Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 53

A' The lads o' Thorniebank, When they gae to the sh.o.r.e o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky.

Chorus.--Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at sh.o.r.e o' Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the sh.o.r.e o' Bucky.

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie; And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!

Lady Onlie, &c.

Theniel Menzies' Bonie Mary

Air--"The Ruffian's Rant," or "Roy's Wife."

In comin by the brig o' Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawnin in the sky, We drank a health to bonie Mary.

Chorus.--Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown's a berry; And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile, The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary.

Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, &c.

We lap a' danc'd the lee-lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay For kissin Theniel's bonie Mary.

Theniel Menzies' bonie Mary, &c.

The Bonie La.s.s Of Albany^1

Tune--"Mary's Dream."

My heart is wae, and unco wae, To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green An' the bonie La.s.s of Albany.

This lovely maid's of royal blood That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, But oh, alas! for her bonie face, They've wrang'd the La.s.s of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree, And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the La.s.s of Albany.

But there's a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We'll send him o'er to his native sh.o.r.e, And bring our ain sweet Albany.

Alas the day, and woe the day, A false usurper wan the gree, Who now commands the towers and lands-- The royal right of Albany.

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, On bended knees most fervently, The time may come, with pipe an' drum We'll welcome hame fair Albany.

[Footnote 1: Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.]

On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit

A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.

"This was the production of a solitary forenoon's walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of grat.i.tude are so impotent in this world. 'Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come."

--R.B., Glenriddell MSS.

Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?

Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly?

Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?-- Common friend to you and me, yature's gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blus.h.i.+ng for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace, Man, your proud, usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels: But Man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, Glories in his heart humane-- And creatures for his pleasure slain!

In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave.

Blythe Was She^1

Tune--"Andro and his Cutty Gun."

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 Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonier la.s.s 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.

[Footnote 1: Written at Oughtertyre. Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray, a cousin of Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.--Lang.]

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o'er the Lawlands I hae been; But Phemie was the blythest la.s.s That ever trod the dewy green.

Blythe, blythe, &c.

A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk

A Rose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its th.o.r.n.y stalk, All on a dewy morning.