Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,1 Though bred amang mountains o' snaw! SONG. TUNE- Cauld Kail in Aberdeen, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in his memoranda as to heroines, written for Mr. Thomson, places opposite Poortith Cauld- "A Miss Jane Blackstock, afterwards Mrs. Whiter of Liverpool." In the manuscript, Mr. Thomson makes a pencil-note in the margin -"These verses, I humbly think, have too much of uneasy and cold reflection for the air, which is pleasing and rather gay than otherwise." The letter having apparently been returned to Burns, he adds: "The objections are just, but I cannot make it better. The stuff won't 1 M'Leod of Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, at this time M. P. for the county of Inverness. 2 This song is usually sung to the tune of I had a Horse, 1 Lad nae mair. bear mending; yet, for private reasons, I should like to see it in print." O POORTITH cauld, and restless love, poverty Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An 'twere na for my Jeanie. This warld's wealth, when I think on Its pride, and a' the lave o't, Fic, fie on silly coward man Her een sae bonny blue betray How she repays my passion; rest But prudence is her o'erword aye; burden of her song She talks of rank and fashion! O why, etc. O wha can prudence think upon, O wha can prudence think upon, How blest the humble cotter's fate!! He wooes his simple dearie; fearful The silly bogles, wealth and state, phantoms GALA WATER? THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander through the blooming heather; 1 In the original manuscript, “How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate." 2 Some years before composing the present beautiful song, Burns had given to the Scots Musical Museum the following improved version of the original homely ballad, which, it may be mentioned, referred not to the lads, but to a loss of Gala Water: Braw, braw lads of Gala Water, O braw lads of Gala Water! I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie, O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, O'er yon moss amang the heather, smooth But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his and he'll be mine, The bonny lad o' Gala Water. Although his daddie was nae laird, woods above And though I hae na meikle tocher; great dowry Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, tend That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; bought The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure! I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom, my dearie, The lassie lost her silken snood, That cost her monie a blirt and blear es cry SONNET: WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORN ING-WALK. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care, The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. |