The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 111

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.

II.

For beauty and fortune The laddie's been courtin'; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw; But chiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.

There's Meg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen him; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy Maist fetters his fancy-- But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.

LXXIX.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Tune--"_Failte na Miosg._"

[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, "The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.]

I.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

II.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

Lx.x.x.

JOHN ANDERSON.

Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo._"

[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrs.h.i.+re bard; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.

"John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo."]

I.

"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

II.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

Lx.x.xI.

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.

Tune--"_Awa Whigs, awa._"

[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly his.]

CHORUS.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae good at a'.

I

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom'd our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies.

II.

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust-- Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; And write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

III.

Our sad decay in Church and State Surpa.s.ses my descriving: The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we hae done wi' thriving.

IV.

Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, But we may see him wauken; Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae gude at a'.