No More Learning

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

* * * * *




CLXXXVII.

LORD GREGORY.

[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson's collection, in
imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained,
with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his
composition. Wolcot's song was, indeed, written first, but they are
both but imitations of that most exquisite old ballad, "Fair Annie of
Lochryan," which neither Wolcot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it
far surpasses both their songs. ]


I.

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!

II.

An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

III.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwin-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?

IV.

How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.

V.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast--
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!

VI.

Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see!
But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!

* * * * *




CLXXXVIII.

MARY MORISON.

Tune--"_Bide ye yet. _"

["The song prefixed," observes Burns to Thomson, "is one of my
juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very
remarkable either for its merits or its demerits. " "Of all the
productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious
love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old
ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting
hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison. " The song is
supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at
Mauchline. ]


I.

O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!