Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 97

"Now Jove, for once be mighty civil.

To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day!

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me."

"'Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

My Spouse Nancy

Tune--"My Jo Janet."

"Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir."

"One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it Man or Woman, say, My spouse Nancy?'

"If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance!"

"Sad shall I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I'll try to make a s.h.i.+ft, My spouse Nancy."

"My poor heart, then break it must, My last hour I am near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think how you will bear it."

"I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy."

"Well, Sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!"

"I'll wed another like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all h.e.l.l will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy."

Address

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.

"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent--these are no laughing times: Can you--but, Miss, I own I have my fears-- Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"

I could no more--askance the creature eyeing, "D'ye think," said I, "this face was made for crying?

I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!"

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief: I also think--so may I be a bride!

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-- To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face--the beldam witch!

Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought--a rope--thy neck-- Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?

Laugh at her follies--laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder--that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell

"Praise Woman still," his lords.h.i.+p roars, "Deserv'd or not, no matter?"

But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter:

Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal sh.e.l.l; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.

1794

Remorseful Apology

The friend whom, wild from Wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah! why should I such scenes outlive?

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!-- 'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?

Tune--"The Sutor's Dochter."

Wilt thou be my Dearie?

When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee!

By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee: I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my Dearie!

Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my Dearie!

La.s.sie, say thou lo'es me; Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, O say na thou'lt refuse me!

If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, Let me, la.s.sie, quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo'es me!

La.s.sie, let me quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo'es me!