No More Learning

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'.
His coat is the hue
Of his bonnet sae blue;
His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae,
And his shoon like the slae.
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'.

II.

For beauty and fortune
The laddie's been courtin';
Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw;
But chiefly the siller,
That gars him gang till her,
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.
There's Meg wi' the mailen
That fain wad a haen him;
And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha';
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy
Maist fetters his fancy--
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'.

* * * * *




LXXIX.