The autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill rins my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
'Tis not the surging billows' roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear
But round my heart the ties are bound.
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scene where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends, farewell, my foes.
My peace with these, my love with those;
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Jamie Gay.
[This is a Cockney imitation of Scottish song, and was popular in London about the middle of the last century. It is given in Johnson's Museum, Vol. I. Burns says of it that "it is a tolerable Anglo-Scottish production." The composer of the music was Mr. Berg: the author of the words is unknown.]
As Jamie Gay gang'd blythe his way,
Along the banks of Tweed;
A bonny lass, as ever was,
Came tripping o'er the mead:
The hearty swain, untaught to feign,
The buxom nymph survey'd:
And full of glee, as lad could be,
Bespake the pretty maid.
Dear lassy, tell, why by thinesell
Thou hast'ly wand'rest here?
My ewes, she cry'd, are straying wide;
Can'st tell me, laddy, where?
To town I'll hie, he made reply,
Some meikle sport to see;
But thou'rt so sweet, so trim and neat,
I'll seek the ewes with thee.
She gae'm her hand, nor made a stand,
But lik'd the youth's intent;
O'er hill and dale, o'er plain and vale,
Right merrily they went;
The birds sang sweet the pair to greet,
And flowers bloom'd around;
And as they walk'd, of love they talk'd,
And joys which lovers crown'd.
And now the sun had rose to noon,
(The zenith of his pow'r,)
When to a shade their steps they made,
To pass the mid-day hour:
The bonny lad row'd in his plaid,
The lass who scorn'd to frown;
She soon forgot the ewes she sought.
And he to gang to town.
Jockey.
[Published by Charles Wilson In his "St. Cecilia, or Harmonious Companion," 1779. The author of the words and composer of the air are both unknown.]
My laddie is gane far awa' o'er the plain,
While in sorrow behind I am forc'd to remain;
Though blue bells and vi'lets the hedges adorn,
Though trees are in blossom, and sweet blows the thorn,
No pleasure they give me, in vain they look gay;
There's nothing can please now, my Jockey's away,
Forlorn I sit singing, and this is my strain,
Haste, haste, my dear Jockey, to me back again.
When lads and their lasses are on the green met,
They dance and they sing, they laugh and they chat,
Contented and happy, with hearts full of glee,
I can't without envy their merriment see;
Those pleasures offend me, my shepherd's not there,
No pleasures I relish that Jockey don't share;
It makes me to sigh, I from tears scarce refrain:
I wish my dear Jockey return'd back again.
