Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever!

And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.

Burns, in a letter to George Thomson, imputes the composition of this song to the benevolence of Coila, the muse of his native district: he imagines she followed him to the banks of the Nith, and poured the song on his glowing fancy.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander❜d mony a weary
Since auld lang syne.

foot

VOL. IV.

H

We twa hae paidlet i̇' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Since auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fere,

And gie's a haud o' thine;

And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

"Auld lang syne" owes all its attractions, if it owes not its origin, to the muse of Burns. So exquisitely has the poet eked out the old with the new, that it would puzzle a very profound antiquary to separate the ancient from the modern. The original song was well known in Allan Ramsay's days, but its original spirit was unfelt, since he failed in his attempt to imitate or rival it. Burns, alluding to the old verses, exclaims, "Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of native genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern English bacchanalians." He elsewhere says, "It is the old song of the olden times, and has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, till I took it down from an old man's singing." Few such "old men" are now to be met with.

CALEDONIA.

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brekan,

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,

What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

Love of country and domestic affection have combined to endear this song to every bosom. The charms of the poet's Jean, and his love for old Scotland, contend for mastery; and we can hardly conclude which of them Burns admires most. It was written in honour of Mrs. Burns.

BONNIE JEAN.

There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie :
The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,

The flower and pride of a' the glen ;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ;

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en, So trembling, pure, was tender love

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark,

And
ay
she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,

Or what wad make her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,

And love was ay between them twa.

Burns was one of those poets who imagined it was necessary to have a visible and living image of female loveliness before him, to supply him with the glowing

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »