The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 111

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.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Tune--"_Failte na Miosg._"

[The words and the air are in the Museum, to which they were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, "The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.]

I.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

II.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

Lx.x.x.

JOHN ANDERSON.

Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo._"

[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.

"John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo."]

I.

"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

II.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

Lx.x.xI.

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.

Tune--"_Awa Whigs, awa._"

[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly his.]

CHORUS.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae good at a'.

I

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom'd our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither'd a' our posies.

II.

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust-- Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; And write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

III.

Our sad decay in Church and State Surpa.s.ses my descriving: The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, And we hae done wi' thriving.

IV.

Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, But we may see him wauken; Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, Ye'll do nae gude at a'.