O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles!
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks-like Rob Mossgiel.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your veins, and fire your brains,
And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part—
"Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, The pride o' the place and its neighbourhood a'; Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon❜on or Paris they'd gotten it a'.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's' the jewel for me o' them a'.
1 Jean, afterwards his wife.
Tune-"I rede you beware at the hunting."
THE heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses, and mony a glen,
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen.
I rede you beware at the hunting, young men ;
I rede you beware at the hunting, young men ;
Tak' some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen.'
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather-bells,
Her colours betrayed her on yon mossy fells;
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And oh! as she wantonèd gay on the wing,
Auld Phoebus himsel' as he peeped o'er the hill,
In spite, at her plumage he tried his skill;
He levelled his rays where she basked on the brae-
His rays were outshone, and but marked where she lay.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads, wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight-
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.
I rede you beware at the hunting, young men ;
I rede you beware at the hunting, young men;
Tak' some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on à bonnie moor-hen.
Tune-"Last time I cam' o'er the muir."
YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass;
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass
With pearly gems adorning:
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced them;
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them;
Her smile is like the evening mild,
When feathered tribes are courting,
And little lambkins, wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her;
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain,
Her winning powers to lessen;
And spiteful Envy grins in vain,
The poisoned tooth to fasten.
Ye Powers of Honour, Love, and Truth,
From every ill defend her!
Inspire the highly favoured youth
The Destinies intend her;
Still fan the sweet connubial flame,
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.
Tune-"Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly."
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare-
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow,
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
passes the squire on his brother-his horse; There Centum-per-centum, the cit with his purse; But see you the Crown, how it waves in the air? There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle 's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
"Life's cares they are comforts" 1. -a maxim laid down By the bard-what d'ye call him ?-that wore the black gown;
And faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair;
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of a care.
STANZA ADDED IN A MASONIC LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-bellied bottle when harassed with care!
[Written when about to emigrate to the West Indies.]
FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee!
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!
The latest throb that leaves my heart,
While Death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!
1 Young's "Night Thoughts."
[Sung by Burns in the Kilmarnock Kilwinning Lodge, 1786. The Poet possessed a fine bass voice.]
YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation,
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honourèd station.
I've little to say, but only to pray,
As praying's the ton of your fashion:
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse,—
Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye Powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element's border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order!
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention
Or withered envy ne'er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre!
[The original, in the Poet's handwriting, belongs to Gabriel Neil, Glasgow, and has the following note attached to it :- "This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge.]
THERE lived a lass in yonder dale,
And down in yonder glen, O!
And Katherine Jaffray was her name,
Weel known to many men, O!
Out came the Lord of Lauderdale,
Out frae the South countrie, O!
All for to court this pretty maid,
Her bridegroom for to be, O!
He's telled her father and mother baith,
As I hear sundry say, O!
But he has na telled the lass hersel'
"Till on her wedding day, O!
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