There health, rosy virgin,
For ever doth dwell;
There love fondest whispers
To beauty his tale;
There—freedom's own darling!
The Gael, lives free,—
Then, oh! give the hills
Of the heather to me.
Jessie.
[This exquisite little song was among the last Burns ever wrote. It was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars (now Mrs. Thomson of Dumfries,) the sister of a brother exciseman of the poet's, and one who has endeared her name to posterity by the affectionate solicitude with which she tended Burns during his last illness.]
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear—
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when kind lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear, Jessie!
Although thou maun never be mine—
Although even hope is denied—
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing
Than aught in the world beside, Jessie!
I mourn through the gay gaudy day,
As hopeless I muse on thy charms;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie!
I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e'e;
But why urge the tender confession,
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie!
The Shepherd Boy.
[Evan M'Coll.—Tune, "Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon."]
The shepherd boy was far away,—
His heart was heavy, and his song
Was often pour'd at close of day,
While cheer'd him thus the rustic throng:—
"The maidens here are fair and free,
And sweet our heather braes do bloom;"
Yet sadly, sweetly still sung he—
"Oh! this is not my native home."
"O balmy is the breath of morn,
And bright the sun's declining ray,
Sweet is the sound of mountain burn,
And light the skylark's varied lay;
Gay are the lambkins on the lea,
And rich our mountain flowers' purfume;"
Yet sadly, sweetly still sung he—
"Oh! this is not my native home."
Glenaray.
[Evan M'Coll.—Tune, "Gradh geal mo chri."]
O why do I love thee, Glenaray, O why?
'Tis not for thy plains or thy woods waving high,
Thy flowers wildly blooming, or brown heather braes,
Glenaray, Glenaray, I care not for these.
I love thee,—but not for thy echoing hills,
I court thee,—but not for thy crystalline rills;
I haunt thee,—but not for thy fountains so clear,
And the chase on thy mountains allures me not here.
Oh no! for unheeded the roe now skips by,
The wild foaming cascade is nought in mine eye;
Sweet glen! what then makes thee an Eden to me?
'Tis the lass with the bright and the blue rolling e'e.
Yes, maid of my love! as a bee that has found
Some sweet-laden bloom, as it wanders around,
Returns and returns oft to feast on his prize,
Even so my heart moves to drink love from thine eyes.
False friendship may flatter, coy fortune may smile,
And hope's dazzling meteor shine soon to beguile;
Away with such shadows! there's nothing to me
Like the lass with the bright and the blue rolling e'e.
