No More Learning

Down in a shady walk
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk,
Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny!
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.

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CC.

HAD I A CAVE.

Tune--"Robin Adair. "

[Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-adventure Burns
composed this song for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well
connected, and of agreeable and polished manners. The story of his
faithless mistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793, when these
words were written: the hero of the lay has been long dead; the
heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh. ]


I.

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

II.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows--fleeting as air!
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there!

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CCI.

BY ALLAN STREAM.

["Bravo!
say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for
Thomson. "It is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, you
can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses.
Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all the
year else. " The old song of "O my love Annie's very bonnie," helped
the muse of Burns with this lyric. ]


I.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready;
I listened to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony:
And aye the wild wood echoes rang--
O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie!

II.

O happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever? "
While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow,--we ne'er should sever.

III.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae,
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, thro' her shortening 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?

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[Illustration: "O WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD". ]

CCII.