Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 93

The King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' you by an' by; Or else the Deil's be in it.

Grace After Meat

Lord, we thank, and thee adore, For temporal gifts we little merit; At present we will ask no more-- Let William Hislop give the spirit.

Grace Before And After Meat

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore, Do thou stand us in stead, And send us, from thy bounteous store, A tup or wether head! Amen.

O Lord, since we have feasted thus, Which we so little merit, Let Meg now take away the flesh, And Jock bring in the spirit! Amen.

Impromptu On General Dumourier's Desertion From The French Republican Army

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier: How does Dampiere do?

Ay, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, I will take my chance with you; By my soul, I'll dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till Freedom's spark be out, Then we'll be d.a.m.n'd, no doubt, Dumourier.

The Last Time I Came O'er The Moor

The last time I came o'er the moor, And left Maria's dwelling, What throes, what tortures pa.s.sing cure, Were in my bosom swelling: Condemn'd to see my rival's reign, While I in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, despairing, I Fain, fain, my crime would cover; Th' unweeting groan, the bursting sigh, Betray the guilty lover.

I know my doom must be despair, Thou wilt nor canst relieve me; But oh, Maria, hear my prayer, For Pity's sake forgive me!

The music of thy tongue I heard, Nor wist while it enslav'd me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, Till fear no more had sav'd me: The unwary sailor thus, aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing, 'Mid circling horrors yields at last To overwhelming ruin.

Logan Braes

Tune--"Logan Water."

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride, And years sin syne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun: But now thy flowery banks appear Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month of May Has made our hills and valleys gay; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, And Evening's tears are tears o' joy: My soul, delightless a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush: Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile; But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pa.s.s widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O wae be to you, Men o' State, That brethren rouse to deadly hate!

As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tear, the orphan's cry?

But soon may peace bring happy days, And Willie hame to Logan braes!

Blythe Hae I been On Yon Hill

Tune--"The Quaker's Wife."

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me; Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring; Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb despairing!

If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the gra.s.s-green sod, Soon maun be my dwelling.

O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair

Air--"Hughie Graham."

O were my love yon Lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring, And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing!

How I wad mourn when it was torn By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'; And I myself a drap o' dew, Into her bonie breast to fa'!

O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light!

Bonie Jean--A Ballad

To its ain tune.

There was a la.s.s, and she was fair, At kirk or market to be seen; When a' our fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonie Jean.