Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 98

A Fiddler In The North

Tune--"The King o' France he rade a race."

Amang the trees, where humming bees, At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O: 'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels, She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O: When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

Their capon craws an' queer "ha, ha's,"

They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did sc.r.a.pe and fyke, Till we were wae and weary, O: But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd, A prisoner, aughteen year awa', He fir'd a Fiddler in the North, That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

The Minstrel At Lincluden

Tune--"c.u.mnock Psalms."

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flow'r scents the dery air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

Chorus--A la.s.sie all alone, was making her moan, Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: In the bluidy wars they fa', and our honour's gane an' a', And broken-hearted we maun die.

The winds were laid, the air was till, The stars they shot along the sky; The tod was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply.

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

The burn, adown its hazelly path, Was rus.h.i.+ng by the ruin'd wa', Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase roarings seem'd to rise and fa'.

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din, Athort the lift they start and s.h.i.+ft, Like Fortune's favours, tint as win.

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

Now, looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd, When lo! in form of Minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd.

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumbering Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear!

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; But what he said--it was nae play, I winna venture't in my rhymes.

A la.s.sie all alone, &c.

A Vision

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rus.h.i.+ng by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din; Athwart the lift they start and s.h.i.+ft, Like Fortune's favors, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as Minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy--"Libertie!"

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumb'ring Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wailed his latter times; But what he said--it was nae play, I winna venture't in my rhymes.

A Red, Red Rose

[Hear Red, Red Rose]

O my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie la.s.s, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!

And fare-thee-weel, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

Young Jamie, Pride Of A' The Plain

Tune--"The Carlin of the Glen."

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain, Thro' a' our la.s.ses he did rove, And reign'd resistless King of Love.

But now, wi' sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and breirs; Or in the glens and rocky caves, His sad complaining dowie raves:--

"I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang'd with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear.

"The slighted maids my torments see, And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornful Fair, Forbids me e'er to see her mair."

The Flowery Banks Of Cree