Sing on.
[William Chalmers.—Air, "The pride of the broomlands."]
Sing on, thou little bird,
Thy wild notes sae loud,
O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree;
Aft, beneath thy birken bow'r,
I have met at e'ening hour,
My young Jamie that's far o'er the sea.
On yon bonnie heather knowes
We pledged our mutual vows,
And dear is the spot unto me;
Tho' pleasure I ha'e nane,
While I wander alane,
And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.
But why should I mourn,
The seasons will return,
And verdure again clothe the lea;
The flow'rets shall bring,
And the saft breeze shall bring
My dear laddie again back to me.
Thou star! give thy light,
Guide my lover aright,
Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free;
Now gold I ha'e in store,
He shall wander no more,
No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.
I'm ower young.
[This is an old song, dressed up a little by Burns for Johnson's Museum. "The tune," says Mr. Stenhouse, "is evidently the progenitor of that fine modern strathspey, called 'Loch Erroch Side.'"]
I am my mammy's ae bairn,
Wi' unco folk I weary, sir;
And lying in a man's bed,
I'm fley'd wad mak' me eerie, sir.
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young—'twad be a sin
To tak' me frae my mammy yet.
My mammy coft me a new gown,
The kirk maun ha'e the gracing o't;
Were I to lie wi' you, kind sir,
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
Hallowmas is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, sir;
An' you an' I, in ae bed,
In trouth I dare na venture, sir.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind,
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir,
But if ye come this gate again,
I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir.
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young—'twad be a sin
To tak' me frae my mammy yet.
Polwarth on the Green.
[Burns says this song was written by a Captain John Drummond M'Gregor of the family of Bochaldie, but he must have been misinformed. The first four and the last four lines are old; the rest was added by Ramsay, and the whole is given in the first vol. of the Tea-Table Miscellany. "Polwarth," says Mr. Robert Chambers, "is a small primitive-looking parish-village in the centre of Berwickshire, with a green, in the centre of which three thorns grow within a little enclosure. These trees are the successors of one aged thorn, which, after keeping its place there for centuries, was blown down some years ago. It was formerly the custom of the villagers, who are a simple race, and were formerly vassals to the Earl of Marchmont, whose seat is in the neighbourhood, to dance round this venerable tree at weddings; which they are said to have done in consequence of a romantic incident in the history of the noble family just mentioned."]
At Polwarth, on the green,
If you'll meet me the morn,
Where lads and lasses do convene
To dance around the thorn;
A kindly welcome you shall meet
Fra her, wha likes to view
A lover and a lad complete,
The lad and lover you.
