Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/565

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[ wrote this impassioned song immediately on settling at Ellisland, in honour of his wife, and as a welcome to her to the new establishment there. It is sung to a plaintive tune by Oswald, called "My love is lost to me." The Rev. Hamilton Paul, in his edition of the poet's works, (Ayr, 1820,) speaks with rapture of the song. "There is nothing," he says, "in the whole circle of lyric poetry, ancient or modern, to be named with it. It bids defiance to comparison." He then quotes the following lines:

"I see thee dancing ower the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,

Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—

By heaven and earth, I love thee!"

"This," continues the reverend critic, "is what may be called the paroxysm of desire. He draws the picture from nature,—he becomes enamoured,—he forgets himself,—he pants for breath,—he is unable to continue the description,—and he gives utterance to his feelings in an oath—

It may be added, that Mrs. Burns excelled in the accomplishment of dancing, and was remarkable, if not for regular beauty, at least for the exquisite symmetry of her person.]

I on Parnassus Hill,

And had of Helicon my fill,

That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee:

But Nith maun be my Muse's well,

My muse maun be thy bonnie sell,

On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay;

For, a' the lee-lang simmer's day,

I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear I love thee.

I see thee dancing ower the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,

Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—

By heaven and earth, I love thee!

By night, by day—a-field, at hame—

The thoughts of thee my breast inflame!

And aye I muse and sing thy name—

I only live to love thee.

Though I were doom'd to wander on,

Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,

Till my last weary sand was run,

Till then—and then I'll love thee.

Clyde to the banks o' sweet Earn

I've travell'd fu' mony a mile;

But thoughts o' my dearest lass Ailie

The wearisome hours did beguile.

The happy wae night that we parted,

She vow'd she wad constant remain:

My heart-strings a' dirl'd wi' fondness;

I kiss'd and I kiss'd her again.

'Tis not that her cheeks are like roses,

Nor yet for her dark-rowing e'e;

'Tis not for her sweet comely features;

These charms are a' naething to me.

The storms o' this life may soon blast them,

Or sickness may snatch them away,

But virtue, when fix'd in the bosom,

Will flourish and never decay.

Nae langer I'll spend a' my siller:

Nae langer I'll now lie my lane;

Nae langer I'll hunt after lasses;

I'll soon ha'e a wife o' my ain.

For mony a wild foot have I wander'd,

An' mony a night spent in vain,

Wi' drinking, and dancing, and courting:

But I'll soon ha'e a wife o' my ain.

Her mother's aye roaring and flyting:

"I rede ye, tak' tent o' that chiel;

He'll no be that canny to leeve wi';

He'll ne'er be like douce Geordie Steele.

He's courtit far ower mony lasses;

To slight them he thinks it gude fun;

He'll mak' but a sober half-marrow;

Ye'd best rue before ye be bun'."

Though Geordie be laird o' a housie,

And brags o' his kye and his pelf,

And warld's gear I be richt scant o';

A fig for't as lang's I've my health;