Poems and Songs of Robert Burns

And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?—the haunt of the Tyrant and Slave. The Slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love’s willing fetters—the chains of his Jean. Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near Air—“Let me in this ae night.” Forlorn, my Love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here; Far, far from thee, the fate severe, At which I most repine, Love. Chorus—O wert thou, Love, but near me! But near, near, near me, How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, Love. Around me scowls a wintry sky, Blasting each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor home have I; Save in these arms of thine, Love. O wert thou, &c. Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part, To poison Fortune’s ruthless dart— Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, Love. O wert thou, &c. But, dreary tho’ the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet; That only ray of solace sweet, Can on thy Chloris shine, Love! O wert thou, &c. Fragment,—Why, Why Tell The Lover Tune—“Caledonian Hunt’s delight.” Why, why tell thy lover Bliss he never must enjoy? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie? O why, while fancy, raptur’d slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why would’st thou, cruel— Wake thy lover from his dream? The Braw Wooer Tune—“The Lothian Lassie.” Last May, a braw wooer cam doun the lang glen, And sair wi’ his love he did deave me; I said, there was naething I hated like men— The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me, believe me; The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black e’en, And vow’d for my love he was diein, I said, he might die when he liked for Jean— The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein; The Lord forgie me for liein! A weel-stocked mailen, himsel’ for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers; I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers; But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think?—in a fortnight or less— The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the Gate-slack to my black cousin, Bess— Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her; Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. But a’ the niest week, as I petted wi’ care, I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; But wha but my fine fickle wooer was there, I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neibours might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie. I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, And how her new shoon fit her auld schachl’t feet, But heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, But heavens! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow; So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow; I think I maun wed him to-morrow. This Is No My Ain Lassie Tune—“This is no my house.” Chorus—This is no my ain lassie, Fair tho, the lassie be; Weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e’re. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place; It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that’s in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. She’s bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that’s in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a’ unseen; But gleg as light are lover’s een, When kind love is in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But well the watching lover marks The kind love that’s in her eye. This is no my ain, &c. O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier O bonie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man; And bonie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e’enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure, amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover’s vow They witness’d in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; But love is far a sweeter flower, Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. The pathless, wild and wimpling burn, Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the warld nor wish nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers; The furrow’d, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers. While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps o’ woe! The trout in yonder wimpling burn That glides, a silver dart, And, safe beneath the shady thorn, Defies the angler’s art— My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But Love, wi’ unrelenting beam, Has scorch’d my fountains dry. That little floweret’s peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine, till Love has o’er me past, And blighted a’ my bloom; And now, beneath the withering blast, My youth and joy consume. The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe his dewy wings In morning’s rosy eye; As little reck’d I sorrow’s power, Until the flowery snare O’witching Love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o’ care. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric’s burning zone, Wi’man and nature leagued my foes, So Peggy ne’er I’d known! The wretch whose doom is “Hope nae mair” What tongue his woes can tell; Within whase bosom, save Despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart Tune—“Morag.” O wat ye wha that lo’es me And has my heart a-keeping? O sweet is she that lo’es me, As dews o’ summer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping! Chorus—O that’s the lassie o’ my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O she’s the queen o’ womankind, And ne’er a ane to peer her. 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; O that’s the lassie, &c. If thou hadst heard her talking, And thy attention’s plighted, That ilka body talking, But her, by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted; O that’s the lassie, &c. 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. Inscription Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of—“Chloris.”^1 ’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralising Muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world ’gainst Peace in constant arms) To join the Friendly Few. Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast, Chill came the tempest’s lour; (And ne’er Misfortune’s eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind, Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow, Of conscious Honour’s part; And (dearest gift of Heaven below) Thine Friendship’s truest heart. The joys refin’d of Sense and Taste, With every Muse to rove: And doubly were the Poet blest, These joys could he improve. R.B. [Footnote 1: Miss Lorimer.] Fragment.—Leezie Lindsay Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, Will ye go to the Hielands wi’ me? Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay, My pride and my darling to be. Fragment.—The Wren’s Nest The Robin to the Wren’s nest Cam keekin’ in, cam keekin’ in; O weel’s me on your auld pow, Wad ye be in, wad ye be in? Thou’s ne’er get leave to lie without, And I within, and I within, Sae lang’s I hae an auld clout To rowe ye in, to rowe ye in. News, Lassies, News There’s news, lassies, news, Gude news I’ve to tell! There’s a boatfu’ o’ lads Come to our town to sell. Chorus—The wean wants a cradle, And the cradle wants a cod: I’ll no gang to my bed, Until I get a nod. Father, quo’ she, Mither, quo she, Do what you can, I’ll no gang to my bed, Until I get a man. The wean, &c. I hae as gude a craft rig As made o’yird and stane; And waly fa’ the ley-crap, For I maun till’d again. The wean, &c. Crowdie Ever Mair O that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care, Now I’ve gotten wife an’ weans, An’ they cry “Crowdie” evermair. Chorus—Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, Three times crowdie in a day Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away. Waefu’ Want and Hunger fley me, Glowrin’ by the hallan en’; Sair I fecht them at the door, But aye I’m eerie they come ben. Ance crowdie, &c. Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet Chorus—Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, Mally’s modest and discreet; Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, Mally’s every way complete. As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanc’d to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden’s tender feet. Mally’s meek, &c. It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon; An’ ’twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon, Mally’s meek, &c. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinklin down her swan-like neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck, Mally’s meek, &c. Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss Air—“Bonie lass tak a man.” Jockey’s taen the parting kiss, O’er the mountains he is gane, And with him is a’ my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain, Spare my Love, ye winds that blaw,