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The Complete Works

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.
Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d,
When first I felt their power!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.
 

LXI. TIBBIE DUNBAR

Tune—“Johnny M’Gill.”

[We owe the air of this song to one Johnny M’Gill, a fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it: and the song itself partly to Burns and partly to some unknown minstrel. They are both in the Museum.]

 
I.
O, Wilt thou go wi’ me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O, wilt thou go wi’ me,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse,
Or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side,
O, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
II.
I care na thy daddie,
His lands and his money,
I care na thy kindred,
Sae high and sae lordly:
But say thou wilt hae me
For better for waur—
And come in thy coatie,
Sweet Tibbie Dunbar!
 

LXII. STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN ORIENT PLAINS

Tune—“Morag.”

[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle: he was hurried away, much against his will, by his moody and obstinate friend William Nicol.]

 
I.
Streams that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter’s chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix’d with foulest stains
From tyranny’s empurpled bands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.
II.
Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray,
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native’s way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.
III.
Wildly here without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood;
Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle-Gordon.
 

LXIII. MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY

Tune—“Highland’s Lament.”

[“The chorus,” says Burns, “I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane: the rest of the song is mine.” He composed it for Johnson: the tone is Jacobitical.]

 
I.
My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu’ stately strode he on the plain:
But now he’s banish’d far away,
I’ll never see him back again,
O for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s land
For Highland Harry back again.
II.
When a’ the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And ay I wish him back again.
III.
O were some villains hangit high.
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu’ sight,
My Highland Harry back again.
O for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s land
For Highland Harry back again.
 

LXIV. THE TAILOR

Tune—“The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’.”

[The second and fourth verses are by Burns, the rest is very old, the air is also very old, and is played at trade festivals and processions by the Corporation of Tailors.]

 
I.
The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’,
The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’;
The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma’,
The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’.
II.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill,
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
III.
Gie me the groat again, canny young man;
Gie me the groat again, canny young man;
The day it is short, and the night it is lang,
The dearest siller that ever I wan!
IV.
There’s somebody weary wi’ lying her lane;
There’s somebody weary wi’ lying her lane;
There’s some that are dowie, I trow would be fain
To see the bit tailor come skippin’ again.
 

LXV. SIMMER’S A PLEASANT TIME

Tune—“Ay waukin o’.”

[Tytler and Ritson unite in considering the air of these words as one of our most ancient melodies. The first verse of the song is from the hand of Burns; the rest had the benefit of his emendations: it is to be found in the Museum.]

 
I.
Simmer’s a pleasant time,
Flow’rs of ev’ry colour;
The water rins o’er the heugh,
And I long for my true lover.
Ay waukin O,
Waukin still and wearie:
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.
II.
When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I’m eerie;
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.
III.
Lanely night comes on,
A’ the lave are sleeping;
I think on my bonnie lad
And I bleer my een with greetin’.
Ay waukin O,
Waukin still and wearie:
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.
 

LXVI. BEWARE O’ BONNIE ANN

Tune—“Ye gallants bright.”

[Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, daughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strathallan’s Lament: she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and resides in London.]

 
I.
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right,
Beware o’ bonnie Ann;
Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;
Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.
II.
Youth, grace, and love attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van:
In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonnie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enclaves the man;
Ye Gallants braw, I red you a’,
Beware of bonnie Ann!
 

LXVII. WHEN ROSY MAY

Tune—“The gardener wi’ his paidle.”

[The air of this song is played annually at the precession of the Gardeners: the title only is old; the rest is the work of Burns. Every trade had, in other days, an air of its own, and songs to correspond; but toil and sweat came in harder measures, and drove melodies out of working-men’s heads.]

 
I.
When rosy May comes in wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay green-spreading bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours—
The gard’ner wi’ his paidle
The crystal waters gently fa’;
The merry birds are lovers a’;
The scented breezes round him blaw—
The gard’ner wi’ his paidle.
II.
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro’ the dews he maun repair—
The gard’ner wi’ his paidle.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of nature’s rest,
He flies to her arms he lo’es best—
The gard’ner wi’ his paidle.
 

LXVIII. BLOOMING NELLY

Tune—“On a bank of flowers.”

[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay’s collection seems to have been in the mind of Burns when he wrote this: the words and air are in the Museum.]

 
I.
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest,
The youthful blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep opprest;
When Willie wand’ring thro’ the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued,
He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d,
And trembled where he stood.
II.
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath’d,
Were seal’d in soft repose;
Her lips still as she fragrant breath’d,
It richer dy’d the rose.
The springing lilies sweetly prest,
Wild—wanton, kiss’d her rival breast;
He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d—
His bosom ill at rest.
III.
Her robes light waving in the breeze
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace:
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole;
He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d,
And sigh’d his very soul.
IV.
As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings,
So Nelly, starting, half awake,
Away affrighted springs:
But Willie follow’d, as he should,
He overtook her in a wood;
He vow’d, he pray’d, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.
 

LXIX. THE DAY RETURNS

Tune—“Seventh of November.”

[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse, and these verses were composed in compliment to the day.]

 
I.
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d,
Ne’er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine!
II.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone I live.
When that grim foe of life below,
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.
 

LXX. MY LOVE SHE’S BUT A LASSIE YET

Tune—“Lady Bandinscoth’s Reel.”

[These verses had their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and less delicate: some of the old lines keep their place: the title is old. Both words and all are in the Musical Museum.]

 
I.
My love she’s but a lassie yet,
My love she’s but a lassie yet,
We’ll let her stand a year or twa,
Shell no be half so saucy yet.
I rue the day I sought her, O;
I rue the day I sought her, O;
Wha gets her needs na say he’s woo’d,
But he may say he’s bought her, O!
II.
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet;
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,
But here I never miss’d it yet.
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t;
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t;
The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife,
An’ could na preach for thinkin’ o’t.