Robert Burns: How To Know Him. William Allan Neilson
o' sense, wot
An' could behave hersel wi' mense; manners
I'll say't, she never brak a fence
Thro' thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence parlor
Sin' Mailie's dead. Since
Or, if he wanders up the howe, glen
Her living image in her yowe ewe-lamb
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, knoll
For bits o' bread,
An' down the briny pearls rowe roll
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tups, issue
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; matted fleece
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae 'yont the Tweed;
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips fleece, shears
Than Mailie's, dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape Woe to
That vile wanchancie thing—a rape! dangerous
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, growl
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
For Mailie dead.
O a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! bagpipes
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed;
His heart will never get aboon! rejoice
His Mailie's dead!
How long he continued to mourn for Ellison Begbie, it is hard to say; but the three following songs, inspired, it would seem, by three different girls, testify at once to his power of recuperation and the rapid maturing of his talent. All seem to have been written between the date of his return from Irvine and the death of his father.
MARY MORISON
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, bear, struggle
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string Last night
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', went
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, fine
And yon the toast of a' the town, the other
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee? fault
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
MY NANNIE O
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa' to Nannie, O.
The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill, western, keen
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; both dark
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nannie, O. over
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young:
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The opening gowan, wat wi' dew, daisy, wet
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,
An' few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they be,
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee, wages
An' I maun guide it cannie, O; carefully
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, lucre
My thoughts are a'—my Nannie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O. cows
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, holds
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, reck not
I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nannie, O.
THE RIGS O' BARLEY
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie, ridges
Beneath the moon's unclouded light
I held awa to Annie: took my way
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, careless
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi' right good will
Amang the rigs o' barley;
I kent her heart was a' my ain; knew, own
I loved her most sincerely;
I kissed her owre and owre again over
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I locked her in