But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; The rosebud 's the blush o' my charmer, And whispered thus his tale o' love :- How fair and how pure is the lily, 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. The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery through her shortening day Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless plea sure, Or through each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. [This was no more than a skilful transformation by Burns into pure English of a vapid copy of verses in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. These lines were sent by him to Thomson for his collection in the November of 1794,] Tune-"Dainty Davie." IT was the charming month of May, When all the flowers 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, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feathered people you might see They hail the charming Chloe; COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. [The subjoined was addressed to the same lady whom Burns had apostrophized in "O Poortith Cauld," but whose identity it seems difficult to determine.] Tune-"Cauld Kail." 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. Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. [The following was written in the September of 1793, and was at once enclosed to Thomson for his collection. Traditionally, the air to which this glorious ode is sung was the very march to which the warriors of Robert Bruce advanced, when, with the king in their midst, they gathered about the royal standard his hand had planted upon the field of Bannockburn. The old melody had so powerful an effect upon the Poet, that, on his merely hearing it played upon a hautboy, his eyes were brimmed with tears. Burns had, in 1787, himself visited the scene of the victory he has thus grandly and heroically celebrated. Braham, and Sinclair, and Wilson, each in his day, roused vast audiences to the wildest enthusiasm by the impassioned delivery of words not unworthy of having fallen from the lips of the Bruce before leading his men on to do or die at Bannockburn.] Tune-"Hey, tuttie taitie." SCOTS, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled; Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian on wi' me! By oppression's woes and pains! But they shall they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Forward! let us do, or die! BEHOLD THE HOUR. [This is stated by Burns himself to have been despatched, "glowing from the mint," to Thomson, in the September of 1793.] Tune-"Oran-gaoil." BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive, Thou goest, thou darling of my heart; Severed from thee, can I survive?— But Fate has willed, 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 marked her vanished sail." 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 through thy sweets she loves to stray, O, tell me, does she muse on me? DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. [What follows is but the modification by Burns of two stanzas penned, very many years before, by Robert Crawford.] As down the burn they took their way, And love was aye the tale. |