The Complete Works

VII. THE RIGS O’ BARLEY

Tune—“Corn rigs are bonnie.”

[Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditions, been claimed as the heroine of this early song.]

 
I.
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:
The time flew by wi’ tentless heed,
’Till ’tween the late and early,
Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed,
To see me through the barley.
II.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi’ right good will,
Amang the rigs o’ barley:
I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain;
I lov’d her most sincerely;
I kiss’d her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
III.
I lock’d her in my fond embrace!
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place.
Amang the rigs o’ barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright.
That shone that hour so clearly?
She ay shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o’ barley!
IV.
I hae been blithe wi’ comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin’;
I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin’ gear;
I hae been happy thinkin’:
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’ barley.
Chorus.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs,
An’ corn rigs are bonnie:
I’ll ne’er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
 

VIII. MONTGOMERY’S PEGGY

Tune—“Galla-Water.”

[“My Montgomery’s Peggy,” says Burns, “was my deity for six or eight months: she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant: it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the affair.” The young lady listened to the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an interview, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another.]

 
I.
Altho’ my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
II.
When o’er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I’d seek some dell, and in my arms
I’d shelter dear Montgomery’s Peggy.
III.
Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me,
The sharin’t with Montgomery’s Peggy.
 

IX. THE MAUCHLINE LADY

Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

[The Mauchline lady who won the poet’s heart was Jean Armour: she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog run across some linen webs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this interview the world owes some of our most impassioned strains.]

 
When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was nae steady;
Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade,
A mistress still I had ay:
But when I came roun’ by Mauchline town,
Not dreadin’ any body,
My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.
 

X. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE

Tune—“The deuks dang o’er my daddy!”

[“The Highland Lassie” was Mary Campbell, whose too early death the poet sung in strains that will endure while the language lasts. “She was,” says Burns, “a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love.”]

 
I.
Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse’s care:
Their titles a’ are empty show;
Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,
I set me down wi’ right good-will,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.
II.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine,
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland lassie, O.
III.
But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I’ll love my Highland lassie, O.
IV.
Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour’s glow,
My faithful Highland lassie, O.
V.
For her I’ll dare the billows’ roar,
For her I’ll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.
VI.
She has my heart, she has my hand,
by sacred truth and honour’s band!
’Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.
 

XI. PEGGY

[The heroine of this song is said to have been “Montgomery’s Peggy.”]

Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”

 
I.
Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
Bring autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moor-cock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night
To muse upon my charmer.
II.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
III.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion.
IV.
But Peggy, dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come, let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.
V.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
 

XII. THE RANTIN’ DOG, THE DADDIE O’T

Tune—“East nook o’ Fife.”

[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother of “Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,” a person whom the poet regarded, as he says, both for her form and her grace.]

 
I.
O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?—
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
II.
O wha will own he did the fau’t?
O wha will buy the groanin’ maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
III.
When I mount the creepie chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
IV.
Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will make me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?—
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.
 

XIII. MY HEART WAS ANCE

Tune—“To the weavers gin ye go.”

[“The chorus of this song,” says Burns, in his note to the Museum, “is old, the rest is mine.” The “bonnie, westlin weaver lad” is said to have been one of the rivals of the poet in the affection of a west landlady.]

 
I.
My heart was ance as blythe and free
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad
Has gart me change my sang.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne’er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.
II.
My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary, weary warpin o’t
Has gart me sigh and sab.
III.
A bonnie westlin weaver lad,
Sat working at his loom;
He took my heart as wi’ a net,
In every knot and thrum.
IV.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And ay I ca’d it roun’;
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.
V.
The moon was sinking in the west
Wi’ visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy’d me thro’ the glen.
VI.
But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel’s mysel.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;
I rede you right gang ne’er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.
 

XIV. NANNIE

Tune—“My Nannie, O.”

[Agnes Fleming, servant at Calcothill, inspired this fine song: she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and said, “Aye, atweel he made a great wark about me.”]

 
I.
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
‘Mang moors an’ mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has closed,
And I’ll awa to Nannie, O.
II.
The westlin wind blaws loud an’ shrill;
The night’s baith mirk and rainy, O;
But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll steal,
An’ owre the hills to Nannie, O.
III.
My Nannie’s charming, sweet, an’ young;
Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
IV.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she’s bonnie, O:
The op’ning gowan, wat wi’ dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
V.
A country lad is my degree,
An’ few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be?
I’m welcome ay to Nannie, O.
VI.
My riches a’s my penny-fee,
An’ I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’ my Nannie, O.
VII.
Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I’m as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An’ has nae care but Nannie, O.
VIII.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O:
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an’ love my Nannie, O.
 

