The weary winter soon will pass,
And spring will cleed the birken-shaw; And my sweet babie will be born, And he'll come hame that's far awa.
OUT OVER THE FORTH.
OUT over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north and its Highlands to me? The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me.
THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.
TUNE-Banks of Banna.
YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew, in wilderness Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN. 141
There I'll despise imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna! Awa, thou flaunting god o' day! Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night, Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna!
THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN *.
THE Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman; And ilka wife cry'd, Auld Mahoun, We wish you luck o' your prize, man.
'We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man: But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan', Was-the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. We'll mak our maut, &c.'
1 At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns, being called upon for a Song, handed these verses extempore to the President, written on the back of a letter.
BANKS OF DEVON.
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, [blooming fair; With green-spreading bushes, and flowers But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud rose; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
STREAMS THAT GLIDE.
STREAMS that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains! Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands: These, their richly-gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon.
BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. 143
Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms, by Castle Gordon. Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood; Life's poor day I'll musing rave, And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle Gordon.
BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL.
TUNE-Liggeram Cosh.
BLITHE hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me:
Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
TUNE-Hughie Graham.
GIN my love were yon
That grows upon
red rose
the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.'
'O, were my love lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing:
How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd'.
These stanzas were added by Burns,
« FöregåendeFortsätt » |