The Real Robert Burns Part 13

The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; every His cheek to hers he fondly laid, And whispered thus his tale of love.

In 'Phillis the Fair' he writes:

While larks, with little wing, fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, forth did I fare; Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song glad did I share; While yon wild-flow'rs among, chance led me there!

Sweet to the op'ning day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair.

In 'By Allan Stream' he describes the glories of Nature, but gives them second place to the joys of love:

The haunt o' spring's the primrose-brae, The summer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her short'ning day Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow; But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?

Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

In 'Phillis, the Queen o' the Fair' he uses many beautiful things to ill.u.s.trate her charms:

The daisy amused my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild: Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis-- For she is Simplicity's child.

The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet, balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily!

But fairer and purer her breast.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye.

Her voice is the song o' the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains On music, and pleasure, and love.

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting!

The bloom of a fine summer's day; While worth, in the mind o' my Phillis, Will flourish without a decay.

In 'My Love is like a Red, Red Rose' he uses exquisite symbolism:

My luve is like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; My luve is like a 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.

In the pastoral song, 'Behold, my Love, how Green the Groves,' he says in the last verse:

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd to deck That spotless breast o' thine; The courtier's gems may witness love, But never love like mine.

In the dialogue song 'Philly and w.i.l.l.y,'

_He says_, As songsters of the early spring Are ilka day more sweet to hear, each So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly.

_She replies_, As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my w.i.l.l.y.

In 'O Bonnie was yon Rosy Brier' he says:

O bonnie was yon rosy brier That blooms so far frae haunt o' man; And bonnie she, and ah, how dear!

It shaded frae the e'ening sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover's vow They witnessed in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and p.r.i.c.kly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair.

But love is far a sweeter flower, Amid life's th.o.r.n.y path o' care.

In 'A Health to Ane I Loe Dear'--one of his most perfect love-songs--he says:

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear.

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside.

In 'My Peggy's Charms,' describing Miss Margaret Chalmers, Burns confines himself mainly to her mental and spiritual charms. This was clearly a distinctive characteristic of nearly the whole of his love-songs. No other man ever wrote so many pure songs without suggestion of the flesh as did Robert Burns.

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind.

I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair.

Her native grace, so void of art; But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, n.o.bly dear; The gentle look that rage disarms-- These are all immortal charms.

In his 'Epistle to Davie--A Brother Poet' Burns, after detailing the many hards.h.i.+ps and sorrows of the poor, forgets the hards.h.i.+ps, and recalls his blessings:

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover and the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, And I my darling Jean.

It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name; It heats me, it beets me, kindles And sets me a' on flame.

O all ye powers who rule above!

O Thou whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming through my heart, Or my more dear immortal part Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, All-Seeing, O hear my fervent prayer; Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care.

Three years after the death of Highland Mary, Burns remained out in the stackyard on Ellisland farm and composed 'To Mary in Heaven.' Nothing could more strikingly prove the sincerity, the permanence, the purity, and the sacredness of the white-souled love of Burns than this poem:

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget that hallow'd grove Where, by the winding Ayr, we met To live one day of parting love?

Eternity can not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled sh.o.r.e, O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn h.o.a.r Twined amorous round the raptured scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray; Till too, too soon, the glowing west, Proclaimed the speed of winged day.