MY PEGGY'S CHARMS 1 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, I love my Peggy's angel air, The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 1 "Peggy" was Miss Margaret Chalmers, whose "immortal charms" made a deep impression on the heart of Burns; so deep that his last Poem, written nine days before he died, was written about her. He told Clarinda of his fondness for Peggy, so it is appropriate to place this poem and the following at the end of the poems he wrote to Clarinda. BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS 1 WHERE, braving angry winter's storms, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 1 To Peggy Chalmers. FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS 1 Chorus.-Fairest maid on Devon banks, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou wert wont to do? FULL Well thou know'st I love thee dear, Then come, thou fairest of the fair, No love but thine my heart shall know. This his last song was written to Peggy Chalmers. She said Burns asked her to marry him at one time. He certainly greatly admired her. The song was written nine days before he died. THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE 1 THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE 1 THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let Foreign Lands reckon, Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk, lowly, unseen: For there, lightly tripping, among the wild flowers, A-list'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny valleys, What are they?—the haunt of the Tyrant and Slave. The Slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views with disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love's willing fetters-the chains o' his Jean. 1 To Jean Lorimer. 'TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE E'E1 'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin, Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoin'; 'Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stoun glance o' kindness, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stoun glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 1 Written to Jean Lorimer. |