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The Complete Works

CXCV. BLYTHE HAE I BEEN

Tune—“Liggeram Cosh.”

[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for whose work he wrote it, that “Blythe hae I been on yon hill,” was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley Baillie.]

 
I.
Blythe hae I been on yon hill
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free
As the breeze flew o’er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
II.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.
 

“LOGAN BRAES.”
CXCVI. LOGAN WATER

[“Have you ever, my dear sir,” says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793, “felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit.” The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.]

 
I.
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s bride!
And years synsyne hae o’er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow’ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!
II.
Again the merry month o’ May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening’s tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
III.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile:
But I, wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow’d nights and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
IV.
O wae upon you, men o’ state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry?^[142]
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
 

CXCVII. THE RED, RED ROSE

Air—“Hughie Graham.”

[There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the restorer has been. This seems the case with the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was original.]

 
I.
O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu’ May its bloom renewed.
II.
O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa’;
And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa’!
Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley’d awa by Phœbus’ light.
 

CXCVIII. BONNIE JEAN

[Jean M’Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest daughter of John M’Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the charge made against him in the West, that his beauties were not other men’s beauties. In the M’Murdo manuscript, in Burns’s handwriting, there is a well-merited compliment which has slipt out of the printed copy in Thomson:—

“Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set

In barn or byre to trouble thee.”]

 
I.
There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen,
When a’ the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
II.
And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
And ay she sang so merrilie:
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.
III.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
IV.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a’ the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
V.
He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
VI.
As in the bosom o’ the stream,
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.
VII.
And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And ay she sighs wi’ care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
VIII.
But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale of love,
Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea?
IX.
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sung sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:
X.
O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me!
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?
XI.
At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.
XII.
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush’d a sweet consent,
And love was ay between them twa.
 

CXCIX. PHILLIS THE FAIR

Tune—“Robin Adair.”

[The ladies of the M’Murdo family were graceful and beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of recording their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this song was Phyllis M’Murdo; a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request of Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his “charming pupil.” She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.]

 
I.
While larks with little wing
Fann’d the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:
Gay the sun’s golden eye
Peep’d o’er the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.
II.
In each bird’s careless song,
Glad I did share;
While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
Such thy bloom! did I say,
Phillis the fair.
III.
Down in a shady walk
Doves cooing were,
I mark’d the cruel hawk,
Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny!
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.
 

CC. HAD I A CAVE

Tune—“Robin Adair.”

[Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-adventure Burns composed this song for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agreeable and polished manners. The story of his faithless mistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793, when these words were written: the hero of the lay has been long dead; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.]

 
I.
 

 
Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves’ dashing roar;
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne’er to wake more.
II.
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air!
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o’er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there!
 

CCI. BY ALLAN STREAM

[“Bravo! say I,” exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. “It is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all the year else.” The old song of “O my love Annie’s very bonnie,” helped the muse of Burns with this lyric.]

 
I.
By Allan stream I chanced to rove
While Phœbus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready;
I listened to a lover’s sang,
And thought on youthfu’ pleasures mony:
And aye the wild wood echoes rang—
O dearly do I lo’e thee, Annie!
II.
O happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, “I’m thine for ever?”
While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow,—we ne’er should sever.
III.
The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose brae,
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, thro’ her shortening day,
Is Autumn, in her weeds o’ yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure?
 

“O WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.”
CCII. O WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU

[In one of the variations of this song the name of the heroine is Jeanie: the song itself owes some of the sentiments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale chant of the same name. “Is Whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,” Burns inquires of Thomson, “one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it.” The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus:—

“Thy Jeany will venture wi’ ye, my lad,”

and assigned this reason: “In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare.”]

 
I.
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin’ to me.
And come as ye were na comin’ to me.
II.
At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie;
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.
III.
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, tho’ jokin’ ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
IV.
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad:
Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.
 

CCIII. ADOWN WINDING NITH

[“Mr. Clarke,” says Burns to Thompson, “begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M’Murdo, sister to ‘Bonnie Jean;’ they are both pupils of his.” This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath.]

 
I.
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.
Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties,
They never wi’ her can compare:
Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis,
Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair.
II.
The daisy amus’d my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis,
For she is simplicity’s child.
III.
The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
IV.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o’ the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o’ diamond, her eye.
V.
Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove,
When Phœbus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
VI.
But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer’s day!
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties,
They never wi’ her can compare:
Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis
Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair.
 

