Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.

HAD I A CAVE, ETC.

An unfortunate circumstance which happened to his friend Cunningham, sug gested this fine pathetic song to the Poet's fancy.

TO THE SAME TUNE.

HAD I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,

There seek my lost repose,

Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try,

What peace is there!

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

"A favorite air of mine," says Burns, "is 'The muckin' o' Geordie's Byre,' when sung slow, with expression. I have often wished that it had had better poetry that I have endeavored to supply as follows."

TUNE-The muckin' o' Geordie's Byre.

ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,

Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare:
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amused my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is simplicity's child.
Awa, &c.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily!
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa, &c.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbor,
They ne'er with my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye.
Awa, &c.

Her voice is the song o' the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa, &c.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa, &c.

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

"I do not think 'On the Seas and far away' one of your very happy productions, though it certainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation."— Thomson to Burns.

TUNE-O'er the hills, &c.

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad?
How can I the thought forego,
He's on the seas to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are with him that's far away.

On the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day,
Are ay with him that's far away.
When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor's thundering at his gun:
Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away!
On the seas, &c.

At the starless midnight hour,

When winter rules with boundless power;
As the storms the forest tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can-I weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.
On the seas, &c.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,

And as a brother kindly greet:

Then may heaven with prosperous gales,

Fill my sailor's welcome sails,

To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that's far away.
On the seas, &c.

SAW YE MY PHELY!

Written for the Museum. The air must have been altered to suit the present verses, as the measure of the old song is very different-"When she cam ben she bobbit fu' low."

TUNE-When she cam ben she bobbit.

Oн saw ye my dear, my Phely?

Oh saw ye my dear, my Phely?

She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And forever disowns thee her Willy.
Oh had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
Oh had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou 's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

Duncan Gray was a favorite air of the Poet's. He had already written to it his admirable Scottish song "Duncan Gray cam here to woo." The fol"owing is an attempt to dress it in English.

TUNE-Duncan Gray.

LET not woman e'er complain,
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain,
Fickle man is apt to rove:

Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange,

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies:
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow:
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can-

You can be no more, you know.

SLEEP'ST THOU, OR WAK'ST THOU, ETC. Written for Thomson's collection. For some curious alterations of this song see Currie's edition, vol. iv. page 137.

TUNE-Deil tak the Wars.

SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy:
Now to the streaming fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,

Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray;
The lintwhite' in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to me, my lovely maid,
When frae my Chloris parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,

Night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky:
But when, in beauty's light,
She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

MY CHLORIS, MARK HOW GREEN THE GROVES. "How do you like," says Burns to Thomson, the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well."

TUNE-My lodging is on the cold ground.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair:

The balmy gales awake the flowers,

And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,

And o'er the cottage sings:

Ι

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In lordly lighted ha':'

The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw."

1 Linnet.-2 Hall.-3 Small wood in a hollow.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »