The Complete Works of Robert Burns

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the mair,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;

The sodger's wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his Country's stay
In day and hour o' danger.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

TUNE-"The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, ()

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O
My talents they were not the worst: nor yet my education, O
Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken; O
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; O
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion; O
The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; O
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; O
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber; O

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; O
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice. O

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther; O
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me; O
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly; O
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O
All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; O
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

TUNE-"Finlayston House."

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart !

By cruel hands the sapling drops,

In dust dishonour'd laid:

So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've feared thy fatal blow,

Now, fond, I bare my breast,

O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest!

BONIE LESLEY.

TUNE-"The Collier's bonie Dochter."

O SAW ye bonie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, Fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonie face,

And say, "I canna wrang thee." The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, Fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonie.

239

AMANG THE TREES. TUNE-" The King of France, he rade a

race.

AMANG the trees where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing; O
'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspey, or
Reels,

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's,

They made our lugs grow eerie; O The hungry bike did scrape and pike Till we were wae and wearie: OBut a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the north That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

WHEN FIRST I CAME TO
STEWART KYLE.

TUNE-"I had a horse and I had nae mair.”
WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady,
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,

A mistress still I had aye:

But when I came roun' by Mauchline town,

Not dreadin' onie body, My heart was caught before I thought, And by a Mauchline lady.

ON SENSIBILITY.

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

AIR-" Sensibility."

SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well!
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.

240

O RAGING FORTUNE'S WITHERING BLAST.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest
To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY.

TUNE" Galla Water." ALTHO' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark andrainy,
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

Were I a Baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,
The sharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy.

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful blooming Nelly lay,

With love and sleep opprest;

When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued;
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd,
Were seal'd in soft repose;
Her lips, still as she fragrant breath'd,
It richer dy'd the rose.

The springing lilies sweetly prest,
Wild-wanton kiss'd her rival breast;
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
His bosom ill at rest.

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Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his
breast?

TO MARY.

COULD aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,
The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart

May teach the lyre to languish; But what avails the pride of art, When wastes the soul with anguish? Then let the sudden bursting sigh The heart-felt pang discover; And in the keen, yet tender eye, O read th' imploring lover! For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art's gay disguising; Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, The voice of nature prizing.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles,

Ye're safer at your spinning wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel, They heatyour brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;

A heart that warmly seems to feel; That feeling heart but acts a part, 'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,

Are worse than poison'd darts of steel,

The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.

YOU'RE welcome to Despots, Dumourier;

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; How does Dampièr do?

Aye, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with yon,
Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you,
Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,

Till freedom's spark is out,

Then we'll be damn'd no doubt - Dumourier.

SWEETEST MAY.

SWEETEST May, let love inspire thee;
Take a heart which he designs thee;
As thy constant slave regard it;
For its faith and truth reward it.

Proof o' shot to birth or money, Not the wealthy, but the bonie; Not high-born, but noble-minded, In love's silken band can bind it!

ONE NIGHT AS I DID
WANDER.

TUNE-"John Anderson my Jo."
ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crooded o'er me

That echoed thro' the braes.

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