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The Complete Works

CCXLVII. O TELL NA ME O’ WIND AND RAIN

[The poet’s thoughts, as rendered in the lady’s answer, are, at all events, not borrowed from the sentiments expressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song CCXXXVII.; there she is tender and forgiving: here she in stern and cold.]

 
I.
O tell na me o’ wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain!
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,
And ance for a’ this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo!
II.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand’rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That’s trusted faithless man, jo.
III.
The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed:
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
IV.
The bird that charm’d his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler’s prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate’s the same, jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a’ this ae night,
I winna let you in jo!
 

CCXLVIII. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS

Tune—“Push about the jorum.”

[This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had been at a public meeting, where he was less joyous than usual: as something had been expected from him, he made these verses, when he went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor of the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kindness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now before me.]

 
I.
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There’s wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
II.
O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap come in an unco loon
And wi’ a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
III.
The kettle o’ the kirk and state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in’t;
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t.
Our fathers’ bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.
IV.
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing, “God save the King,”
Shall hang as high’s the steeple;
But while we sing, “God save the King,”
We’ll ne’er forget the people.
 

CCXLIX. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK

Tune—“Where’ll bonnie Ann lie.”

[The old song to the same air is yet remembered: but the humour is richer than the delicacy; the same may be said of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.]

 
I.
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!
Nor quit for me the trembling spray;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.
II.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that would touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining.
III.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe could wauken.
IV.
Thou tells o’ never-ending care;
O’ speechless grief and dark despair:
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!
 

CCL. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL

Tune—“Ay wakin’, O.”

[An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance.

Ay waking, oh,

Waking ay and weary;

Sleep I canna get

For thinking o’ my dearie.]

 
I.
Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul’s delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care?
Can I cease to languish?
While my darling fair
Is on the couch of anguish?
II.
Every hope is fled,
Every fear is terror;
Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.
III.
Hear me, Pow’rs divine!
Oh, in pity hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me!
Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul’s delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
 

CCLI. CALEDONIA

Tune—“Humours of Glen.”

[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with his personal attachments, and in few more beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson the heroine was Mrs. Burns.]

 
I.
Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green brockan,
Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
II.
Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?—The haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love’s willing fetters, the chains o’ his Jean.
 

CCLII. ’TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN

Tune—“Laddie, lie near me.”

[Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her name: yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that Jean Lorimer was the heroine.]

 
I.
’Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin;
Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoing:
’Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
’Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o’ kindness.
II.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me!
But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
III.
Mary, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest!
And thou’rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
 

CCLIII. HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS

Tune—“John Anderson, my jo.”

[“I am at this moment,” says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, “holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are.” Yet there is less than the poet’s usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.]

 
I.
How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And, to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father’s hate,
Become a wretched wife.
II.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin
Awhile her pinions tries:
Till of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet!
 

CCLIV. MARK YONDER POMP

Tune—“Deil tak the wars.”

[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. “You see,” said he, “how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual.” This strain in honour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.]

 
I.
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compar’d with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish’d jewel’s blaze
May draw the wond’ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.
II.
But did you see my dearest Chloris
In simplicity’s array;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day;
O then the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In Love’s delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world’s imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny
His worship’d deity,
And feel thro’ every vein Love’s raptures roll.
 

CCLV. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE

Tune—“This is no my ain house.”

[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the happiest modern songs. When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the “fair dame at whose shrine,” he said, “I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus.”]

 
I.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho’ the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e’e.
I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.
II.
She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And ay it charms my very saul,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.
III.
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a’ unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers’ een,
When kind love is in the e’e.
IV.
It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that’s in her e’e.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho’ the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e’e.
 

CCLVI. NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM

[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet’s friend, Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,

“Had I a cave on some wild distant shore.”]

 
I.
Now spring has clad the grove in green,
And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers:
The furrow’d waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe?
II.
The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler’s art:
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi’ unrelenting beam,
Has scorch’d my fountains dry.
III.
The little flow’ret’s peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine; till love has o’er me past,
And blighted a’ my bloom,
And now beneath the with’ring blast
My youth and joy consume.
IV.
The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings
In morning’s rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow’s power,
Until the flow’ry snare
O’ witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o’ care.
V.
O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric’s burning zone,
Wi’ man and nature leagu’d my foes,
So Peggy ne’er I’d known!
The wretch whase doom is, “hope nae mair.”
What tongue his woes can tell!
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
 

CCLVII. O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER

[To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.]

