The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 160

HE.

As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly.

SHE.

As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my w.i.l.l.y.

HE.

The milder sun and bluer sky That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.

The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my w.i.l.l.y.

HE.

The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly.

SHE.

The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' w.i.l.l.y.

HE.

Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, And that's my ain dear Philly.

SHE.

What's a' joys that gowd can gie?

I care nae wealth a single flie; The lad I love's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear w.i.l.l.y.

CCx.x.xVI.

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

Tune--"_Lumps o' Pudding._"

[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. "Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and "Andro wi' his cutty Gun," the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, "Contented wi'

Little."]

I.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow end care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

II.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught: My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a': When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

IV.

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst word is--"Welcome, and welcome again!"

CCx.x.xVII.

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.

Tune--"_Roy's Wife._"

[When Burns transcribed the following song for Thomson, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, "Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am resolved to have my quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this song complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady replied in a strain equally tender and forgiving.]

I.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Well thou know'st my aching heart-- And canst thou leave me thus for pity?

In this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?

Is this thy faithful swain's reward-- An aching, broken heart, my Katy!

II.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear-- But not a love like mine, my Katy!

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?

Well thou know'st my aching heart-- And canst thou leave me thus for pity?