V.
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.
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’er
Might breed me pain or sorrow, O:
I live to-day as well’s I may,
Regardless of to-morrow, O.
VII.
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.
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune
Comes 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.
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 clown
I will prefer before you, O.
VI.
JOHN BARLEYCORN:
A BALLAD.
[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.
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
II.
Put clods upon his head;
And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
III.
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.
IV.
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears
That no one should him wrong.
V.
When he grew wan and pale;
His beading joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.
VI.
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
VII.
And cut him by the knee;
Then ty’d him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
VIII.
And cudgell’d him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm.
And turn’d him o’er and o’er.
IX.
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.
X.
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear’d,
They toss’d him to and fro.
XI.
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all—
He crush’d him ’tween the stones.
XII.
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
XIII.
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise.
XIV.
’Twill heighten all his joy:
’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
XV.
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
VII.
THE RIGS O’ BARLEY.
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.
II.
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.
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 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.
An’ corn rigs are bonnie:
I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
VIII.
MONTGOMERY’S PEGGY.
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.
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
II.
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I’d seek some dell, and in my arms
I’d shelter dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
III.
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me,
The sharin’t with Montgomery’s Peggy.
IX.
THE MAUCHLINE LADY.
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.]
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.
X.
THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.
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 endure while the language lasts. “She was,” says Burns, “a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love.”]
I.
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.
Yon palace and yon gardens fine,
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland lassie, O.
III.
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.
IV.
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 trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.
VI.
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.
XI.
PEGGY.
[The heroine of this song is said to have been “Montgomery’s Peggy.”]
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
I.
Bring 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 night
To muse upon my charmer.
II.
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
III.
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.
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.
XII.
THE RANTIN’ DOG, THE DADDIE O’T.
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 will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?—
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
II.
O wha will buy the groanin’ maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
III.
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
IV.
Wha will make me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?—
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
XIII.
MY HEART WAS ANCE.
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.
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad
Has 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.
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o’t
Has gart me sigh and sab.
III.
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi’ a net,
In every knot and thrum.
IV.
And ay I ca’d it roun’;
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
V.
Wi’ visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy’d me thro’ the glen.
VI.
Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will 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.
XIV.
NANNIE.
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.
II.