Роберт Бернс
The Complete Works

CLXXVIII. MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

[This is the first song composed by Burns for the national collection of Thomson: it was written in October, 1792. “On reading over the Lea-rig,” he says, “I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following.” The first and second verses were only sent: Burns added the third and last verse in December.]

I.

 
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow’d field
Return sae dowf and weary, O!
Down by the burn, where scented birks^[139]
Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo;
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O!
II.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie, O;
If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee,
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!
III.
The hunter lo’es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Alang the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o’ gloamin gray,
It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-ring,
My ain kind dearie O!
 

CLXXIX. TO MARY CAMPBELL

[“In my very early years,” says Burns to Thomson “when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race.” The heroine of this early composition was Highland Mary.]

 
I.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave old Scotia’s shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th’ Atlantic’s roar?
II.
O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
Can never equal thine.
III.
I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;
And sae may the Heavens forget me
When I forget my vow!
IV.
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia’s strand.
V.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o’ time!
 

CLXXX. THE WINSOME WEE THING

[These words were written for Thomson: or rather made extempore. “I might give you something more profound,” says the poet, “yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air, so well as this random clink.”]

 
I.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.
II.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed a dearer;
And niest my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
III.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o’ mine.
IV.
The warld’s wrack we share o’t,
The warstle and the care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
 

CLXXXI. BONNIE LESLEY

[“I have just,” says Burns to Thomson, “been looking over the ‘Collier’s bonnie Daughter,’ and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome.” This lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.]

 
I.
O saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she ga’ed o’er the border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
II.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
III.
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.
IV.
The deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say, “I canna wrang thee.”
V.
The powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha’ na steer thee:
Thou’rt like themselves so lovely,
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.
VI.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie;
That we may brag, we hae a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie.
 

CLXXXII. HIGHLAND MARY

Tune—“Katherine Ogie.”

[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns has sung with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a mariner, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted with the poet while on service at the castle of Montgomery, and their strolls in the woods and their roaming trysts only served to deepen and settle their affections. Their love had much of the solemn as well as of the romantic: on the day of their separation they plighted their mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles: they stood with a running-stream between them, and lifting up water in their hands vowed love while woods grew and waters ran. The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound: ‘Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,’ was written in the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath was his name, and his mark as a freemason. They parted to meet no more: Mary Campbell was carried off suddenly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited her friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whither she had gone to make arrangements for her marriage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations: we have seen a lock of her hair; it was very long and very bright, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song was written for Thomson’s work.]

 
I.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
II.
How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk,
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!
III.
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,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
IV.
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And clos’d for ay the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed me dearly—
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary!
 

CLXXXIII. AULD ROB MORRIS

[The starting lines of this song are from one of no little merit in Ramsey’s collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is tender: it was written for Thomson.]

 
I.
There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the king o’ guid fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
II.
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 lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.
III.
But oh! she’s an heiress,—auld Robin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me mamma hope to come speed;
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
IV.
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,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
V.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop’d she wad smil’d upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
 

CLXXXIV. DUNCAN GRAY

[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common with the wild old song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the third, neither has it any share in the sentiments of an earlier strain, with the same title, by the same hand. It was written for the work of Thomson.]

 
I.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
On blythe yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
II.
Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
III.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to—France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
IV.
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Meg grew sick—as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings:
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
V.
Duncan was a lad o’ grace.
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Maggie’s was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath;
Now they’re crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
 

CLXXXV. O POORTITH CAULD.

Tune—“I had a horse.”

[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the “Lassie with the lint-white locks” of Burns, was the heroine of this exquisite lyric: she was at that time very young; her shape was fine, and her “dimpled cheek and cherry mou” will be long remembered in Nithsdale.]

 
I.
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ twere na’ for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune’s shining?
II.
This warld’s wealth when I think on,
It’s pride, and a’ the lave o’t—
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t!
III.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
IV.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
V.
How blest the humble cotter’s fate!^[140]
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune’s shining?
 

CLXXXVI. GALLA WATER

[“Galla Water” is an improved version of an earlier song by Burns: but both songs owe some of their attractions to an older strain, which the exquisite air has made popular over the world. It was written for Thomson.]

 
I.
There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro’ the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads o’ Galla Water.
II.
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better;
And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,
The bonnie lad o’ Galla Water.
III.
Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,
And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water.
IV.
It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!
 

CLXXXVII. LORD GREGORY

[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson’s collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his composition. Wolcot’s song was, indeed, written first, but they are both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, “Fair Annie of Lochryan,” which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses both their songs.]

 
I.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest’s roar;
A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tow’r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!
II.
An exile frae her father’s ha’,
And a’ for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
III.
Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwin-side,
Where first I own’d that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?
IV.
How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true,
It ne’er mistrusted thine.
V.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast—
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
VI.
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!
 

CLXXXVIII. MARY MORISON

Tune—“Bide ye yet.”

[“The song prefixed,” observes Burns to Thomson, “is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable either for its merits or its demerits.” “Of all the productions of Burns,” says Hazlitt, “the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison.” The song is supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at Mauchline.]

 
I.
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
II.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”
III.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
 

CLXXXIX. WANDERING WILLIE

[FIRST VERSION.]

[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same name published by Herd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. Burns approved of their alterations; but he approved, no doubt, in bitterness of spirit.]

 
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.
II.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o’ your slumbers!
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But if he’s forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain.
 

CXC. WANDERING WILLIE

[LAST VERSION.]

[This is the “Wandering Willie” as altered by Erskine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, after rejecting several of their emendations. The changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with the music—an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice.]

 
I.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.
II.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e’e;
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
III.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
IV.
But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain.
 

CXCI. OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

[Written for Thomson’s collection: the first version which he wrote was not happy in its harmony: Burns altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, “I do not know if this song be really mended.”]

 
I.
Oh, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!^[141]
Tho’ thou has been false, I’ll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!
II.
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!
III.
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!
IV.
She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, Oh!
 

CXCII. JESSIE

Tune—“Bonnie Dundee.”

[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost of Dumfries, was the heroine of this song. She became a wife and a mother, but died early in life: she is still affectionately remembered in her native place.]

 
I.
True hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o’ the Ayr,
But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
II.
O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger—
Her modest demeanour’s the jewel of a’!
 

CXCIII. THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER

Air—“The Mill, Mill, O.”

[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popular, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale: it was published by Thomson, after suggesting some alterations, which were properly rejected.]

 
I.
When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.
II.
A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
III.
At length I reach’d the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
IV.
Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
O! happy, happy, may he be
That’s dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain wud be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.
V.
Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
And lovelier was then ever;
Quo’ she, a sodger ance I lo’d,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,
That gallant badge—the dear cockade—
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.
VI.
She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like onie lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky—
By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
VII.
The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.
Quo’ she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!
VIII.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize,
The sodger’s wealth is honour;
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.
 

CXCIV. MEG O’ THE MILL

Air—“Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack?”

[“Do you know a fine air,” Burns asks Thomson, April, 1973, “called ‘Jackie Hume’s Lament?’ I have a song of considerable merit to that air: I’ll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Museum.” It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and published it in the Museum.]

 
I.
O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?
An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi’ a claute o’ siller,
And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller.
II.
The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu’, bleerit knurl;
She’s left the guid-fellow and ta’en the churl.
III.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi’ matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi’ a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.
IV.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen’
A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!