No More Learning

[Cromek found these characteristic lines among the poet's papers. ]


There's naethin like the honest nappy!
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy,
Or women, sonsie, saft an' sappy,
'Tween morn an' morn
As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn?

I've seen me daezt upon a time;
I scarce could wink or see a styme;
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime,
Ought less is little,
Then back I rattle on the rhyme,
As gleg's a whittle.

* * * * *




LXXVIII.

ON THE BLANK LEAF

OF A

WORK BY HANNAH MORE.

PRESENTED BY MRS C----.


Thou flattering work of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor;
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart,
Does both the sexes honour.
She showed her taste refined and just,
When she selected thee,
Yet deviating, own I must,
For so approving me!
But kind still, I'll mind still
The giver in the gift;
I'll bless her, and wiss her
A Friend above the Lift.

_Mossgiel, April_, 1786.

* * * * *




LXXIX.

TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN

OF THE

MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLTON.


Within your dear mansion may wayward contention
Or withering envy ne'er enter:
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.

_Edinburgh_, 23 _August_, 1787.

* * * * *




LXXX.

IMPROMPTU.

[The tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of
Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now
among the treasures of Abbotsford. ]


You're welcome, Willie Stewart,
You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.

My foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it,
May woman on him turn her back,
That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart.

* * * * *




LXXXI.

PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR.

[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785, the maid-servant of an
innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers
delicately call "the deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the
poet's bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a
rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through the
village, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood: an unpleasant
ceremony, vulgarly called "Riding the Stang. " This was resented by
Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress; law was restored
to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not
venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these
home-comings he met Burns who laughed when he heard the story, and
said, "You have need of some one to pray for you. " "No one can do that
better than yourself," was the reply, and this humorous intercession
was made on the instant, and, as it is said, "clean off loof. " From
Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told
the story in which the prayer originated. ]


Lord, pity me, for I am little,
An elf of mischief and of mettle,
That can like ony wabster's shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-whittle,
I'm unco queer.

Lord pity now our waefu' case,
For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace,
Because we stang'd her through the place,
'Mang hundreds laughin',
For which we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.

And now we're dern'd in glens and hallows,
And hunted as was William Wallace,
By constables, those blackguard fellows,
And bailies baith,
O Lord, preserve us frae the gallows!
That cursed death.

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel',
O shake him ewre the mouth o' hell,
And let him hing and roar and yell,
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel
Just heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink,
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink'
Gaur Satan gie her a--e a clink
Behint his yett,
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink,
Red reeking het!

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny,
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
And waft them in th' infernal wherry,
Straught through the lake,
And gie their hides a noble curry,
Wi' oil of aik.

As for the lass, lascivious body,
She's had mischief enough already,
Weel stang'd by market, mill, and smiddie,
She's suffer'd sair;
But may she wintle in a widdie,
If she wh--re mair.

* * * * *




SONGS AND BALLADS.


[Illustration: HANDSOME NELL. ]

I.

HANDSOME NELL.

Tune. --"_I am a man unmarried. "_

["This composition," says Burns in his "Common-place Book," "was the
first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my
heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted and
uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of it was a
young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on
her. "]


I.

O once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that honour warms my breast,
I'll love my handsome Nell.

II.

As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But for a modest gracefu' mien
The like I never saw.

III.

A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e,
But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.

IV.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet,
And what is best of a',
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.

V.

She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel:
And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

VI.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

VII.

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control

* * * * *




II.

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

[Those lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a tune of his own
composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of
the air. ]


O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O;
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

* * * * *




III.

I DREAM'D I LAY.

[These melancholy verses were written when the poet was some seventeen
years old: his early days were typical of his latter. ]


I.

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Trees with aged arms were warring.
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

II.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasure I enjoy'd:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me,
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill;
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.

* * * * *




IV.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune--"_Invercald's Reel. _"

[The Tibbie who "spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was, it is said,
the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peatmoss, and
thought it became her to put on airs in consequence. ]


CHORUS.

