But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? *
SCOTIA'S SONS HAE AYE BEEN FREE.
TUNE-Andrew and his cuttie Gun.
BLYTHE, blythe, around the nappie,
Let us join in social glee;
While we're here we'll hae a drappie-
Scotia's sons hae aye been free.
Our auld forbears, when ower their yill,
And cantie bickers round did ca',
Forsooth, they cried, anither gill!
For sweirt we are to gang awa.
Some hearty cock wad then hae sung
An auld Scotch sonnet aff wi' glee,
Syne pledged his cogue: the chorus rung,
Auld Scotia and her sons are free.
Thus cracks, and jokes, and sangs, gaed roun',
Till morn the screens o' light did draw:
Yet, dreich to rise, the carles roun'
Cried, Deoch an doras, then awa!
The landlord then the nappie brings,
And toasts, Fu' happy a' may be,
Syne tooms the cogue: the chorus rings,
Auld Scotia's sons shall aye be free.
Then like our dads o' auld lang syne,
Let social glee unite us a',
Aye blythe to meet, our mou's to weet,
But aye as sweirt to gang awa.
"I walked out," says Burns," with the Museum in my hand, (Johnson's Musical Museum,) and turning up Allan Water,' the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air: so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure."
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.
BUT are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weil ?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the key,
And see him come ashore.
Rise up and make a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.
Mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-
He likes to see them braw.
There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weil may fare.
My turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl-blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like cauler air;
His very fit has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thoucht :
In troth I'm like to greet.*
TUNE-The Braes o' Ballendine.
BENEATH a green shade, a lovely young swain
Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain;
So sad, yet so sweetly, he warbled his woe,
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow;
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.
How happy, he cried, my moments once flew,
Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view!
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey;
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they.
Now scenes of distress please only my sight;
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light.
Through changes in vain relief I pursue,
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew;
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair-
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air;
But love's ardent fire burns always the same,
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.
But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires;
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires :
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind,
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind.
Ah, wretch how can life be worthy thy care?
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair.+
From Herd's Collection, 1776.
The celebrated Tenducci used to sing this song, with great effect, in St Cecilia's Hall, at Edinburgh, about fifty years ago. Mr Tytler, who was a great patron of that obsolete place of amusement, says, in his Dissertation
TUNE-Bonnie Wee Thing.
BONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
. I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.
Wistfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,
In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.*
BALOO, baloo, my wee wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' ee!
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
For thou art doubly dear to me.
Thy daddie now is far awa,
A sailor laddie o'er the sea;
on Scottish Music, "Who could hear with insensibility, or without being moved in the highest degree, Tenducci sing, I'll never leave thee,' or, 'The Braes o' Ballendine?"" The air was composed by Oswald.
"Ballendine, or Bellendean Braes," which have given name to another Scottish song, are situated in the Carse of Gowrie; or, rather, they rise in gentle undulations from that fine piece of champagne ground_towards the Sidlaw Hills. Ballendean is the estate of William Trotter, Esq. who was Lord Provost of Edinburgh in 1826-7.
* "Composed," says Burns, (Reliques,) "on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies."
But hope aye hechts his safe return
To you, my bonnie lamb, an' me.
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' ee!
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
For thou art doubly dear to me.
Thy face is simple, sweet, an' mild,
Like ony summer e'ening fa';
Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black;
Thy neck is like the mountain snaw.
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' ee!
Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,
For thou art doubly dear to me.
O but thy daddie's absence lang
Would break my dowie heart in twa,
Wert thou no left, a dautit pledge,
To steal the eerie hours awa.
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST.
TUNE-Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.
COME, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust,
The warld'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' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure ;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure:
And, by thy een sae bonnie 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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