"I
got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron,
which she calls 'The Banks of Cree.
got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron,
which she calls 'The Banks of Cree.
Robert Burns
Some sairie comfort still at last,
When a' their days are done, man;
My pains o' hell on earth are past,
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man.
O ay my wife she dang me,
And aft my wife did bang me,
If ye gie a woman a' her will,
Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.
* * * * *
CCXXII.
OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.
Tune--"_Lass o' Livistone. _"
[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars, the
Jessie of the poet's death-bed strains. It is inserted in Thomson's
collection: variations occur in several manuscripts, but they are
neither important nor curious. ]
I.
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
II.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there:
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
* * * * *
CCXXIII.
HERE IS THE GLEN.
Tune--"_Banks of Cree. _"
[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the following account.
"I
got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron,
which she calls 'The Banks of Cree. ' Cree is a beautiful romantic
stream: and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have
written the following song to it. "]
I.
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour--
O what can stay my lovely maid?
II.
'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
III.
It is Maria's voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer,
At once 'tis music--and 'tis love.
IV.
And art thou come? and art thou true?
O welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.
* * * * *
CCXXIV.
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.
