Part 71

The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, But my true love is parted from me.

The Bonie Lad That’s Far Awa

O how can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonie lad that I lo’e best Is o’er the hills and far awa!

It’s no the frosty winter wind, It’s no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my e’e, To think on him that’s far awa.

My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown’d me a’; But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonie lad that’s far awa.

A pair o’ glooves he bought to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonie lad that’s far awa.

O weary Winter soon will pass, And Spring will cleed the birken shaw; And my young babie will be born, And he’ll be hame that’s far awa.

Verses To Clarinda

Sent with a Pair of Wine-Glasses.

Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses:

And fill them up with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge them to the generous toast, “The whole of human kind!”

“To those who love us!” second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us— A third—“To thee and me, Love!”

The Chevalier’s Lament

Air—“Captain O’Kean.”

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale; The primroses blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, When the lingering moments are numbered by care? No birds sweetly singing, nor flow’rs gaily springing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice? A king and a father to place on his throne! His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, tho’ I can find none! But ’tis not my suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, ’tis your ruin I mourn; Your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,— Alas! I can make it no better return!

Epistle To Hugh Parker

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles, Nor limpit in poetic shackles: A land that Prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it; Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk, I hear it—for in vain I leuk. The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal: Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I’m dwindled down to mere existence, Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies, Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes, Jenny, my Pegasean pride! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And aye a westlin leuk she throws, While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose! Was it for this, wi’ cannie care, Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? At howes, or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled?— O had I power like inclination, I’d heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship’s face; For I could lay my bread and kail He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.— Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief, And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i’ my head, How can I write what ye can read?— Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June, Ye’ll find me in a better tune; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

Robert Burns.

Of A’ The Airts The Wind Can Blaw^1

Tune—“Miss Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.”

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo’e best:

There’s wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between: But day and night my fancys’ flight Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, I hear her charm the air: There’s not a bonie flower that springs, By fountain, shaw, or green; There’s not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o’ my Jean.

Song—I Hae a Wife O’ My Ain

I Hae a wife of my ain, I’ll partake wi’ naebody; I’ll take Cuckold frae nane, I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody.

I hae a penny to spend, There—thanks to naebody! I hae naething to lend, I’ll borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody’s lord, I’ll be slave to naebody; I hae a gude braid sword, I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.