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.
This song, says Burns, was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady was born at Craigie-burn wood. The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad. Another copy of this will be found, ante, p. 442.
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And oh to be lying beyond thee,
Oh sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.
SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood,
And blythely awakens the morrow;
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn wood,
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
Beyond thee, &c.
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild-birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.
I canna tell, I maunna tell,
I dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart
If I conceal it langer.
Beyond thee, &c.
I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie,
But oh, what will my torments be,
If thou refuse thy Johnie!
To see thee in anither's arms,
In love to lie and languish,
'Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
Beyond thee, &c.
But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say, thou lo'es nane before me;
An' a' my days o' life to come
I'll gratefully adore thee.
Beyond thee, &c.
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.
This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary
to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland.
I DO confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been o'er the lugs' in luve,
Had I na2 found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favors are the silly wind
That kisses ilka3 thing it meets.
See yonder rose-bud, 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 gayly bloom a while;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
Written for the "Caledonian Musical Repository," a collection of Scottish songs and airs, published at Edinburgh in 1789; and set to the old tune of "Falkland Fair."
YON wild mossy mountains, sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde.
1 Ears.-2 Not.-3 Every.-4 Soon it loses.
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to
feed,
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Where the grouse, &c.
Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd, clear stream,
Beside a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us, unheeded, flie the swift hours o' love.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be,
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armor of glances, and blushes, and sighs;
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, Oh these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!
MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.
"This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."-Burns's Reliques, p. 329.
TUNE-The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.
My father was a farmer
Upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me
In decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part,
Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart,
No man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world
My course I did determine, O;
Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
Yet to be great was charming, O;
My talents they were not the worst,
Nor yet my education, 0:
Resolved was I, at least to try,
To mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay,
I courted fortune's favor, O;
Some cause unseen, still stept between,
To frustrate each endeavor, 0:
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd;
Sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
And when my hope was at the top,
I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass'd, and tired at last,
With fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,
And came to this conclusion, 0:
The past was bad, and the future hid;
Its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my power;
And so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I;
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat and broil,'
And labor to sustain me, O,
To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labor bred,
Was a match for fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown and poor,
Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay:
In everlasting slumber, O;
No view nor care, but shun whate'er
Might breed me pain or sorrow, O;
I live to-day, as well's I may,
Regardless of to-morrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well
As a monarch in a palace, O,
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down,
With all her wonted malice, O;
I make, indeed, my daily bread,
But ne'er can make it farther, O;
But as daily bread is all I need,
I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labor
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes
Generally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,
Or my good-natured folly, O:
But come what will, I've sworn it still,
I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power
With unremitting ardor, O.
The more in this you look for bliss,
You leave your view the farther, O;
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,
Or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.
"The name of Peggy Allison gives an air of truth and reality to this little warm affectionate song."-See Scottish Songs.
Our Poet was sometimes not very happy in naming his heroines: the names of Chloris, Phillis, &c., look strangely in a Scottish song.
TUNE-Braes o' Balquhidder.
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Allison!
ILK' care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel' throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!
I'll kiss thee, &c.
1 Each.-2 When they first mount the throne
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