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The Complete Works

CCXI. FAIR JEANY

Tune—“Saw ye my father?”

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. “Of the poetry,” he says, “I speak with confidence: but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence.”]

 
I.
Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc’d to the lark’s early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring,
At evening the wild woods among?
II.
No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow’rets so fair:
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.
III.
Is it that summer’s forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no, the bees’ humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
IV.
Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.
V.
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.
 

CCXII. DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE

[To the air of the “Collier’s dochter,” Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]

 
I.
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure—
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.
II.
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds uncertain motion—
They are but types of woman.
III.
O! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.
IV.
Go find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee:
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.
 

CCXIII. NANCY

[This song was inspired by the charms of Clarinda. In one of the poet’s manuscripts the song commences thus:

 
Thine am I, my lovely Kate,
Well thou mayest discover
Every pulse along my veins
Tell the ardent lover.
 

This change was tried out of compliment, it is believed, to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyrical verse than Kate.]

 
I.
Thine am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev’ry pulse along my veins,
Ev’ry roving fancy.
II.
To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish:
Tho’ despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.
III.
Take away those rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure:
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.
IV.
What is life when wanting love?
Night without a morning:
Love’s the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.
 

CCXIV. HUSBAND, HUSBAND

Tune—“Jo Janet.”

[“My Jo Janet,” in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the poet’s eye when he composed this song, as surely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old minstrels were in his mind. He desires Thomson briefly to tell him how he likes these verses: the response of the musician was, “Inimitable.”]

 
I.
Husband, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho’ I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir.
“One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy?”
II.
If ’tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I’ll desert my sov’reign lord,
And so, good bye, allegiance!
“Sad will I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy;
Yet I’ll try to make a shift,
My spouse, Nancy.”
III.
My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I’m near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think, how you will bear it.
“I will hope and trust in heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse, Nancy.”
IV.
Well, sir, from the silent dead,
Still I’ll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.
“I’ll wed another, like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy.”
 

CCXV. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE

Air—“The Sutor’s Dochter.”

[Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, of Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in the south of Scotland.]

 
I.
Wilt thou be my dearie?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul,
That’s the love I bear thee!
I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.
II.
Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
Or if thou wilt no be my ain,
Say na thou’lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,
Thou, for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me.
 

CCXVI. BUT LATELY SEEN

Tune—“The winter of life.”

[This song was written for Johnson’s Museum, in 1794: the air is East Indian: it was brought from Hindostan by a particular friend of the poet. Thomson set the words to the air of Gil Morrice: they are elsewhere set to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.]

 
I.
But lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoiced the day;
Thro’ gentle showers and laughing flowers,
In double pride were gay:
But now our joys are fled
On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a’.
II.
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in Time’s wintry rage.
Oh! age has weary days,
And nights o’ sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o’ youthfu’ prime,
Why comes thou not again?
 

CCXVII. TO MARY

Tune—“Could aught of song.”

[These verses, inspired partly by Hamilton’s very tender and elegant song,

 
“Ah! the poor shepherd’s mournful fate,”
and some unrecorded “Mary” of the poet’s heart, is in the latter volumes of Johnson. “It is inserted in Johnson’s Museum,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “with the name of Burns attached.” He might have added that it was sent by Burns, written with his own hand.]
I.
Could aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,
The muse should tell, in labour’d strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!
They who but feign a wounded heart
May teach the lyre to languish;
But what avails the pride of art,
When wastes the soul with anguish?
II.
Then let the sudden bursting sigh
The heart-felt pang discover;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read th’ imploring lover.
For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art’s gay disguising;
Beyond what Fancy e’er refin’d,
The voice of nature prizing.
 

CCXVIII. HERE’S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS

Tune—“Laggan Burn.”

[“This song is in the Musical Museum, with Burns’s name to it,” says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of the poet’s early days, which he trimmed up, and sent to Johnson.]

 
I.
Here’s to thy health, my bonnie lass,
Gude night, and joy be wi’ thee;
I’ll come na mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo’e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care
How lang ye look about ye.
II.
Thou’rt ay sae free informing me
Thou hast na mind to marry;
I’ll be as free informing thee
Nae time hae I to tarry.
I ken thy friends try ilka means,
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance—
But fortune may betray thee.
III.
I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
But I’m as free as any he,
Sma’ siller will relieve me.
I count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae long as I’ll enjoy it:
I’ll fear na scant, I’ll bode nae want,
As lang’s I get employment.
IV.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And ay until ye try them:
Tho’ they seem fair, still have a care,
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I’ll come and see thee;
For the man that lo’es his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.
 

