« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate I fear I'll dearly rue ;
Twa lovely e’en o' bonnie blue.
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white
It was her e'en sae bonnie blue.
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyld,
She charm'd my soul I wist na how; And ay the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue. But spare to speak, and spare to speed ;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa e'en sae bonnie blue*.
THE BANKS OF NITH.
Tune-“ Robie Donna Gorach."
The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command :
poet and his friend Allan Masterton. This meeting took place at Laggan, a farm purchased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the recommendation of our bard. These three honest fellows-all men of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf. (1799.)
E. * The heroine of this song was Miss J****, of Lochmaban. This lady, now Mrs. R*****, after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New York, North America. E.
When shall I see that honour'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here!
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days !
JOHN ANDERSON MY JO
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo*.
* In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:
My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';
John Anderson, my jo, Improved,
By ROBERT BURNS.
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you
mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late
at e'en ; Ye'll blear out all your e'en, John, and why should
you do so ? Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson,
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first
began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work
was man ; And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to
toe, She prov'd to be pae journey-work, John Ander
son, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first
conceit, And ye need nae think it strange, John, tho' I ca'
ye trim and neat ; Thu' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never
think ye so, But I think ye're aye the same to me, John An
derson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our
bairns' bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in
- your arms,
To anger them a' is a pity,
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen.
And sae are ye in mine, John-I'm sure ye'll ne'er
say no, Tho' the days are gane that we have seen, John
Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, wbat pleasure does
it gie, To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween
you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Ander
son my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when we wore first
acquaint, Your locks were like the raven, your bonny Drow
was brent ; But now your head's turn'd bald, John, your locks
are like the snow, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson,
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year
we've past, And soon that year maun come, Jolin, will bring
us to our last : But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were
ne'er our foe, While iu innocent delight we lived, John Ander
son, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamo the hill the
gither, And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' ane
anither ; Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll
80, And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Ander
son, my jo.
I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortith 1 might mak a fen; What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen!
There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller,
“Gude day to you brute," he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
But wha can think sae o' ram Glen ?
The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs. Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spuriolis origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanıza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof sufii. eient. Many are the instances in which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false grainmar'.
These additional stanzas are not, however, without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting.