Poems and Songs of Robert Burns
numerous amours in which he was engaged through the greater part of his
life. It is evident that Burns was a man of extremely passionate nature
and fond of conviviality; and the misfortunes of his lot combined with
his natural tendencies to drive him to frequent excesses of
self-indulgence. He was often remorseful, and he strove painfully, if
intermittently, after better things. But the story of his life must be
admitted to be in its externals a painful and somewhat sordid chronicle.
That it contained, however, many moments of joy and exaltation is proved
by the poems here printed.
Burns’ poetry falls into two main groups: English and Scottish. His
English poems are, for the most part, inferior specimens of conventional
eighteenth-century verse. But in Scottish poetry he achieved triumphs of
a quite extraordinary kind. Since the time of the Reformation and the
union of the crowns of England and Scotland, the Scots dialect had
largely fallen into disuse as a medium for dignified writing. Shortly
before Burns’ time, however, Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson had been
the leading figures in a revival of the vernacular, and Burns received
from them a national tradition which he succeeded in carrying to its
highest pitch, becoming thereby, to an almost unique degree, the poet of
his people.
He first showed complete mastery of verse in the field of satire. In
“The Twa Herds,” “Holy Willie’s Prayer,” “Address to the Unco Guid,”
“The Holy Fair,” and others, he manifested sympathy with the protest of
the so-called “New Light” party, which had sprung up in opposition to
the extreme Calvinism and intolerance of the dominant “Auld Lichts.” The
fact that Burns had personally suffered from the discipline of the Kirk
probably added fire to his attacks, but the satires show more than
personal animus. The force of the invective, the keenness of the wit,
and the fervor of the imagination which they displayed, rendered them an
important force in the theological liberation of Scotland.
The Kilmarnock volume contained, besides satire, a number of poems like
“The Twa Dogs” and “The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” which are vividly
descriptive of the Scots peasant life with which he was most familiar;
and a group like “Puir Mailie” and “To a Mouse,” which, in the
tenderness of their treatment of animals, revealed one of the most
attractive sides of Burns’ personality. Many of his poems were never
printed during his lifetime, the most remarkable of these being “The
Jolly Beggars,” a piece in which, by the intensity of his imaginative
sympathy and the brilliance of his technique, he renders a picture of
the lowest dregs of society in such a way as to raise it into the realm
of great poetry.
But the real national importance of Burns is due chiefly to his songs.
The Puritan austerity of the centuries following the Reformation had
discouraged secular music, like other forms of art, in Scotland; and as
a result Scottish song had become hopelessly degraded in point both of
decency and literary quality. From youth Burns had been interested in
collecting the fragments he had heard sung or found printed, and he came
to regard the rescuing of this almost lost national inheritance in the
light of a vocation. About his song-making, two points are especially
noteworthy: first, that the greater number of his lyrics sprang from
actual emotional experiences; second, that almost all were composed to
old melodies. While in Edinburgh he undertook to supply material for
Johnson’s “Musical Museum,” and as few of the traditional songs could
appear in a respectable collection, Burns found it necessary to make
them over. Sometimes he kept a stanza or two; sometimes only a line or
chorus; sometimes merely the name of the air; the rest was his own. His
method, as he has told us himself, was to become familiar with the
traditional melody, to catch a suggestion from some fragment of the old
song, to fix upon an idea or situation for the new poem; then, humming
or whistling the tune as he went about his work, he wrought out the new
verses, going into the house to write them down when the inspiration
began to flag. In this process is to be found the explanation of much of
the peculiar quality of the songs of Burns. Scarcely any known author
has succeeded so brilliantly in combining his work with folk material,
or in carrying on with such continuity of spirit the tradition of
popular song. For George Thomson’s collection of Scottish airs he
performed a function similar to that which he had had in the “Museum”;
and his poetical activity during the last eight or nine years of his
life was chiefly devoted to these two publications. In spite of the fact
that he was constantly in severe financial straits, he refused to accept
any recompense for this work, preferring to regard it as a patriotic
service. And it was, indeed, a patriotic service of no small magnitude.
By birth and temperament he was singularly fitted for the task, and this
fitness is proved by the unique extent to which his productions were
accepted by his countrymen, and have passed into the life and feeling of
his race.
1771 - 1779
Song—Handsome Nell^1
Tune—“I am a man unmarried.”
[Footnote 1: The first of my performances.—R. B.]
Once I lov’d a bonie lass,
Ay, and I love her still;
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
I’ll love my handsome Nell.
As bonie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw;
But, for a modest gracefu’ mein,
The like I never saw.
A bonie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e;
But, without some better qualities,
She’s no a lass for me.
But Nelly’s looks are blythe and sweet,
And what is best of a’,
Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel;
And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart;
But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
’Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
’Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day
Tune—“Invercauld’s Reel, or Strathspey.”
Choir.—O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For laik o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour;
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
When coming hame on Sunday last,
Upon the road as I cam past,
Ye snufft and ga’e your head a cast—
But trowth I care’t na by.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
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.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak’ my advice:
Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
There lives a lass beside yon park,
I’d rather hae her in her sark,
Than you wi’ a’ your thousand mark;
That gars you look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.
Song—I Dream’d I Lay
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;
Tress with aged arms were warring,
O’er the swelling drumlie wave.
Such was my life’s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoyed:
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.
Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer
Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.”
The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retired to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;
But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lies the dear partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment at rest:
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low!
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
I once was by Fortune carest:
I once could relieve the distrest:
Now life’s poor support, hardly earn’d
My fate will scarce bestow:
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!
But then my wife and children dear—
O, wither would they go!
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
O whither, O whither shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!
For, in this world, Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
Tragic Fragment
All devil as I am—a damned wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere but unavailing sighs
I view the helpless children of distress:
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.—
Ev’n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn’d o’er to ruin.
Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injured God! Thy goodness has endow’d me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abused—
As far surpassing other common villains
As Thou in natural parts has given me more.
Tarbolton Lasses, The
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth’s a leddy.
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courtin’.
Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o’ Mysie;
She’s dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.
If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny;
If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense—
She kens hersel she’s bonie.
As ye gae up by yon hillside,
Speir in for bonie Bessy;