A 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 voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.
* * * * *
XXXIV.
COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS.
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 come
To you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come
To you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither
Should baith gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come
To you, my lad.
Come down the back stairs
When ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs
When ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs,
And let naebody see,
And come as ye were na
Coming to me.
* * * * *
XXXV.
I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN.
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 sin
To 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.
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 sin
To tak me frae my mammy yet.
* * * * *
XXXVI.
BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO.
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 go
To the birks of Aberfeldy?
I.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays;
Come let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
II.
The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In 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.
IV.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The 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 go
To the birks of Aberfeldy?
* * * * *
XXXVII.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
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 long
On 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 plain
I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I 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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
XXXVIII.
BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER.
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.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
XXXIX.
STAY, MY CHARMER.
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?
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!
* * * * *
XL.
THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY DWELLING.
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!
II.
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.
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.
* * * * *
XLI.
MY HOGGIE.
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.
* * * * *
XLII.
HER DADDIE FORBAD.
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'd
Wad taste sae bitterlie.
The lang lad they ca' jumpin' John
Beguiled the bonnie lassie,
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John
Beguiled 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' John
Beguiled the bonnie lassie,
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John
Beguiled the bonnie lassie.
* * * * *
XLIII
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
XLIV.
THE
YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.
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 rover
Far 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 day
When by his mighty Warden
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
* * * * *
XLV.
HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER
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 kiss
That I got frae the miller.
II.
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.
* * * * *
XLVI.
THERE WAS A LASS.
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.
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.
III.
We'll big a house,--a wee, wee house,
And we will live like king and queen,
Sae blythe and merry 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 bonnie lass,
And ay be welcome back again.
* * * * *
XLVII.
THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MARY.
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.
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.
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.
* * * * *
XLVIII.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
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 Devon
Was 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 seizes
The 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.
* * * * *
XLIX.
WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY.
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!
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!
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.
* * * * *
L.
THE PLOUGHMAN.
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.
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!
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.
IV.
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston;
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was 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!
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.
* * * * *
LI.
LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN.
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?
II.
Cog an' ye were ay fou,
Cog an' ye were ay fou,
I wad sit and sing to you
If 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?
* * * * *
LII.
RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.
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 measure
Sunshine 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!"
* * * * *
LIII.
HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
_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 night
When 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 days
I 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.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary!
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearie.
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my dearie.
* * * * *
LIV.
MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
Tune--"_Druimion dubh._"
[The air of this song is from the Highlands: the verses were written
in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. M'Lauchlan, whose husband was an
officer serving in the East Indies.]
I.
Musing on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me;
Wearying heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where'er he be.
II.
Hope and fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to nature's law,
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa.
III.
Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is dear.
IV.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me;
Downy sleep, the curtain draw;
Spirits kind, again attend me,
Talk of him that's far awa!
* * * * *
LV.
BLITHE WAS SHE.
Tune--"_Andro and his cutty gun._"
[The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose was justly
called the "Flower of Strathmore:" she is now widow of Lord Methven,
one of the Scottish judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was
written at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.]
CHORUS.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
I.
By Auchtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes of Yarrow ever saw.
II.
Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
III.
Her bonnie face it was as meek
As any lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.
IV.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern.
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
* * * * *
LVI.
THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW.
Tune--"_To daunton me._"
[The Jacobite strain of "To daunton me," must have been in the mind of
the poet when he wrote this pithy lyric for the Museum.]
I.
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.
To daunton me, and me so young,
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue.
That is the thing you ne'er shall see;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
II.
For a' his meal and a' his maut,
For a' his fresh beef and his saut,
For a' his gold and white monie,
An auld man shall never daunton me.
III.
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.
IV.
He hirples twa fauld as he dow,
Wi' his teethless gab and Ma auld beld pow,
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee--
That 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 ne'er shall see;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
* * * * *
LVII.
COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE.
Tune--"_O'er the water to Charlie._"
[The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the third, are by
Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the same subject, and to the same
air, were in other days current in Scotland.]
I.
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er,
Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee,
To boat me o'er to Charlie.
We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea,
We'll o'er the water to Charlie;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live or die wi' Charlie.
II.
I lo'e weel my Charlie's name,
Tho' some there be abhor him:
But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame,
And Charlie's faes before him!
III.
I swear and vow by moon and stars,
And sun that shines so early,
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I'd die as aft for Charlie.
We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea,
We'll o'er the water to Charlie;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live or die wi' Charlie!
* * * * *
LVIII.
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
Tune--"_The Rose-bud._"
[The "Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was Miss Jean Cruikshank,
afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter of William Cruikshank, of St.
James's Square, one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh:
she is also the subject of a poem equally sweet.]
I.
A rose-bud by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
II.
Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awake the early morning.
III.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tends thy early morning.
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning.
* * * * *
LIX.
RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.
Tune--"_Rattlin', roarin' Willie._"
["The hero of this chant," says Burns "was one of the worthiest
fellows in the world--William Dunbar, Esq., Write to the Signet,
Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps--a club of wits, who
took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments."]
I.
O rattlin', roarin' Willie,
O, he held to the fair,
An' for to sell his fiddle,
An' buy some other ware;
But parting wi' his fiddle,
The saut tear blint his ee;
And rattlin', roarin' Willie,
Ye're welcome hame to me!
II.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o' wine!
If I should sell my fiddle,
The warl' would think I was mad;
For mony a rantin' day
My fiddle and I hae had.
III.
As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannily keekit ben--
Rattlin', roarin' Willie
Was sittin' at yon board en';
Sitting at yon board en',
And amang good companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,
Ye're welcome hame to me I
* * * * *
LX.
BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.
Tune--"_Neil Gow's Lamentations for Abercairny._"
["This song," says the poet, "I composed on one of the most
accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis
Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." She now lives at Pau, in
the south of France.]
I.
Where, braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochels rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polish'd blaze.
II.