III.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.

IV.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen'

A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

CXCV.

BLYTHE HAE I BEEN.

Tune--"_Liggeram Cosh._"

[Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomson, for whose work he wrote it, that "Blythe hae I been on yon hill," was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Lesley Baillie.]

I.

Blythe hae I been on yon hill As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free As the breeze flew o'er me.

Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me.

II.

Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb, despairing!

If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the gra.s.s-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "LOGAN BRAES."]

CXCVI.

LOGAN WATER.

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793, "felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or often from still more ign.o.ble pa.s.sions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.]

I.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride!

And years synsyne hae o'er us run Like Logan to the simmer sun.

But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

II.

Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening's tears are tears of joy: My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

III.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile: But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pa.s.s widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

IV.

O wae upon you, men o' state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate!

As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?[140]

But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie hame to Logan braes!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 140: Originally--

"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, The widow's tears, the orphan's cries."]

CXCVII.

THE RED, RED ROSE.

Air--"_Hughie Graham._"

[There are s.n.a.t.c.hes of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the restorer has been. This seems the case with the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was original.]

I.

O were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing!

How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

II.

O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'; And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh, there beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.