Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him; I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, My heart it shall never be broken for ane. * IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.* Tune-" The Maid's complaint." Ir is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, At least to see thee blest. But happiness to thee: And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die. Upon these verses, which were originally English, Burns only bestowed a Scottish dress, imbuing it at the same time with a portion of his own individual feelings.-M. THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. Tune-" Jacky Latin." O GAT ye me, O gat ye me, Bye attour, my gutcher has A hiech house and a laigh ane, A' forbye my bonnie sel', The toss of Ecclefechan, O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, I tint my whistle and my sang, I tint my peace and pleasure; Wad airt me to my treasure. To those curious in snatches of our ancient Caledonian Muse, it may not be unacceptable to present them with the original words of the air to which Burns has attached the above words: Bonnie Jockie, braw Jockie, Bonnie Jockie Latin, His skin was like the silk sae fine, Bonnie Jockie, braw Jockie, Because she wudna gie'm a kiss, Jockie Latin's gotten a wife, Bonnie Jockie, &c. M. CA' THE EWES.* Tune-"Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes." CHORUS. Ca' the ewes to the knowes, As I gaed down the water-side, And ye may rowe me in your plaid, While waters wimple to the sea, Ca' the ewes to the knowes, Ca' them whare the heather grows, MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE. Tune-"Lord Breadalbane's March." O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle, And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. Tune-" Carron Side." FRAE the friends and land I love Frae my best belov'd I rove, Brightest climes shall mirk appear, And ilk loyal bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his ain. OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED.+ Tune-" Awa, Whigs, awa." CHORUS. Awa, Whigs, awa! Awa, Whigs, awa! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae good at a'. *Though Burns, in his notes on the Museum, only claims the last four lines of this Jacobite song, there can be little doubt that he wrote the whole of it.-M. This Jacobite song owes some of its bitterest touches to the pen of Burns.-M. |