MY NATIVE LAND SAE FAR AWA

Thou gloomy December.1

ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember-
Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair!

Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!
Anguish unmingled, and agony pure!

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown;
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Till my last hope and last comfort is gone.

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair.

My Native Land Sae Far Awa.2

O SAD and heavy, should I part,
But for her sake, sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa.

Thou that of a' things Maker art,
That formed this Fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start
At this my way sae far awa.

1 The occasion is the same: the sentiment is dramatic, or feigned. Mrs Maclehose, of course, was not the poet's "last hope and last comfort. Few if any poets are more sincere than Burns, yet even to him

the song, on occasion, suggests the sentiment, rather than the sentiment the song.

2 Mrs Maclehose may, or possibly may not, be the occasion of this ditty.

I DO CONFESS

How true is love to pure desert!
Like mine for her sae far awa;
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart,
While, oh, she is sae far awa!

Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but her's sae far awa;
But fairer never touch'd a heart
Than her's, the Fair, sae far awa.

Lines on Fergusson, the Poet.1
ILL-FATED genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,
To think Life's sun did set e'er well begun
To shed its influence on thy bright career.

O why should truest Worth and Genius pine
Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,
While titled knaves and idiot-Greatness shine
In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

I Do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair.
Alteration of an Old Poem.

I DO confess thou art sae fair,

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve,

Had I na found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art so thriftless o' thy sweets,

Thy favours are the silly wind

That kisses ilka thing it meets.

1 "Inscribed in a copy of the World" (Chambers.)

2 A Scottish, and to Burns's mind, an improved version of Sir Robert Aytoun's

song,

"I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

The stanza of six becomes one of four lines.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW

a recess.

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pu'd and worn a common toy.

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;
And sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.

The weary Pund o' Tow.1

Chorus.-The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;

I think my wife will end her life,
Before she spin her tow.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!

Ꮎ

She took the rock, and wi' a knock,

She brak it o'er my pow.

The weary pund, &c.

1 The refrain, or something akin to it, is ancient.

• distaff.

SCROGGAM, MY DEARIE

At last her feet-I sang to see't!
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe,
And or I wad anither jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.a
The weary pund, &c.

When she cam' ben she Bobbed.1

O WHEN she cam' ben she bobbed fu' law,
O when she cam' ben she bobbed fu' law,
And when she cam' ben, she kiss'd Cockpen,
And syne denied she did it at a'.

And was na Cockpen right saucy witha'?
And was na Cockpen right saucy witha'?
In leaving the daughter of a lord,

And kissin a collier lassie an' a'!

O never look down, my lassie, at a',
O never look down, my lassie, at a',
Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete,
As the finest dame in castle or ha'.

Tho' thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma',
Tho' thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma',
Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark,
And lady Jean was never sae braw.

Scroggam, my Dearie.2

THERE was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen,
Scroggam;

She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

1 An old song mended.

⚫ rope.

2 This has, at least, every internal indication of antiquity.

MY COLLIER LADDIE

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever,
Scroggam ;

The priest o' the parish he fell in anither;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

They laid them side by side thegither,
Scroggam;

That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither;
Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.

My Collier Laddie.1

WHARE live ye, my bonie lass?
And tell me what they ca' ye;
My name, she says, is mistress Jean,
And I follow the Collier laddie.

My name, she says, &c.

See you not yon hills and dales

The sun shines on sae brawlie;

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,
Gin ye'll leave your Collier laddie.
They a' are mine, &c.

Ye shall gang in gay attire,

Weel buskit up sae gaudy;

And ane to wait on every hand,

Gin ye'll leave your Collier laddie.
And ane to wait, &c.

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals sae lowly,
I wad turn my back on you and it a',
And embrace my Collier laddie.

I wad turn my back, &c. 1 Said by Burns to be old, but hint from antiquity. probably his own, with perhaps, some