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

I.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

II.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

III.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.

IV.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.

V.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

VI.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

VII.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark;
Ye need na look sae high.

* * * * *




V.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

Tune--"_The Weaver and his Shuttle, O. _"

["The following song," says the poet, "is a wild rhapsody, miserably
deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine
feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in
conning it over. "]


I.

My father was a farmer
Upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me,
In decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part,
Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart,
No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

Then out into the world
My course I did determine, O;
Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
yet to be great was charming, O:
My talents they were not the worst,
Nor yet my education, O;
Resolv'd was I, at least to try,
To mend my situation, O.

III.

In many a way, and vain essay,
I courted fortune's favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between,
To frustrate each endeavour, O:
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd,
Sometimes by friends forsaken, O,
And when my hope was at the top,
I still was worst mistaken, O.

IV.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last,
With fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,
And came to this conclusion, O:
The past was bad, and the future hid;
Its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour, was in my pow'r
And so I would enjoy it, O.

V.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I,
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat and broil,
And labour to sustain me, O:
To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred,
Was a match for fortune fairly, O.

VI.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor,
Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay,
In everlasting slumber, O.
No view nor care, but shun whate'er
Might breed me pain or sorrow, O:
I live to-day as well's I may,
Regardless of to-morrow, O.

VII.

But cheerful still, I am as well,
As a monarch in a palace, O,
Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down,
With all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread,
But ne'er can make it farther, O;
But, as daily bread is all I need,
I do not much regard her, O.

VIII.

When sometimes by my labour
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune
Comes gen'rally upon me, O:
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,
Or my goodnatur'd folly, O;
But come what will, I've sworn it still,
I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

IX.

All you who follow wealth and power,
With unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss,
You leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,
Or nations to adorn you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.

* * * * *




VI.

JOHN BARLEYCORN:

A BALLAD.

[Composed on the plan of an old song, of which David Laing has given
an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales. ]


I.

There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

II.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears
That no one should him wrong.

V.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His beading joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

VII.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm.
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

X.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

XI.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all--
He crush'd him 'tween the stones.

XII.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

XIII.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

XV.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

* * * * *




VII.

THE RIGS O' BARLEY.

Tune--"_Corn rigs are bonnie. "_

[Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, have each,
by the district traditions, been claimed as the heroine of this early
song. ]


I.

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:
The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
'Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,
To see me through the barley.

II.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

III.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace!
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place.
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright.
That shone that hour so clearly?
She ay shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

IV.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin';
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear;
I hae been happy thinkin':
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

* * * * *




VIII.

MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.

Tune--"_Galla-Water. "_

["My Montgomery's Peggy," says Burns, "was my deity for six or eight
months: she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant: it cost
me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair. " The young lady listened
to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an interview, and
then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another. ]


I.

Altho' my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.

II.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

III.

Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,
The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy.

* * * * *




IX.

THE MAUCHLINE LADY.

Tune--"_I had a horse, I had nae mair. _"

[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart was Jean Armour: she
loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog run across
some linen webs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he
apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this
interview the world owes some of our most impassioned strains. ]


When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was nae steady;
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A mistress still I had ay:
But when I came roun' by Mauchline town,
Not dreadin' any body,
My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.

* * * * *




X.

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.

Tune--"_The deuks dang o'er my daddy_! "

["The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, whose too early death the
poet sung in strains that will endure while the language lasts. "She
was," says Burns, "a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever
blessed a man with generous love. "]


I.

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care:
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,
I set me down wi' right good-will,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

II.

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine,
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland lassie, O.

III.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

IV.
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful Highland lassie, O.

V.

For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.

VI.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
by sacred truth and honour's band!
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

* * * * *




XI.

PEGGY.

[The heroine of this song is said to have been "Montgomery's Peggy. "]

Tune--"_I had a horse, I had nae mair. _"


I.

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.

II.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

III.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion.

IV.

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come, let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

V.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

* * * * *




XII.

THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T.

Tune--"_East nook o' Fife. _"

[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother of "Sonsie,
smirking, dear-bought Bess," a person whom the poet regarded, as he
says, both for her form and her grace. ]


I.

O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie? --
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

II.

O wha will own he did the fau't?
O wha will buy the groanin' maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca't?
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

III.

When I mount the creepie chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair,
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

IV.

Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will make me fidgin' fain?
Wha will kiss me o'er again? --
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't.

* * * * *




XIII.

MY HEART WAS ANCE.

Tune--"_To the weavers gin ye go. _"

["The chorus of this song," says Burns, in his note to the Museum, "is
old, the rest is mine. " The "bonnie, westlin weaver lad" is said to
have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affection of a west
landlady. ]


I.

My heart was ance as blythe and free
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne'er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.

II.

My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o't
Has gart me sigh and sab.

III.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad,
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi' a net,
In every knot and thrum.

IV.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And ay I ca'd it roun';
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.

V.

The moon was sinking in the west
Wi' visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy'd me thro' the glen.

VI.

But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa' me gin I tell;
But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel's mysel.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne'er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.

* * * * *




XIV.

NANNIE.

Tune--"_My Nannie, O. _"

[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she
died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her
form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled
and said, "Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me. "]


I.

Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

II.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.

III.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

IV.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

V.

A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be?
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O.

VI.

My riches a's my penny-fee,
An' I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.

VII.

Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.

VIII.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O:
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nannie, O.

* * * * *




XV.

A FRAGMENT.

Tune--"_John Anderson my jo. _"

[This verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting
verse of a song, was found among the papers of the poet. ]


One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crooded o'er me,
That echoed thro' the braes.

* * * * *




XVI.

BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.

Tune--"_Braes o' Balquihidder. _"

[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out songs without limit. Peggy
Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery's Peggy, but
this seems doubtful. ]


CHORUS.

I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!

I.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

II.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

III.

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear, I'm thine for ever, O! --
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!

* * * * *




XVII.

THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE.

Tune--"_Green grow the rashes. _"

["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is the
last and most perfect work of nature," says an old writer, in a rare
old book: a passage which expresses the sentiment of Burns; yet it is
all but certain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with
"Cupid's Whirlygig," where these words are to be found. ]


CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

I.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

II.

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

III.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

IV.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

V.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

* * * * *




XVIII.

MY JEAN!

Tune--"_The Northern Lass. _"

[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour. ]


Though cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart,
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean

* * * * *




XIX.

ROBIN.

Tune--"_Daintie Davie. _"

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic
ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm something
which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of
her gossips. ]


I.

There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!

II.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

III.

The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof.
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we'll ca' him Robin

IV.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But ay a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit to us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

V.

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.

VI.

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar,
The bonnie lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessin's on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!

* * * * *




XX.

HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Tune--(unknown. )

[One day--it is tradition that speaks--Burns had his foot in the
stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great
beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants;
he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in
his memory. ]


Her flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew,
O, what a feast her bonnie mou'!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.

* * * * *




XXI.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

Tune--"_ Mauchline belles. _"

[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:--

"Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. "]


I.

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

II.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part--
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV.

The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;
The frank address and politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

* * * * *




XXII.

YOUNG PEGGY.

Tune--"_Last time I cam o'er the muir. _"

[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he
had, according to his own account, wasted eights months of courtship.
We hear no more of Montgomery's Peggy. ]


I.

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshone the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

II.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced them;
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is, as the evening mild,
When feather'd tribes are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.

III.

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain,
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful envy grins in vain
The poison'd tooth to fasten.

IV.

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth,
From every ill defend her;
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth,
The destinies intend her:
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom,
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.

* * * * *




XXIII.

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

Tune--"_Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern_ _let's fly. _"

[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its
socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and
those of Burns are scarcely an exception. ]


I.

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business, contriving to snare--
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

II.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

III.

Here passes the squire on his brother--his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

IV.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

V.