Written by
Robert Burns |
SWEET closes the ev’ning on Craigieburn Wood,
And blythely awaukens the morrow;
But the pride o’ the spring in the Craigieburn Wood
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
Chorus.—Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee!
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep
That’s laid in the bed beyond thee!
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.
I can na tell, I maun na tell,
I daur na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
Beyond thee, &c.
I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonie;
But oh, what will my torment be,
If thou refuse thy Johnie!
Beyond thee, &c.
To see thee in another’s arms,
In love to lie and languish,
’Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi’ anguish.
Beyond thee, &c.
But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say thou lo’es nane before me;
And a’ may days o’ life to come
I’ll gratefully adore thee,
Beyond thee, &c.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk or market to be seen;
When a’ our fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie;
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a’ the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down;
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!
As in the bosom of the stream,
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast of bonie Jean.
And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.
But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale o’ love
Ae e’ening on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly laid,
And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:
“O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me,
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?
“At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.”
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush’d a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O HAD each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
O POORTITH cauld, and restless love,
Ye wrack my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An ’twere na for my Jeanie.
Chorus.—O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune’s shining?
The warld’s wealth, when I think on,
It’s pride and a’ the lave o’t;
O fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t!
O why, &c.
Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
She talks o’ rank and fashion.
O why, &c.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
O why, &c.
How blest the simple cotter’s fate!
He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make him eerie,
O why, &c.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
COME, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne’er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The world’s wealth and grandeur:
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone,
That I may live to love her.
Thus, in my arms, wi’ a’ her charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I’ll seek nae main o’ Heav’n to share,
Tha sic a moment’s pleasure:
And by thy e’en sae bonie blue,
I swear I’m thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
Chorus—O wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin sun upon,
The dearest maid’s in yon town,
That e’ening sun is shining on.
NOW haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flowers that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e!
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year;
And doubly welcome be the Spring,
The season to my Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
Among the broomy braes sae green;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
Without my Fair, not a’ the charms
O’ Paradise could yield me joy;
But give me Jeanie in my arms
And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky!
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
My cave wad be a lover’s bower,
Tho’ raging Winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
O sweet is she in yon town,
The sinkin, sun’s gane down upon;
A fairer than’s in yon town,
His setting beam ne’er shone upon.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
If angry Fate is sworn my foe,
And suff’ring I am doom’d to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
For while life’s dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart,
And she, as fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.
O wat ye wha’s, &c.
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