The Works of Robert Burns

And for an hour she'll scarcely speak;

Who'd not call her a gawkie?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane unto the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.

O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane,
But I will never stand for ane,
Or twa, when we do meet again;
Sae ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be,

Sic thoughts as these are far from me,
Or ony that sweet face that see,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But whisht!-nae mair of this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,

I trow he likes the gawkie.

O dear bess, I hardly knew,
When I came by, your gown sae new,
I think you've got it wat wi' dew;

Quoth she, that's like a gawkie:

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane,
Sae you may gang the gate you came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet,
If I should gang anither gate,

I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue,
That ever Maggy's face he knew,

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they went o'er the muir they sang; The hills and dales with echoes rang, The hills and dales with echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggy!

FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. (ORIGINAL SONG OF OH OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY).

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these counties. This, conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called both by tradition and in printed collections, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway.-BURNS.

SWEET Annie built a bonnie ship,

And set her on the sea;

The sails were a' of the damask silk,
The masts of silver free.

The gladsome waters sung below,

And the sweet wind sung aboveMake way for Annie of Lochroyan, She comes to seek her love.

A gentle wind came with a sweep,
And stretched her silken sail,
When up there came a reaver rude,
With many a shout and hail:
O touch her not, my mariners a',
Such loveliness goes free;
Make way for Annie of Lochroyan,
She seeks Lord Gregorie.

The moon looked out with all her stars,
The ship moved merrily on,
Until she came to a castle high,

That all as diamonds shone:
On every tower there streamed a light,
On the middle tower shone three-
Move for that tower my mariners a',
My love keeps watch for me.

She took her young son in her arms,
And on the deck she stood-
The wind rose with an angry gust,

The sea wave wakened rude.
Oh open the door, Lord Gregory, love;
Oh open and let me in;
The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair,
The surge dreeps down my chin.

All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love,
I have sailed the perilous way,
And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts,
And he'll be dead ere day.

The foam hangs on the topmost cliff,

The fires run on the sky,

And hear you not your true love's voice, And her sweet baby's cry?

But aye the mair he called Anie, The broader grew the tide.

And hey Annie, and how Annie,
Dear Annie speak to me,

But aye the louder he cried Annie,

The louder roared the sea.

The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough,

The ship sunk nigh the shore,
Fair Annie floated through the foam,
But the baby rose no more.

O first he kissed her cherry cheek,
And then he kissed her chin,
And syne he kissed her rosy lips,

But there was nae breath within.
O my love's love was true as light,
As meek and sweet was she-
My mother's hate was strong as death,
And fiercer than the sea.

ROSLIN CASTLE.

THESE beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec. dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who was the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.-BURNS.

'Twas in that season of the year, When all things gay and sweet appear, That Colin, with the morning ray, Arose and sung his rural lay.

Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, The hills and dales with Nanny rung; While Roslin Castle heard the swain, And echoed back the cheerful strain.

Awake, sweet Muse! the breathing spring,
With rapture warms; awake and sing!
Awake and join the vocal throng,
Who hail the morning with a song;
To Nanny raise the cheerful lay,
O! bid her haste and come away;
In sweetest smiles herself adorn,
And add new graces to the morn!

O, hark, my love! on ev'ry spray,
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay;
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting song:
Then let my raptur'd notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes;
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.

I have met with another traction, that the the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading. BURNS.

old song to this tune,

Hae ye ony pots or pans,

Or onie broken chanlers,

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the Cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of

The Blacksmith and his Apron,

which from the rythym, seeins to have been a line of some old song to the tune.-BURNS.

HAVE you any pots or pans,

Or any broken chandlers?

I am a tinkler to my trade,

And newly come frae Flanders,
As scant of siller as of grace,

Disbanded, we've a bad run;
Gar tell the lady of the place,
I'm come to clout her caldron.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

Madam, if you have wark for me,
I'll do't to your contentment,
And dinna care a single flie

For any man's resentment;
For, lady fair, though I appear
To ev'ry ane a tinkler,

Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell,
I am a gentle jinker.

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

Love Jupiter into a swan
Turn'd for his lovely Leda;

He like a bull o'er meadows ran,
To carry aff Europa.

Then may not I, as well as he,

To cheat your Argos blinker,
And win your love, like mighty Jove,
Thus hide me in a tinkler?

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

Sir, ye appear a cunning man,
But this fine plot you'll fail in,
For there is neither pot nor pan

Of mine you'll drive a nail in.
Then bind your budget on your back,
And nails up in your apron,
For I've a tinkler under tack
That's us'd to clout my caldron.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?

SAW ye nae my Peggy,
Saw ye nae my Peggy,
Saw ye nae my Peggy,

Coming o'er the lea?
Sure a finer creature
Ne'er was form'd by nature,
So complete each feature,
So divine is she.

O! how Peggy charms me;
Every look still warms me;
Every thought alarms me,
Lest she love nae me.
Peggy doth discover

Nought but charms all over;
Nature bids me love her,
That's a law to me.

