The Banks o' Doon. Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, THE BANKS O' DOON. FIRST VERSION. TUNE-"Katharine Ogie." YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, An' I sae fu' o' care! Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, an' sae I sang, 4T Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, An' ilka bird sang o' its luve; An' sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose SECOND VERSION. TUNE-"Caledonian Hunt's delight.” YE banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon, Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose an' woodbine twine; An' ilka bird sang o' its luve, An' fondly sae did I o' mine. Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary? Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 43 WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY? TUNE-"The ewe-buchts." ["In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl" (Mary Campbell).— Burns.] WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies I ha'e sworn by the heavens to my Mary, Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, And curst be the cause that shall part us! I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen, 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd; She charm'd my soul-I wistna how; An' aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue. My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing. But spare to speak, and spare to speed; She'll aiblins listen to my vow: 45 MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. TUNE-"My wife's a wanton wee thing." ["There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity for adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air 'My wife's a wanton wee thing,' if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it."-Burns to G. Thomson.] SHE is a winsome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer; And neist my heart I'll wear her, Oh leeze me on my wee thing, I'll think my lot divine. |