CCXIX. THE FAREWELL

Tune—“It was a’ for our rightfu’ king.”

[“It seems very doubtful,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “how much, even if any part of this song was written by Burns: it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with his name.” Burns, it is believed, rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain entirely. Johnson received it from him in his own handwriting.]

 
I.
It was a’ for our rightfu’ king,
We left fair Scotland’s strand;
It was a’ for our rightfu’ king
We e’er saw Irish land,
My dear;
We e’er saw Irish land.
II.
Now a’ is done that men can do,
And a’ is done in vain;
My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear;
For I maun cross the main.
III.
He turn’d him right, and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear;
With adieu for evermore.
IV.
The sodger from the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear;
Never to meet again
V.
When day is gane, and night is come,
And a’ folk bound to sleep;
I think on him that’s far awa’,
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear;
The lee-lang night, and weep.
 

CCXX. O STEER HER UP

Tune—“O steer her up, and haud her gaun.”

[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the Museum.]

 
I.
O steer her up and haud her gaun—
Her mother’s at the mill, jo;
And gin she winna take a man,
E’en let her take her will, jo:
First shore her wi’ a kindly kiss,
And ca’ another gill, jo,
And gin she take the thing amiss,
E’en let her flyte her fill, jo.
II.
O steer her up, and be na blate,
An’ gin she take it ill, jo,
Then lea’e the lassie till her fate,
And time nae longer spill, jo:
Ne’er break your heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still, jo,
That gin the lassie winna do’t,
Ye’ll fin’ anither will, jo.
 

CCXXI. O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME

Tune—“My wife she dang me.”

[Other verses to the same air, belonging to the olden times, are still remembered in Scotland: but they are only sung when the wine is in, and the sense of delicacy out. This song is in the Museum.]

 
I.
O ay my wife she dang me,
And aft my wife did bang me,
If ye gie a woman a’ her will,
Gude faith, she’ll soon o’er-gang ye.
On peace and rest my mind was bent,
And fool I was I married;
But never honest man’s intent,
As cursedly miscarried.
II.
Some sairie comfort still at last,
When a’ their days are done, man;
My pains o’ hell on earth are past,
I’m sure o’ bliss aboon, man.
O ay my wife she dang me,
And aft my wife did bang me,
If ye gie a woman a’ her will,
Gude faith, she’ll soon o’er-gang ye.
 

CCXXII. OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

Tune—“Lass o’ Livistone.”

[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars, the Jessie of the poet’s death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thomson’s collection: variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are neither important nor curious.]

 
I.
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
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,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
II.
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.
 

CCXXIII. HERE IS THE GLEN

Tune—“Banks of Cree.”

[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the following account. “I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls ‘The Banks of Cree.’ Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it.”]

 
I.
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour—
O what can stay my lovely maid?
II.
’Tis not Maria’s whispering call;
’Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mix’d with some warbler’s dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
III.
It is Maria’s voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer,
At once ’tis music—and ’tis love.
IV.
And art thou come? and art thou true?
O welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flow’ry banks of Cree.
 

CCXXIV. ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY

Tune—“O’er the hills,” &c.

[“The last evening,” 29th of August, 1794, “as I was straying out,” says Burns, “and thinking of ‘O’er the hills and far away,’ I spun the following stanzas for it. I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness.”]

 
I.
How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad?
How can I the thought forego,
He’s on the seas to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love:
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
Are with him that’s far away.
On the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
Are ay with him that’s far away.
II.
When in summer’s noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor’s thund’ring at his gun:
Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may—
Spare but him that’s far away!
III.
At the starless midnight hour,
When winter rules with boundless power:
As the storms the forests tear,
And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can—I weep and pray,
For his weal that’s far away.
IV.
Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet:
Then may heaven with prosp’rous gales,
Fill my sailor’s welcome sails,
To my arms their charge convey—
My dear lad that’s far away.
On the seas and far away
On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
Are ay with him that’s far away.
 

CCXXV. CA’ THE YOWES

[Burns formed this song upon an old lyric, an amended version of which he had previously communicated to the Museum: he was fond of musing in the shadow of Lincluden towers, and on the banks of Cluden Water.]