Who would leave a lover,
To become a rover?
No, I'll ne'er give over,

'Till I happy be.
For since love inspires me,
As her beauty fires me,
And her absence tires me,
Nought can please but she.

When I hope to gain her,
Fate seems to detain her,
Cou'd I but obtain her,

Happy wou'd I be!
I'll ly down before her,
Bless, sigh, and adore her,
With faint looks implore her,
'Till she pity me.

The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear.

Saw ye my Maggie,
Saw ye my Maggie,
Saw ye my Maggie,
Linkin o'er the lea?

High kilted was she,
High kilted was she,
High kilted was she,

Her coat aboon her knee.

What mark has your Maggie,
What mark has your Maggie,
What mark has your Maggie,

That ane may ken hea ve? (by)

Though it by no means follows that the sil liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be THIS charming song is much older, and in- the original song; yet I take this ballad, of deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, "The Toast," which I have quoted part, to be the old verses. as he calls them. There is another set of the The two songs in Ramsay, one of them eviwords, much older still, and which I take to be [dently his own, are never to be met with in the

Then upo' sight the hailstains thud

fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that | If they command the storms to blaw,
which I take to be the old song, is in every
shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had
thought the old verses unworthy of a place in
his collection.-BURNS.

FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE.

Ir is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name, ar phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.

To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard :-BURNS.

GIN ye meet a bonnie lassie,

Gie her a kiss and let her gae ;
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae :
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Look up
to Pentland's tow'ring tap,
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw,
O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap,
As high as ony Roman wa.'

Driving their baws frae whins or tee,

There's no nae gowfers to be seen;
Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee
The byass-bouls on Tamson's green.

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs,
And beek the house baith butt and ben;
That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs,

Then let's get in the tappit hen.

Good claret best keeps out the cauld,
And drives away the winter soon;
It makes a man baith gas and bauld,
And heaves his saul beyond the moon.

Leave to the gods your ilka care,

If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile.

For what they have a mind to do,

That will they do, should we gang wood;

But soon as ere they cry, "Be quiet,"

The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move,
But cour into their caves, and wait
The high command of supreme Jova

Let neist day come as it thinks fit,
The present minute's only ours;
On pleasure let's employ our wit,
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers.

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip

Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip,
And lay ye twafald o'er a rung.

Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time;
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,

Before it wither and decay.

Watch the saft minutes of delyte,
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,
And kisses, laying a' the wyte
On you, if she kepp ony skaith.

"Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say;
"Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;"
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,

And hide hersell in some dark nook.

Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lies the happiness you want,
And plainly tells you to your face,

Nineteen nay-says are haff a grant.

Now to her heaving bosom cling,

And sweetly toolie for a kiss,
Frae her fair finger whop a ring,
As taiken of a future bless.

These bennisons, I'm very sure,

Are of the gods' indulgent grant;
Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear
To plague us with your whining cant.

THE LASS O' LIVISTON.

THE old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.-It begins,

THE bonnie lass o' Liviston,

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,
And she has written in her contract,
To lie her lane, to lie her lane.

&c. &c.

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE | The Weaver and his Shuttle, O, whit though sung much quicker, is every note the

MUIR.

RAMSAY found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.-BURNS.

THE last time I came o'er the muir,

I left my love behind me:
Ye pow'rs! what pain do I endure,
When soft ideas mind me.
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling shade we lay,

Gazing and chastely sporting; We kiss'd and promis'd time away,

Till night spread her black curtain: I pitied all beneath the skies,

Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes,

Which could but ill deny me.

Should I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me;
Or cast upon some foreign shore,

Where dangers may surround me;
Yet hopes again to see my love,

To feast on glowing kisses,
Shall make my cares at distance move,
In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter;
Since she excels in ev'ry grace,
In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow,

Their waves the Alps shall cover;
On Greenland's ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The next time I gang o'er the muir,
She shall a lover find me ;
And that my faith is firm and pure,
Though I left her behind me.
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom ;
There, while my being does remain,
My love more fresh shall blossom.

very tune.

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But now they're threadbare worn,
They're wider than they wont to be
They're tashed-like, and sair torn,
And clouted sair on ilka knee.
But gin I had a simmer's day,

As I have had right mony,
I'd make a web o' new gray,
To be breeks to my Johnny.

For he's weel wordy o' them,

And better gin I had to gie,
And I'll tak pains upo' them,

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them free
To clead him weel shall be my care,
And please him a' my study;
But he maun wear the auld pair
Awes, tho' they be duddy.

For when the lad was in his prime,
Like him there was nae mony
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing,
Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny?
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks,

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet,
And gin we live anither year,

We'll keep them hale between us yet.

Now to conclude,—his gray breeks,
I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee;
Here's luck to a' the gray steeks,

That show themsells upo' the knee!
And if wi' health I'm spared,

A' wee while as I may,

I shall hae them prepared,
As weel as ony that's o' gray.

Stained.

JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS.

THOUGH this has certainly every evidence of eing a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known sne and song in the North of Ireland, called,

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The Works of Robert Burns: Containing His Life