I love thee Nith, thy banks and braes,
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear;
For there he rov'd that brake my heart,
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear!
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;
Now every thing is glad while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or bee;
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is parted from me.
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' miņe
The gowden locks of Anna.
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Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a’;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!
The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town,
And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman;
And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun,
"We wish you luck o' the prize man.
“We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,
“We'll dance and sing and rejoice man;
"And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil,
"That danc'd away wi' the Exciseman.
"There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
"There 's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
"But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan',
the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman.
"We'll mak our maut, &c."
At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, Burns being called upon for a song, handed these verses extempore to the President, written on the back of a letter.
Powers celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own;
Let my Mary's kindred spirit,
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Sooth her bosom into rest:
Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.*
I red you beware at the hunting.
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae the day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discovered a bonie moor-hen.
I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.
* Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the poet's departure to the West Indies.
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,
Her colors betray'd her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring,
And O! as she wantoned gay on the wing.
Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill;
In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill;
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae-
His rays where outshone, and but mark'd where she
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill;
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.-
I red, &c.
Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer die has grac'd them,
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming spring unbends the brow,
Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her winning pow'rs to lessen:
And fretful envy grins in vain,
The poison'd tooth to fasten.
Ye pow'rs of Honor, Love, and Truth,
From ev'ry ill defend her;
Inspire the highly favor'd youth
The destinies intend her:
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.*
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-
*This was one of the poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his first publication.
† Pibroch-A Highland war song, adapted to the bagpipe.
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