CHORUS. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The taylor staw the lynin o't. For though his locks be lyart gray, The pride of a' the parishen. THERE'S THREE TRUE GUDE FELLOWS. [Stenhouse's note on this fragment is as follows:-"The four lines in the Museum, beginning-'It's now the day is daw'ing,' introduced in the solo, were hastily penned by Burns at the request of the publisher, who was anxious to have the tune in that work, and the old words could not be recovered." The poet, writing to Alexander Cunningham from Ellisland, on 4th May, 1789, concludes thus:-"Cruikshank is a glorious production of the Author of man: you, he, and the noble Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles, are to me 'dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart.' I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune of 'Three gude fellows ayont yon glen.""] CHORUS. There's three true gude fellows, It's now the day is dawin, But 'or night do fa' in, Whase cock's best at crawin, Willie, thou sall ken. There's three, &c. O CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS? [The beautiful air, along with the nursery words of this song, were communicated by Burns to Johnson, and, by the vocalism of Urbani, it soon became highly popular. A second verse is as follows: This nursery ditty is understood to have suggested to Sir Walter Scott his beautiful "Lullaby," commencing "O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight Thy mother a lady so comely and bright."] O CAN ye sew cushions? and can ye sew sheets? Mony o' you, little for to gie you; Hee, O! wee, O! what would I do wi' you? SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. An Irish Air. [This luxurious lyric is one of the best of those that were inspired by the fascinating glamour of Jean Lorimer. The measure is peculiar, in consequence of the air for which it was composed, an Irish one, called Onagh's Waterfall, which the poet had a great fancy for. In September, 1794, he commended the air to Thomson's attention, remarking thus:-"The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble, rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still, I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; and, as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above-mentioned, for that work." For some account of "Chloris," the heroine of this song, see page 274, Vol. I. We have only to add that the poet inscribed the four closing lines of stanza second, on a window of the Globe Tavern, at Dumfries, where it remained for a long series of years.] SAE flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. Her smiling, sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe! What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonie face, When first her bonie face I saw ; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'! Like harmony her motion, Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky! Sae warming, sae charming, Her fautless form and gracefu' air, Ilk feature-auld Nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair! Her's are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she loe's me best of a'! Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon: Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest, Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'? THE BONIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. [This is composed on the model of an old ballad having the same burden which is preserved in a corrupted shape in Playford's "Wit and Mirth," London, 1700. The two latter verses of the present text are all that Burns has retained of its predecessor. The eight and ninth verses have often been pointed out as exquisite samples of the poet's artistic handling of his subject.] WHEN Januar' wind was blawing cauld, By my gude luck, a maid I met, To walk into a chamber fair. I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And bad' her mak' a bed for me. She made the bed baith large and wide, Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; And drank, Young man, now sleep ye sound.' She snatch'd the candle in her hand, And frae my chamber went wi' speed; But I call'd her quickly back again, To lay some mair below my head. A cod she laid below my head, And served me wi' due respect; And to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. 'Haud aff your hands, young man,' she says, Gif ye hae ony luve for me, O wrang na my virginitie!' Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine- Her bosom was the driven snaw Twa drifted heaps sae fair to seeHer limbs the polish'd marble stane— The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again, And ay she wist na what to say; Upon the morrow when we rase, I thank'd her for her courtesie; I clasp'd her waist and kiss'd her syne, For ye ay shall mak' the bed to me. She took her mither's holland sheets, The lass that made the bed to me! The bonie lass made the bed to me, |