But Nith maun be my Muse's well;
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel':
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel':
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
Robert Forst
"_
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries,
musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly
by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the
Museum. ]
I.
First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married--spier nae mair--
Whistle o'er the lave o't. --
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child;
Wiser men than me's beguil'd--
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
II.
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love, and how we 'gree,
I care na by how few may see;
Whistle o'er the lave o't. --
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write--but Meg maun see't--
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.
Tune--"_My love is lost to me. _"
[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the
air is one of Oswald's. ]
I.
O, were I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse's well;
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel':
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
II.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I coudna sing, I coudna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een--
By heaven and earth I love thee!
III.
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name--
I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;
Till then--and then I love thee.
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
_To a Gaelic Air. _
["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a
Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the
rest is mine. " They are both in the Museum. ]
I.
There's a youth in this city,
It were a great pity
That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa:
For he's bonnie an' braw,
Weel-favour'd an' a',
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.
[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries,
musician: the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly
by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the
Museum. ]
I.
First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married--spier nae mair--
Whistle o'er the lave o't. --
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child;
Wiser men than me's beguil'd--
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
II.
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love, and how we 'gree,
I care na by how few may see;
Whistle o'er the lave o't. --
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write--but Meg maun see't--
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
* * * * *
LXXVII.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.
Tune--"_My love is lost to me. _"
[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the
air is one of Oswald's. ]
I.
O, were I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse's well;
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel':
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
II.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day
I coudna sing, I coudna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een--
By heaven and earth I love thee!
III.
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name--
I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;
Till then--and then I love thee.
* * * * *
LXXVIII.
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
_To a Gaelic Air. _
["This air," says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a
Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the
rest is mine. " They are both in the Museum. ]
I.
There's a youth in this city,
It were a great pity
That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa:
For he's bonnie an' braw,
Weel-favour'd an' a',
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.
