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.
Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
IV.
As spotless as she’s bonnie, O:
The op’ning gowan, wat wi’ dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
V.
An’ few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be?
I’m welcome ay to Nannie, O.
VI.
An’ I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’ my Nannie, O.
VII.
His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An’ has nae care but Nannie, O.
VIII.
I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O:
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an’ love my Nannie, O.
XV.
A FRAGMENT.
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.]
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.
XVI.
BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.
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.
An’ I’ll kiss thee o’er again;
An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
I.
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
II.
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share
Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O!
III.
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!
XVII.
THERE’S NOUGHT BUT CARE.
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 passage which 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!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
I.
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.
II.
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
III.
My arms about my dearie, O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O.
IV.
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
V.
Her 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 spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
XVIII.
MY JEAN!
Tune—“The Northern Lass.”
[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.]
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
XIX.
ROBIN.
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.]
I.
But whatna day o’ whatna style
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!
II.
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
III.
Quo’ she, wha lives will see the proof.
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we’ll ca’ him Robin
IV.
But ay a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit to us a’,
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.
V.
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’,
So leeze me on thee, Robin.
VI.
XX.
HER FLOWING LOCKS.
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.]
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.
XXI.
O LEAVE NOVELS.
Tune—“ Mauchline belles.”
[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:—
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’.”]
I.
Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
II.
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.
III.
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part—
’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
IV.
Are worse than poison’d darts of steel;
The frank address and politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
XXII.
YOUNG PEGGY.
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.]
I.
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshone the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh’ning flower.
II.
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.
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction’s eye no aim can gain,
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful envy grins in vain
The poison’d tooth to fasten.
IV.
XXIII.
THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
Tune—“Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let’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.]
I.
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.
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.
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.
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.
V.
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.
By 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.
The honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care!
FOOTNOTES:
[136] Young’s Night Thoughts.
XXIV.
ELIZA.
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.]
I.
And from my native shore;
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean’s roar:
But boundless oceans roaring wide
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee!
II.
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!
XXV.
THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE.
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.]
I.
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To 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.
Who marked each element’s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order;
Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention
Or withered envy ne’er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.
XXVI.
MENIE.
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.]
I.
Her 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 vi’lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
III.
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
IV.
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
V.
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
VI.
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
VII.
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.
XXVII.
THE FAREWELL
TO THE
BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES’S LODGE,
TARBOLTON.
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.]
I.
II.
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 write
Those happy scenes when far awa’.
III.
Unite 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.
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’.
XXVIII.
ON CESSNOCK BANKS.
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.]
I.
Could I describe her shape and mien;
Our lasses a’ she far excels,
An she has twa sparkling roguish een.
II.
When rising Phœbus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een
III.
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IV.
With flow’rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
V.
When evening Phœbus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray—
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VI.
That climbs the mountain-sides at e’en,
When flow’r-reviving rains are past;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VII.
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain’s brow;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
VIII.
The pride of all the flow’ry scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
IX.
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een
X.
That sunny walls from Boreas screen—
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An’ she has twa, sparkling roguish een.
XI.
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep;
An’ she has twa glancin’ roguish een.
XII.
That gently stirs the blossom’d bean,
When Phœbus sinks behind the seas;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIII.
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.
XIV.
Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen,
’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry grace,
An’ chiefly in her roguish een.
XXIX.
MARY!
Tune—“Blue Bonnets.”
[In the original manuscript Burns calls this song “A Prayer for Mary;” his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.]
I.
Ever 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 spirit
Draw your choicest influence down.
II.
Soft 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.
XXX.
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
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.]
I.
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 rang
Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle!
II.
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.
And sweet is night in autumn mild
When 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’d
By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.
IV.
V.
Where fame and honours lofty shine:
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep
Or 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 divine
With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.
XXXI.
THE GLOOMY NIGHT.
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—
I.
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.