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The Complete Works

CCXXXII. CHLOE

Air—“Daintie Davie.”

[Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of his collection, took the liberty of bestowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ramsay’s miscellany: the bombast is abated, and the whole much improved.]

 
I.
It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay,
One morning, by the break of day,
The youthful charming Chloe
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o’er the flowery mead she goes,
The youthful charming Chloe.
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
The youthful charming Chloe.
II.
The feather’d people you might see,
Perch’d all around, on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
They hail the charming Chloe;
Till painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall’d by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.
 

CCXXXIII. LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

Tune—“Rothemurche’s Rant.”

[“Conjugal love,” says the poet, “is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul.” It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasons for his rapture about Jean Lorimer.]

 
I.
Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie, O?
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a’ is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joy wi’ me,
And say thoul’t be my dearie, O?
II.
And when the welcome simmer shower
Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower,
We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie, O.
III.
When Cynthia lights wi’ silver ray,
The weary shearer’s hameward way;
Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray,
And talk o’ love my dearie, O.
IV.
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu’ breast,
I’ll comfort thee, my dearie, O.
Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks?
Wilt thou be my dearie, O?
 

CCXXXIV. FAREWELL, THOU STREAM

Air—“Nancy’s to the greenwood gane.”

[This song was written in November, 1794: Thomson pronounced it excellent.]

 
I.
Farewell, thou stream that winding flows
Around Eliza’s dwelling!
O mem’ry! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling:
Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain,
And yet in secret languish,
To feel a fire in ev’ry vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.
II.
Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover;
The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.
I know thou doom’st me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer—
For pity’s sake forgive me!
III.
The music of thy voice I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav’d me;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d,
’Till fears no more had sav’d me:
The unwary sailor thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing;
‘Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.
 

CCXXXV. O PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY

Tune-“The Sow’s Tail.”

[“This morning” (19th November, 1794), “though a keen blowing frost,” Burns writes to Thomson, “in my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old.”]

 
He.
O Philly, happy be that day,
When roving through the gather’d hay,
My youthfu’ heart was stown away,
And by thy charms, my Philly.
She.
O Willy, ay I bless the grove
Where first I own’d my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above,
To be my ain dear Willy.
He.
As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.
She.
As on the brier the budding rose
Still richer breathes and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom grows
The love I bear my Willy.
He.
The milder sun and bluer sky
That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy,
Were ne’er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o’ Philly.
She.
The little swallow’s wanton wing,
Tho’ wafting o’er the flowery spring,
Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring,
As meeting o’ my Willy.
He.
The bee that thro’ the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar’d wi’ my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o’ Philly.
She.
The woodbine in the dewy weet
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss o’ Willy.
He.
Let Fortune’s wheel at random rin,
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win
My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane,
And that’s my ain dear Philly.
She.
What’s a’ joys that gowd can gie?
I care nae wealth a single flie;
The lad I love’s the lad for me,
And that’s my ain dear Willy.
 

CCXXXVI. CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE

Tune—“Lumps o’ Pudding.”

[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. “Todlin Hame” he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and “Andro wi’ his cutty Gun,” the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, “Contented wi’ Little.”]

 
I.
Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow end care,
I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin alang,
Wi’ a cog o’ guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
II.
I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
III.
A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’,
A night o’ guid fellowship sowthers it a’:
When at the blithe end o’ our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past?
IV.
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain;
My warst word is—“Welcome, and welcome again!”
 

CCXXXVII. CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS

Tune—“Roy’s Wife.”

[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, “Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my quantum of applause from somebody.” The poet in this song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady replied in a strain equally tender and forgiving.]

 
I.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know’st my aching heart—
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
In this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain’s reward—
An aching, broken heart, my Katy!
II.
Farewell! and ne’er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!
Thou may’st find those will love thee dear—
But not a love like mine, my Katy!
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?
Well thou know’st my aching heart—
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
 

CCXXXVIII. MY NANNIE’S AWA

Tune—“There’ll never be peace.”

[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edinburgh: on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beautifully says, “The wine-cup shines in light,” he seldom forgot to toast Mrs. Mac.]

 
I.
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw;
But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa!
II.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nanny’s awa!
III.
Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o’ the gray-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa’,
Give over for pity—my Nannie’s awa!
IV.
Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me with tidings o’ nature’s decay:
The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw,
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa!
 

CCXXXIX. O WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME

Tune—“Morag.”

[“This song,” says Sir Harris Nicolas, “is said, in Thomson’s collection, to have been written for that work by Burns: but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham’s edition.” If sir Harris would be so good as to look at page 245; vol. V., of Cunningham’s edition of Burns, he will find the song; and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 of vol. III., of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed the error of which he accuses his fellow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II,. and at page 189, vol. III., and of “Ae day a braw wooer came down the lang glen,” which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., and at page 183 of vol, III.]

