No More Learning

Tune--"_Miss Muir. _"

[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the
lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davies. ]


I.

O how shall I, unskilfu', try
The poet's occupation,
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours,
That whispers inspiration?
Even they maun dare an effort mair,
Than aught they ever gave us,
Or they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms o' lovely Davies.
Each eye it cheers, when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning.
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower
The garden is adorning.
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,
When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart when we maun part
Frae charming lovely Davies.

II.

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift,
That maks us mair than princes;
A scepter'd hand, a king's command,
Is in her darting glances:
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms,
Even he her willing slave is;
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign
Of conquering, lovely Davies.
My muse to dream of such a theme,
Her feeble pow'rs surrender:
The eagle's gaze alone surveys
The sun's meridian splendour:
I wad in vain essay the strain,
The deed too daring brave is!
I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire
The charms o' lovely Davies.

* * * * *




CXIX.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

Tune--"_The weary Pund o' Tow.
_"

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Museum; but
it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state
upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns. " The critical knight
might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many songs
which he took without scruple from my edition, where they were claimed
for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as
it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet: I said "the
idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words. " It was sent
by Burns to the Museum, and in his own handwriting. ]


I.

The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow:
I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.
I bought my wife a stane o' lint
As gude as e'er did grow;
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.

II.

There sat a bottle in a bole,
Beyont the ingle low,
And ay she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stowrie tow.

III.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!
She took the rock, and wi' a knock
She brak it o'er my pow.

IV.

At last her feet--I sang to see't--
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;
And or I wad anither jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.