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.
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Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a';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!
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming
fair!
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. Composed on Charlotte, a sister of the poet's friend Gavin Hamilton.
TUNE "THE MUCKIN O' GEORDIE'S BYRE."
ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis' to muse and to sing.
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare;
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.
The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is simplicity's child.
Awa, &c.
The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa, &c.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye.
Awa, &c.
Her voice is the song of the morning
That wakes through the green-spreading grove,
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa, &c.
But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa, &c.
1 Miss Phillis M'Murdo.
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.
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.
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,
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 monie thanks to the muckle black Deil
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
'A remembrance of Burns' visit to Gordon Castle, 1787. A a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns, being called upon for a song, handed these verses to the president, written on the back of a letter.--Cromek.
BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HİLL, ETC. 325
"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.
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?
Leslie is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I do nocht but glowr,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling;
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.
• WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.
TUNE-"HUGHIE GRAHAM."
O WERE my love yon 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.
O gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon 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 Phœbus' light.'
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.
TUNE-" CAULD KAIL."
COME, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder:
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The world's wealth and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone
That I may live to love her.
Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure:
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.
TUNE-"SAW YE MY FATHER?"
WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild woods among?
No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair:
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no! the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
The third and fourth verses are copied from Witherspoon's "Collection of Scotch Songs."
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