No More Learning

O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer,
An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing,
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,
An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.

II.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,
O' marrying Bess to gie her a slave:
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens,
And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave.
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,
An' come to my arms and kiss me again!
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie!
And blest be the day I did it again.

* * * * *




LXXXIV.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

Tune--"_The Braes o' Ballochmyle. _"

[Mary Whitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, was the
heroine of this song: it was written when that ancient family left
their ancient inheritance. It is in the Museum, with an air by Allan
Masterton. ]


I.

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll nourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

* * * * *




LXXXV.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Tune--"_Death of Captain Cook. _"

[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his
fits of melancholy, on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. All
the day he had been thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw
himself down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with his eyes
fixed on "a bright, particular star," was found by his wife, who with
difficulty brought him in from the chill midnight air. The song was
already composed, and he had only to commit it to paper. It first
appeared in the Museum. ]


I.

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?