CCIV. COME, LET ME TAKE THEE

Air—“Cauld Kail.”

[Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradition says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. “That tune, Cauld Kail,” he says to Thomson, “is such a favorite of yours, that I once roved out yesterday for a gloaming-shot at the Muses; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following.”]

 
I.
Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne’er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The warld’s wealth and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone,
That I may live to love her.
II.
Thus in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I’ll seek nae mair o’ heaven to share,
Than sic a moment’s pleasure:
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I’m thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.
 

CCV. DAINTY DAVIE

[From the old song of “Daintie Davie” Burns has borrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient strain records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecution, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the same bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cherrytrees, and other children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons produced. When and its upshot, he is said to have exclaimed, “God’s fish! that beats me and the oak: the man ought to be made a bishop.”]

 
I.
Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi’ my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I’ll spend the day wi’ you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.
II.
The crystal waters round us fa’,
The merry birds are lovers a’,
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi’ my Davie.
III.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro’ the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu’ Davie
IV.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest,
I flee to his arms I lo’e best,
And that’s my ain dear Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie,
There I’ll spend the day wi’ you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.
 

CCVI. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN

[FIRST VERSION.]

Tune—“Hey, tuttie taitie.”

[Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was composed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives an account much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson, he says, “There is a tradition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the royal Scot’s address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning.” It was written in September, 1793.]

 
I.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
II.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour:
See approach proud Edward’s pow’r—
Chains and slaverie!
III.
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave!
Let him turn and flee!
IV.
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
V.
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
VI.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!—
Let us do or die!
 

CCVII. BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY

[SECOND VERSION.]

[Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial and national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more in every fourth line, which loaded the verse with expletives, and weakened the simple energy of the original: Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of Bruce’s day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. “The only line,” says the musician, “which I dislike in the whole song is,

‘Welcome to your gory bed:’

gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and a prudent general would avoid saying anything to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is.” “My ode,” replied Burns, “pleases me so much that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame.” Thomson cries out, like the timid wife of Coriolanus, “Oh, God, no blood!” while Burns exclaims, like that Roman’s heroic mother, “Yes, blood! it becomes a soldier more than gilt his trophy.” The ode as originally written was restored afterwards in Thomson’s collection.]

 
I.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie!
II.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour—
See the front o’ battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Edward! chains and slaverie!
III.
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
IV.
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
Caledonian! on wi’ me!
V.
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be—shall be free!
VI.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward! let us do, or die!
 

CCVIII. BEHOLD THE HOUR

Tune—“Oran-gaoil.”

[“The following song I have composed for the Highland air that you tell me in your last you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint.” These are the words of Burns to Thomson: he might have added that the song was written on the meditated voyage of Clarinda to the West Indies, to join her husband.]

 
I.
Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!
Sever’d from thee can I survive?
But fate has will’d, and we must part.
I’ll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail:
“E’en here I took the last farewell;
There, latest mark’d her vanish’d sail.”
II.
Along the solitary shore
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I’ll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian grove, I’ll say,
Where now my Nancy’s path may be!
While thro’ thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me?
 

CCIX. THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER

Tune—“Fee him, father.”

[“I do not give these verses,” says Burns to Thomson, “for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which ‘Patie Allan’s mither died, about the back o’ midnight,’ and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, except the hautbois and the muse.” To the poet’s intercourse with musicians we owe some fine songs.]

 
I.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie!
Thou hast left me ever;
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie!
Thou hast left me ever.
Aften hast thou vow’d that death
Only should us sever;
Now thou’s left thy lass for ay—
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
I’ll see thee never!
II.
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie!
Thou hast me forsaken;
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie!
Thou hast me forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo,
While my heart is breaking:
Soon my weary een I’ll close,
Never mair to waken, Jamie,
Ne’er mair to waken!
 

CCX. AULD LANG SYNE

[“Is not the Scotch phrase,” Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, “Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment.” “The following song,” says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, “an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air.” These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than “minstrel Burns.”]

 
I.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
II.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’t the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
III.
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,
Frae mornin’ sun till dine:
But seas between us braid hae roar’d,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
IV.
And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll take a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.
V.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!