The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 118

I do confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in love, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind, That kisses ilka thing it meets.

II.

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue When pou'd and worn a common toy!

Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside Like ony common weed and vile.

CII.

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.

Tune--"_Yon wild mossy mountains._"

["This song alludes to a part of my private history, which is of no consequence to the world to know." These are the words of Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is supposed to be the "Nannie," who dwelt near the Lugar.]

I.

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.

II.

Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny sh.o.r.es, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet la.s.sie, my thought and my dream.

For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, Resides a sweet la.s.sie, my thought and my dream.

III.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath; For there, wi' my la.s.sie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.

For there wi' my la.s.sie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love.

IV.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; O' nice education but sma' is her share; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear la.s.sie because she lo'es me.

Her parentage humble as humble can be; But I lo'e the dear la.s.sie because she lo'es me.

V.

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?

And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts.

And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts.

VI.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, Has l.u.s.tre outs.h.i.+ning the diamond to me: And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my la.s.sie's all-conquering charms!

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my la.s.sie's all-conquering charms!

CIII.

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.

Tune--"_The Maid's Complaint._"

[Burns found this song in English attire, bestowed a Scottish dress upon it, and published it in the Museum, together with the air by Oswald, which is one of his best.]

I.

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Might weel awake desire.

Something in ilka part o' thee, To praise, to love, I find; But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind.

II.

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast, Than, if I canna mak thee sae, at least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness to thee: And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, For thee I'd bear to die.

CIV.

WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS.

[These verses were in latter years expanded by Burns into a song, for the collection of Thomson: the song will be found in its place: the variations are worthy of preservation.]

I.

When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie; And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie!

II.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary!

It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.