Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/120

102 Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,

And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer,

Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,

A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.

He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',

In love and affection I'm still wi' ye a';

While I ha'e a being, ye'se aye ha'e a ha',

Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."

My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,

By the bairn that she doated on early and late,

Gi'es thanks, night and day, to the Giver of a',

There's been naething unworthy o' him that's awa'!

Then, here is to them that are far frae us a',

The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!

Health, peace, and prosperity, wait on us a'!

And a blythe comin' hame to the friend that's awa'!

[ by, in honour of his Jean. The title of the tune is, "I'll gang nae mair to yon toun," being the first line of an old ballad, beginning,

This tune appears so far back as in Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion. It was observed to be a great favourite with George IV. during his visit to Edinburgh in 1822.]

[ is another composition of 's, to the tune "I'll gang nae mair to yon toun." It appears, along with the above, in Johnson's Museum. "Jean" was the original heroine of the song, but Burns afterwards altered the name to "Lucy," in honour of the lady of R. A. Oswald, Esq. of Auchincruive, Ayrshire, who fell a victim to consumption in 1798, when only about thirty years of age. Her maiden name was Lucy Johnston.]

ye wha's in yon toun,

Ye see the e'ening sun upon?

The fairest maid's in yon toun,

That e'ening sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,

She wanders by yon spreading tree;

How blest, ye flow'rs, that round her blaw!

Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest, ye birds, that round her sing,

And welcome in the blooming year!

And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Jeanie dear!

The sun blinks blythe on yon toun,

Amang yon broomy braes sae green:

But my delight, in yon toun,

And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.

Without my love, not a' the charms

Of Paradise could yield me joy;

But gi'e me Jeanie in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's drearie sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,

Though raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon toun,

The sinking sun's gane dwn upon;

The dearest maid's in yon toun,

His setting beam e'er shone upon.

If angry fate be sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear,

I'll careless quit aught else below;

But spare, oh! spare me Jeanie dear.