XV. A FRAGMENT

Tune—“John Anderson my jo.”

[This verse, written early, and probably intended for the starting verse of a song, was found among the papers of the poet.]

 
One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker’d to the seas;
A cushat crooded o’er me,
That echoed thro’ the braes.
 

XVI. BONNIE PEGGY ALISON

Tune—“Braes o’ Balquihidder.”

[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out songs without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery’s Peggy, but this seems doubtful.]

Chorus.

 
I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
An’ I’ll kiss thee o’er again;
An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
I.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
II.
When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share
Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O!
III.
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear, I’m thine for ever, O!—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
An’ I’ll kiss thee o’er again;
An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
 

XVII. THERE’S NOUGHT BUT CARE

Tune—“Green grow the rashes.”

[“Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is the last and most perfect work of nature,” says an old writer, in a rare old book: a passage which expresses the sentiment of Burns; yet it is all but certain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with “Cupid’s Whirlygig,” where these words are to be found.]

Chorus

 
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
I.
There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O.
II.
The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O;
An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
III.
But gie me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O.
IV.
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.
V.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
 

XVIII. MY JEAN!

Tune—“The Northern Lass.”

[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.]

 
Though cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart,
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean
 

XIX. ROBIN

Tune—“Daintie Davie.”

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin’s palm something which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips.]

 
I.
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o’ whatna style
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!
II.
Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
III.
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo’ she, wha lives will see the proof.
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we’ll ca’ him Robin
IV.
He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’,
But ay a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit to us a’,
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.
V.
But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’,
So leeze me on thee, Robin.
VI.
Guid faith, quo’ she, I doubt you gar,
The bonnie lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessin’s on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
 

 
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!
 

XX. HER FLOWING LOCKS

Tune—(unknown.)

[One day—it is tradition that speaks—Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]

 
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.
 

XXI. O LEAVE NOVELS

Tune—“ Mauchline belles.”

[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other verse informs us:—

 
“Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland’s divine,
Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There’s beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton,
But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.”]
I.
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
II.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.
III.
Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part—
’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
IV.
The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison’d darts of steel;
The frank address and politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.
 

XXII. YOUNG PEGGY

Tune—“Last time I cam o’er the muir.”

[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom he had, according to his own account, wasted eights months of courtship. We hear no more of Montgomery’s Peggy.]

 
I.
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning:
Her eyes outshone the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh’ning flower.
II.
Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced them;
They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is, as the evening mild,
When feather’d tribes are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
III.
Were fortune lovely Peggy’s foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction’s eye no aim can gain,
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful envy grins in vain
The poison’d tooth to fasten.
IV.
Ye powers of honour, love, and truth,
From every ill defend her;
Inspire the highly-favour’d youth,
The destinies intend her:
Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom,
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.
 

XXIII. THE CURE FOR ALL CARE

Tune—“Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let’s fly.”

[Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns are scarcely an exception.]

 
I.
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business, contriving to snare—
For a big-bellied bottle’s the whole of my care.
II.
The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho’ ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III.
Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
IV.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle’s a cure for all care.
V.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;—
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI.
“Life’s cares they are comforts,”^[138] – a maxim laid down
By the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair;
For a big-bellied bottle’s a heav’n of care.
 

VII. ADDED IN A MASON LODGE

 
Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow.
The honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with care!
 

XXIV. ELIZA

Tune—“Gilderoy.”

[My late excellent friend, John Galt, informed me that the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Barbour.]

 
I.
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel Fates between us throw
A boundless ocean’s roar:
But boundless oceans roaring wide
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee!
II.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!
The latest throb that leaves my heart,
While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!
 

XXV. THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE

Tune—“Shawnboy.”

[“This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge.” These interesting words are on the original, in the poet’s handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.]

 
I.
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured station.
I’ve little to say, but only to pray,
As praying’s the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse,
’Tis seldom her favourite passion.
II.
Ye powers who preside o’er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element’s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order;
Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention
Or withered envy ne’er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre.
 

XXVI. MENIE

Tune.—“Johnny’s grey breeks.”

[Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account: It first appeared in the second edition of the poet’s works, and as the chorus was written by an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather than of the heart.]

 
I.
Again rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be.
II.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi’lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
III.
The merry plough-boy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
IV.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
V.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
VI.
And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
VII.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree:
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk,
An’ it winna let a body be.