_"
[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not
much, is believed to be old.
[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not
much, is believed to be old.
Robert Burns
"I hae been a devil the feck o' my life;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. "
* * * * *
CXXXVII.
JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS.
Tune--"_Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. _"
[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its
origin: and he is silent about it in his memoranda. ]
I.
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss,
O'er the mountains he is gane;
And with him is a' my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remain.
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain.
II.
When the shades of evening creep
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blithe his waukening be!
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still at hame.
* * * * *
CXXXVIII.
LADY ONLIE.
Tune--"_The Ruffian's Rant.
_"
[Communicated to the Museum in the handwriting of Burns: part, but not
much, is believed to be old. ]
I.
A' the lads o' Thornie-bank,
When they gae to the shore o' Bucky,
They'll step in an' tak' a pint
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!
Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky;
I wish her sale for her gude ale,
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
II.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean,
I wat she is a dainty chucky;
And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky,
Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky
I wish her sale for her gude ale,
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
* * * * *
CXXXIX.
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
Tune--"_Captain O'Kean. _"
["Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at the desire of a friend who had
an equal enthusiasm for the air and subject. " The friend alluded to is
supposed to be Robert Cleghorn: he loved the air much, and he was much
of a Jacobite. ]
I.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
