Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 6

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead!

Poor Mailie's Elegy

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead!

The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend an' neebor dear In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel' wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships, Frae 'yont the Tweed.

A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing--a raip!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' c.r.a.pe For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!

Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon-- His Mailie's dead!

Song--The Rigs O' Barley

Tune--"Corn Rigs are bonie."

It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie; The time flew by, wi' tentless heed, Till, 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed To see me thro' the barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

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 ken't her heart was a' my ain; I lov'd her most sincerely;

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly!

She aye shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

Song Composed In August

Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorc.o.c.k springs on whirring wings Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells, The plover loves the mountains; The woodc.o.c.k haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains: Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine, Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow, The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of Nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And ev'ry happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not Autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!

Song

Tune--"My Nanie, 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 Nanie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hill to Nanie, O.

My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nanie, O.

Her face is fair, her heart is true; As spotless as she's bonie, O: The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nanie, 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 Nanie, O.

My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nanie, O.

Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nanie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by; I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O: Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nanie, O.