He had the art to please ye,
And was by a' respected;
His airs sat round him easy,
Genteel but unaffected.
The collier's bonnie lassie,
Fair as the new-blown lilie,
Aye sweet, and never saucy,
Secured the heart o' Willie.
He loved, beyond expression,
The charms that were about her,
And panted for possession;
His life was dull without her.
After mature resolving,
Close to his breast he held her;
In saftest flames dissolving,
He tenderly thus telled her:
My bonnie collier's daughter,
Let naething discompose ye;
It's no your scanty tocher,
Shall ever gar me lose ye:
For I have gear in plenty;
And love says, it's my duty
To ware what heaven has lent me
Upon your wit and beauty.
The Collier Laddie.
[Tune, "The Collier's bonnie lassie."—"I do not know," says Burns, "a blyther old song than this."—The poet himself furnished Johnson with a copy of the words and the tune for the Museum.]
Whar live ye, my bonnie lass,
And tell me what they ca' ye?
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean,
And I follow the collier laddie.
See ye not yon hills and dales,
The sun shines on sae brawlie!
They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,
Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie.
Ye shall gang in gay attire,
Weel buskit up sae gawdy:
And ane to wait on every hand,
Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie.
Though ye had a' the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals sae lowly,
I wad turn my back on you and it a',
And embrace my collier laddie.
I can win my five-pennies in a day,
And spen't at night fu' brawlie:
And make my bed in the collier's neuk,
And lie down wi' my collier laddie.
Love for love is the bargain for me,
Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me,
And the warld before me to win my bread,
And fair fa' my collier laddie.
Deluded Swain.
[Written by Burns, for Thomson's collection, to the tune of "The Collier's bonnie lassie."]
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee
Is but a fairy treasure—
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds' uncertain motion,
They are but types of woman.
O! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee:
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.
Hie to the woodlands, hie.
[James Macdonald.—Here first printed.]
Hie to the woodlands, hie!
The balmy morning breeze,
And the laughing voice of merry spring
