LXXV.

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW

Tune--"_Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey._"

[b.u.ms wrote this charming song in honour of Joan Armour: he archly says in his notes, "P.S. it was during the honeymoon." Other versions are abroad; this one is from the ma.n.u.scripts of the poet.]

I.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie la.s.sie lives, The la.s.sie I lo'e best: There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

II.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

III.

O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Among the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the la.s.sie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.

IV.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae pa.s.sed atween us twa!

How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa!

The powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!

LXXVI.

FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE.

Tune--"_Whistle o'er the lave o't."_

[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.]

I.

First when Maggy was my care, Heaven, I thought, was in her air; Now we're married--spier nae mair-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.-- Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's child; Wiser men than me's beguil'd-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.

II.

How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see; Whistle o'er the lave o't.-- Wha I wish were maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write--but Meg maun see't-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.

LXXVII.

O WERE I ON PARNa.s.sUS HILL.

Tune--"_My love is lost to me._"

[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of Oswald's.]

I.

O, were I on Parna.s.sus' hill!

Or 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 sel': On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, And write how dear I love thee.

II.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!

For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear, I love thee.

I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-- By heaven and earth I love thee!

III.

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; And aye I muse and sing thy name-- I only live to love thee.

Tho' 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 love thee.

LXXVIII.

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.

_To a Gaelic Air._

["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.]

I.

There's a youth in this city, It were a great pity That he frae our la.s.ses shou'd wander awa: For he's bonnie an' braw, Weel-favour'd an' a', And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.

His coat is the hue Of his bonnet sae blue; His f.e.c.k it is white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, And his shoon like the slae.