No More Learning

If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

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[Illustration: "LOGAN BRAES. "]

CXCVI.

LOGAN WATER.

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793,
"felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those
mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of wantoness of ambition, or
often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day
I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all
like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in
three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to
have some merit. " The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit,
the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a
Nithsdale poet. ]


I.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride!
And years synsyne hae o'er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

II.

Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

III.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile:
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

IV.

O wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? [140]
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan braes!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 140: Originally--

"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys,
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries. "]

* * * * *




CXCVII.

THE RED, RED ROSE.

Air--"_Hughie Graham. _"

[There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like
fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing
where the hand of the restorer has been. This seems the case with the
first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and
completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be
inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let
the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as
beautiful as it was original. ]


I.

O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.