PHILLIS THE FAIR. TUNE-"Robin Adair." WHILE larks with little wing Tasting the breathing spring, Gay the sun's golden eye, Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair. In each bird's careless song While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there. Sweet to the opening day, Rose-buds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair. Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were; Caught in a snare; Adown winding Nith I did wander. 177 ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. TUNE "The mucking 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 an' to sing. CHORUS. Awa' wi' your belles an' your beauties, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, But fairer an' purer her breast. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, an' pleasure, an' love. But, beauty, how frail an' how fleeting— ["I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand; when turning up 'Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c., as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure."-Burns to Thomson.] * By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;* The winds were whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, An' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; An' aye the wild-wood echoes rang— Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie !+ "A mountain, west of Strathallan, 3,009 feet high.”—Burns. Come, let me take thee to my Breast. 179 Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place, an' time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!" While mony a kiss the seal imprest, The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. TUNE-"Cauld kail." COME, let me take thee to my breast, An' pledge we ne'er shall sunder; An' I shall spurn as vilest dust The world's wealth an' grandeur: An' do I hear my Jeanie own That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, An' by thy een sae bonnie blue, HAD I A CAVE. TUNE-" Robin Adair." ["You will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows."-Burns to G. Thomson, August, 1793.] HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more! |