LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.
TUNE "THE LOTHIAN LASSIE."
LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And air 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 bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!
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 lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,1
And wha but my fine fickle lover 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 neebors 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,
Ĝin she had recover'd her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her shachl't' feet-
But Heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But Heavens! how he fell a swearin.
Dalgarnock is the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a burial-ground.--R. B.
HEY FOR A LASS, ETC.
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.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher.
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow
guineas for me.
Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.
Then hey, &c.
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest:
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest,
The langer ye hae them—the mair they're carest.
Then hey, &c.
ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE.
TUNE "HERE'S A HEALTH TO TPM THAT'S AWA."
HERE'S a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear-Jessy!1
Altho' thou maun never be mine,
Altho' even hope is denied;
Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Than aught in the world beside―Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.
I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms:
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy arms-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.
I guess by the dear angel smile,
guess by the love-rolling e'e;
But why urge the tender confession
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.
THE BIRKS' OF ABERFELDY.
BONNIE lassie, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
To the Birks of Aberfeldy?
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come let us spend the lightsome days
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The Birks of Aberfeldy.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The Birks of Aberfeldy.
Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
Near Moness, in Perthshire. The birch-trees were there very abundant.
THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER, ETC.
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
To the Birks of Aberfeldy.
THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.
LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden;
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon!
The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging;
The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blithely singing,
And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.
STAY, my charmer can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!
Well you know how much you grieve me、
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?
By my love so ill requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!
FULL WELL THOU KNOW'ST.
TUNE-" ROTHIEMURCHE'S RANT."
FAIREST maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou were wont to do?
Full well thou know'st I love thee dear,
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear?
O, did not Love exclaim, "Forbear,
Nor use a faithful lover so?"
Fairest maid, &c.
Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share;
And by thy beauteous self I swear,
No love but thine my heart shall know.
Fairest maid, &c.
STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT."
THICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling!
Howling tempests, o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!
Crystal streamlets gentiy flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of right engag'd,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour's war we strongly wag'd,
But the Heavens denied success.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend;
The wide world is all before us-
But a world without a friend!
This is supposed to be the last song written by Burns. "I tried my hand on Rothiemurche' this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines."R. B.
2 Lord Strathallan, bewailing his forlorn state after the defeat of Culloden.
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