But hope shall sustain me, nor will I despair,
He promis'd he would in a fortnight be here;
On fond expectation my wishes I'll feast,
For love, my dear Jockey, to Jenny will haste:
Then, farewell, each care, and adieu, each vain sigh,
Who'll then be so blest or so happy as I;
I'll sing on the meadows, and alter my strain,
When Jocky returns to my arms back again.
Deil tak' the wars.
[The fine old Scotch air that goes by this name will be found in Playford's collection of Scotch tunes published in 1693. The words are supposed to be by Tom D'Urfey. They appear in the first edition of his "Pills to Purge Melancholy".]
Deil tak' the wars that hurried Billy from me,
Who to love me just had sworn;
They made him captain sure to undo me:
Woe's me he'll ne'er return.
A thousand loons abroad will fight him,
He from thousands ne'er will run,
Day and night I did invite him,
To stay at home from sword and gun.
I us'd alluring graces,
With muckle kind embraces,
Now sighing, then crying, tears dropping fall;
And had he my soft arms
Preferr'd to war's alarms,
My love grown mad, all for my bonnie lad,
I fear in my fit I had granted all.
I wash'd and I patch'd, to mak' me look provoking,
Snares that they told me would catch the men,
And on my head a huge commode sat poking,
Which made me show as tall again;
For a new gown too I paid muckle money,
Which with golden flow'rs did shine;
My love well might think me gay and bonny,
No Scots lass was e'er so fine.
My petticoat I spotted,
Fringe too with thread I knotted,
Lace shoes, and silk hose, garter full over knee;
But oh! the fatal thought,
To Billy these are nought;
Who rode to town, and rifled with dragoons,
When he, silly loon, might have plunder'd me.
The Lover's Salute.
[Burns, while he admired the air of "Deil tak' the wars," thought the words of Tom D'Urfey a poor imitation of Scottish song, as indeed they are, and wrote the following stanzas to the same tune, for Thomson's collection. The heroine was Miss Philadelphia Macmurdo.]
Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature
Waters wi' the tears of joy:
Now through the leafy woods,
And by the reeking floods,
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly stray;
The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o'er the breathing flower;
The laverock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs of joy,
While the sun and thou arise, to bless the day.
Phœbus gilding the brow o' morning,
Banishes ilka darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,
The murky shades o' care
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky;
But when, in beauty's light,
She meets my ravished sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, to joy.
Mark yonder pomp.
[This was another song which Burns wrote to the tune of "Deil tak' the wars," and sent to Thomson's collection. Jean Lorimer, the "lassie wi' the lint-white locks," was the subject of the song.]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compared with real passion,