 
I.
O wha is she that lo’es me,
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that lo’es me,
As dews of simmer weeping,
In tears the rosebuds steeping!
O that’s the lassie of my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that’s the queen of womankind,
And ne’er a ane to peer her.
II.
If thou shalt meet a lassie
In grace and beauty charming,
That e’en thy chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast sae warming
Had ne’er sic powers alarming.
III.
If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,
But her by thee is slighted,
And thou art all delighted.
IV.
If thou hast met this fair one;
When frae her thou hast parted,
If every other fair one,
But her, thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted;
O that’s the lassie o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that’s the queen o’ womankind,
And ne’er a ane to peer her.
 

CCXL. CALEDONIA

Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s Delight.”

[There is both knowledge of history and elegance of allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed by Currie.]

 
I.
There was once a day—but old Time then was young—
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:
Her heav’nly relations there fixed her reign,
And pledg’d her their godheads to warrant it good.
II.
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew;
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore
“Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!”
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her fav’rite resort,
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.
III.
Long quiet she reign’d; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria’s strand:
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken’d the air, and they plunder’d the land:
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They’d conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly—
The daring invaders they fled or they died.
IV.
The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian boar issu’d forth
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore;
O’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d,
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d,
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.
V.
The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose,
And robb’d him at once of his hope and his life:
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,
Oft prowling, ensanguin’d the Tweed’s silver flood:
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,
He learned to fear in his own native wood.
VI.
Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;
I’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we’ll choose,
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;
But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse;
Then ergo, she’ll match them, and match them always.
 

CCXLI. O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS

Tune—“Cordwainer’s March.”

[The air to which these verses were written, is commonly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin’s day. Burns sent it to the Museum.]

 
I.
O lay thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine, lass;
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.
A slave to love’s unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me meikle wae;
But now he is my deadly fae,
Unless thou be my ain.
II.
There’s monie a lass has broke my rest,
That for a blink I hae lo’ed best;
But thou art queen within my breast,
For ever to remain.
O lay thy loof in mine, lass,
In mine, lass, in mine, lass;
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.
 

CCXLII. THE FETE CHAMPETRE

Tune—“Killiecrankie.”

[Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Enterkin, to the public. Tents were erected on the banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn with flowers, most of the names of note in the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among the “Commons,” poured out his wine in vain.]

 
I.
O wha will to Saint Stephen’s house,
To do our errands there, man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen’s house,
O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man-o’-law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’
The meikle Ursa-Major?
II.
Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o’ lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,
Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, man?
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;
Anbank, wha guess’d the ladies’ taste,
He gies a Fête Champêtre.
III.
When Love and Beauty heard the news,
The gay green-woods amang, man;
Where gathering flowers and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird’s sang, man;
A vow, they seal’d it with a kiss,
Sir Politicks to fetter,
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss
To hold a Fête Champêtre.
IV.
Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing,
O’er hill and dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:
She summon’d every social sprite
That sports by wood or water,
On th’ bonny banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête Champêtre.
V.
Cauld Boreas, wi’ his boisterous crew,
Were bound to stakes like kye, man;
And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’,
Clamb up the starry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals thro’ the trees,
To view this Fête Champêtre.
VI.
How many a robe sae gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony’s enchanting notes,
As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam’s yett,
To hold their Fête Champêtre.
VII.
When Politics came there, to mix
And make his ether-stane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man:
He blush’d for shame, he quat his name,
Forswore it, every letter,
Wi’ humble prayer to join and share
This festive Fête Champêtre.
 

CCXLIII. HERE’S A HEALTH

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

[The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox; Tammie was Lord Erskine; and M’Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these verses.]

 
I.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa;
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!
It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It’s guid to be honest and true,
It’s good to support Caldonia’s cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.
II.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to Charlie the chief of the clan,
Altho’ that his band be sma’.
May liberty meet wi’ success!
May prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,
And wander their way to the devil!
III.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa;
Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,
That lives at the lug o’ the law!
Here’s freedom to him that wad read,
Here’s freedom to him that wad write!
There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard,
But they wham the truth wad indite.
IV.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s Chieftain M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho’ bred amang mountains o’ snaw!
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa;
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!
 

CCXLIV. IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY

Tune—“For a’ that, and a’ that.”

[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the natural right of his species. He modestly says to Thomson, “I do not give you this song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.” Thomson took the song, but hazarded no praise.]

 
I.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that!
II.
What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man, for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, and a’ that;
The honest man, though e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that!
III.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d—a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
IV.
A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that,
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher ranks than a’ that.
V.
Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—
That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
It’s comin’ yet for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!
 

CCXLV. CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD

[Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson: the heroine was Jean Lorimer. How often the blooming looks and elegant forms of very indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.]

 
I.
Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow;
But a’ the pride o’ spring’s return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
II.
I see the flowers and spreading trees
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing?
III.
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
IV.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shall love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they’ll wither.
 

CCXLVI. O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET

Tune—“Let me in this ae night.”

[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed this song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyric, of more spirit than decorum.]

 
I.
O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet,
Or art thou waking, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!
II.
Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet!
Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet:
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
III.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s;
The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!