Written by
Robert Burns |
Chorus.—Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.
BY 1 Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flow’r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o’ Earn,
As light’s a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her bonie face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet,
As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide,
And o’er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Note 1. Written at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray, a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.—Lang. [back
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Written by
Robert Burns |
GUDE pity me, because I’m little!
For though I am an elf o’ mettle,
An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,
I’m unco *****.
An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d her through the place,
An’ hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows,
An’ sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu’ death!
Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’—
O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell!
There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
Then heave him in.
When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink,
An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup a clink
Within his yett,
An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink,
Red-reekin het.
Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry—
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
An’ gie their hides a noble curry
Wi’ oil of aik!
As for the jurr-puir worthless body!
She’s got mischief enough already;
Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy
She’s suffer’d sair;
But, may she wintle in a woody,
If she wh-e mair!
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Written by
Robert Burns |
THE WIND blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun’s departing beam
Look’d on the fading yellow woods,
That wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail’d his lord,
Whom Death had all untimely ta’en.
He lean’d him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years;
His locks were bleached white with time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears!
And as he touch’d his trembling harp,
And as he tun’d his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves,
To Echo bore the notes alang.
“Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing,
The reliques o’ the vernal queir!
Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds
The honours of the agèd year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e;
But nocht in all-revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.
“I am a bending agèd tree,
That long has stood the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hald of earth is gane;
Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.
“I’ve seen sae mony changefu’ years,
On earth I am a stranger grown:
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing, and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d,
I bear alane my lade o’ care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a’ that would my sorrows share.
“And last, (the sum of a’ my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flow’r amang our barons bold,
His country’s pride, his country’s stay:
In weary being now I pine,
For a’ the life of life is dead,
And hope has left may aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.
“Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only, friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the Bard
Thou brought from Fortune’s mirkest gloom.
“In Poverty’s low barren vale,
Thick mists obscure involv’d me round;
Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found’st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.
“O! why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen grey with time?
Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prim
Why did I live to see that day—
A day to me so full of woe?
O! had I met the mortal shaft
That laid my benefactor low!
“The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a’ that thou hast done for me!”
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O LADY Mary Ann looks o’er the Castle wa’,
She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba’,
The youngest he was the flower amang them a’,
My bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.
O father, O father, an ye think it fit,
We’ll send him a year to the college yet,
We’ll sew a green ribbon round about his hat,
And that will let them ken he’s to marry yet.
Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,
And the longer it blossom’d the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.
Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie and bloomin’ and straught was its make,
The sun took delight to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag o’ the forest yet.
The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa’ that we hae seen,
But far better days I trust will come again;
For my bonie laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.
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