 
I.
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather growes,
Ca’ them whare the burnie rowes—
My bonnie dearie!
Hark the mavis’ evening sang
Sounding Cluden’s woods amang!
Then a faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.
II.
We’ll gae down by Cluden side,
Thro’ the hazels spreading wide,
O’er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
III.
Yonder Cluden’s silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O’er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance so cheery.
IV.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou’rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
V.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die—but canna part—
My bonnie dearie!
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather growes;
Ca’ them where the burnie rowes—
My bonnie dearie!
 

CCXXVI. SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A’

Tune—“Onagh’s Waterfall.”

[The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been noticed: she is described in this song with the accuracy of a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one: it is needless to add her name, or to say how fine her form and how resistless her smiles.]

 
I.
Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o’er-arching
Twa laughin’ een o’ bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling,
Wad make a wretch forget his woe;
What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto these rosy lips to grow:
Such was my Chloris’ bonnie face,
When first her bonnie face I saw;
And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm,
She says she lo’es me best of a’.
II.
Like harmony her motion;
Her pretty ankle is a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad mak a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and gracefu’ air;
Ilk feature—auld Nature
Declar’d that she could do nae mair:
Hers are the willing chains o’ love,
By conquering beauty’s sovereign law;
And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm,
She says she lo’es me best of a’.
III.
Let others love the city,
And gaudy show at sunny noon;
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve, and rising moon;
Fair beaming, and streaming,
Her silver light the boughs amang;
While falling, recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes his sang;
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o’ truth and love,
And say thou lo’es me best of a’?
 

CCXXVII. SAW YE MY PHELY

[QUASI DICAT PHILLIS.]

Tune—“When she came ben she bobbit.”

[The despairing swain in this song was Stephen Clarke, musician, and the young lady whom he persuaded Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness was Phillis M’Murdo.]

 
I.
O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’ a new love!
She winna come hame to her Willy.
II.
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.
III.
O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely!
O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair,
Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy Willy.
 

CCXXVIII. HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT

Tune—“Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”

[On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former has more of elegance and order: the latter quite as much nature and truth: but there is less of the new than of the old in both.]

 
I.
How lang and dreary is the night,
When I am frae my dearie;
I restless lie frae e’en to morn,
Though I were ne’er sae weary.
For oh! her lanely nights are lang;
And oh! her dreams are eerie;
And oh, her widow’d heart is sair,
That’s absent frae her dearie.
II.
When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi’ thee my dearie;
And now what seas between us roar—
How can I be but eerie?
III.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;
The joyless day how dreary!
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi’ my dearie.
For oh! her lanely nights are lang;
And oh, her dreams are eerie;
And oh, her widow’d heart is sair,
That’s absent frae her dearie.
 

CCXXIX. LET NOT WOMAN E’ER COMPLAIN

Tune—“Duncan Gray.”

[“These English songs,” thus complains the poet, in the letter which conveyed this lyric to Thomson, “gravel me to death: I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at ‘Duncan Gray,’ to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:”]

 
I.
Let not woman e’er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e’er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove:
Look abroad through nature’s range,
Nature’s mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange,
Man should then a monster prove?
II.
Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow:
Sun find moon but set to rise,
Round and round the seasons go:
Why then ask of silly man
To oppose great nature’s plan?
We’ll be constant while we can—
You can be no more, you know.
 

CCXXX. THE LOVER’S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS

Tune—“Deil tak the Wars.”

[Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by sitting till the dawn at the punch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home.]

 
I.
Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy Morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which nature
Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy:
Now through the leafy woods,
And by the reeking floods,
Wild nature’s tenants freely, gladly stray;
The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o’er the breathing flower;
The lav’rock to the sky
Ascends wi’ sangs o’ joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
II.
Phœbus gilding the brow o’ morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,
The murky shades o’ care
With starless gloom o’ercast my sullen sky;
But when, in beauty’s light,
She meets my ravish’d sight,
When thro’ my very heart
Her beaming glories dart—
’Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.
 

CCXXXI. CHLORIS

Air—“My lodging is on the cold ground.”

[The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thomson. “On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.” The poetic elevation of Chloris is great: she lived, when her charms faded, in want, and died all but destitute.]

 
I.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair:
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair.
II.
The lav’rock shuns the palace gay,
And o’er the cottage sings;
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings
III.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string
In lordly lighted ha’:
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw.
IV.
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi’ scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white thorn?
V.
The shepherd, in the flow’ry glen,
In shepherd’s phrase will woo:
The courtier tells a finer tale—
But is his heart as true?
VI.
These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck
That spotless breast o’ thine:
The courtier’s gems may witness love—
But ’tis na love like mine.