 
I.
O Bonnie was yon rosy brier,
That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man,
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear!
It shaded frae the e’enin sun.
II.
Yon rosebuds in the morning dew
How pure, amang the leaves sae green:
But purer was the lover’s vow
They witness’d in their shade yestreen.
III.
All in its rude and prickly bower,
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair!
But love is far a sweeter flower
Amid life’s thorny path o’ care.
IV.
The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,
Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine;
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.
 

CCLVIII. FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR

Tune—“Let me in this ae night.”

[“How do you like the foregoing?” Burns asks Thomson, after having copies this song for his collection. “I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom?”]

 
I.
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love
II.
Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
III.
Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part,
To poison Fortune’s ruthless dart,
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
IV.
But dreary tho’ the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.
 

CCLIX. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

Tune—“The Lothian Lassie.”

[“Gateslack,” says Burns to Thomson, “is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Lowther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire: Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground.” To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Waverley finds Old Mortality repairing the Cameronian grave-stones.]

 
I.
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi’m, to believe, believe me,
The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me!
II.
He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow’d for my love, he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!
III.
A weel-stocked mailen—himsel’ for the laird—
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d,
But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
IV.
But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less—
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
V.
But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.
VI.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.
VII.
I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recovered her hearin’,
And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’.
VIII.
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow;
So, e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to morrow.
 

CCLX. CHLORIS

Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s Delight.”

[“I am at present,” says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these verses, “quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare—such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it.” This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris.]

 
I.
Why, why tell thy lover,
Bliss he never must enjoy:
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes the lie?
II.
O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?
 

CCLXI. THE HIGHLAND WIDOW’S LAMENT

[This song is said to be Burns’s version of a Gaelic lament for the ruin which followed the rebellion of the year 1745: he sent it to the Museum.]

 
I.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,
To buy a meal to me.
II.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.
III.
For then I had a score o’ kye,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,
And giving milk to me.
IV.
And there I had three score o’ yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo’ to me.
V.
I was the happiest of a’ the clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.
VI.
Till Charlie Stewart cam’ at last,
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald’s arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.
VII.
Their waefu’ fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yield:
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden’s field.
VIII.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the world wide
Sae wretched now as me.
 

CCLXII. TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR

[Burns wrote this “Welcome” on the unexpected defection of General Dumourier.]

 
I.
You’re welcome to despots, Dumourier;
You’re welcome to despots, Dumourier;
How does Dampiere do?
Aye, and Bournonville, too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
II.
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I’ll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.
III.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till freedom’s spark is out,
Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt, Dumourier.
 

CCLXIII. PEG-A-RAMSEY

Tune—“Cauld is the e’enin blast.”

[Most of this song is old: Burns gave it a brushing for the Museum.]

 
I.
Cauld is the e’enin’ blast
O’ Boreas o’er the pool,
And dawin’ it is dreary
When birks are bare at Yule.
II.
O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.
III.
Ne’er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o’er the hill,
But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.
 

CCLXIV. THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS

[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum.]

 
I.
There was a bonnie lass,
And a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And she lo’ed her bonnie laddie dear;
Till war’s loud alarms
Tore her laddie frae her arms,
Wi’ mony a sigh and tear.
II.
Over sea, over shore,
Where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a stranger to fear;
And nocht could him quell,
Or his bosom assail,
But the bonnie lass he lo’ed sae dear.
 

CCLXV. O MALLY’S MEEK, MALLY’S SWEET

[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Museum.]

 
I.
O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet,
Mally’s modest and discreet,
Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair,
Mally’s every way complete.
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc’d to meet;
But O the road was very hard
For that fair maiden’s tender feet.
II.
It were mair meet that those fine feet
Were weel lac’d up in silken shoon,
And ’twere more fit that she should sit,
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
III.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet,
Mally’s modest and discreet,
Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair,
Mally’s every way complete.
 

CCLXVI. HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER

Tune—“Balinamona Ora.”

[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as part of the poet’s contribution to the Irish melodies: he calls it “a kind of rhapsody.”]

 
I.
Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
II.
Your beauty’s a flower, in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes.
III.
And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o’ beauty may cloy when possest;
But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest,
The langer ye hae them—the mair they’re carest.
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
 

CCLXVII. JESSY

Tune—“Here’s a health to them that’s awa.”

[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortality can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded.]

 
I.
Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear;
Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!
II.
Altho’ thou maun never be mine,
Altho’ even hope is denied;
’Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Then aught in the world beside—Jessy!
III.
I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms:
But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy!
IV.
I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love rolling e’e;
But why urge the tender confession
‘Gainst fortune’s fell cruel decree?—Jessy!
Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear;
Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!