Yet none shall hear the sigh
That struggles to be free,
No tear shall trace this sallow cheek,
Nor murmur burst from me.
Though silent be my woe,
'Tis not the less severe—
Forlorn I brood on former joys
To love and mem'ry dear.
She minds na o' the vows
That seal'd our youthful love,
But heaven has records that will last,
My faith and truth to prove.
How ardently.
[James Yool.—Air, "My Nannie, O."]
How ardently my bosom glows
Wi' love to thee, my dearie, 0,
My panting heart its passion shows,
Whenever thou art near me, O.
The sweetness o' thy artless smile,
Thy sparkling e'e's resistless wile,
Gars sober reason back recoil,
Wi' love turn'd tapsalteerie, O.
Thy lips, sure seats o' sweet delight,
Wha e'er may haflins see them, O,
Maun be a cauldrife, lifeless wight,
Shou'd he no try to pree them, O;
To me thou ever shalt be dear,
Thy image in my heart I'll wear,
Contentment's sun my day shall cheer,
As lang's thou'lt be my dearie, O.
Nae will-o'-wisp's delusive blaze,
Through fortune's fen sae drearie, O,
Nor wealth, nor fame's attractive rays,
Shall lure me frae my dearie, O;
But through the rural shady grove,
Owre flow'ry lea wi' thee I'll rove;
My cot shall be the seat o' love
While life remains, my dearie, O.
The pleasing scenes of nature gay,
May charm the heart that's sairy, O;
Yet even such scenes to me add wae,
When absent frae my dearie, O.
Remembrance broods still on the hour,
When first within yon lonely bower,
I felt the love-enslaving power
Of thy sweet charms, my dearie, O.
In Summer.
[Written by Burns for Johnson's Museum. The air is an old one, and is called "The Country Lass."]
In summer, when the hay was mawn,
And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield;
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel',
Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will,
Out spak' a dame in wrinkl'd eil',
O' gude advisement comes nae ill.
'Tis ye ha'e wooers mony a ane,
And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken,
Then wait a wee, and canny wale
A routhie but, a routhie ben:
There's Johnnie o' the Husky Glen,
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre;
Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen,
'Tis plenty beets the lover's fire.
For Johnnie o' the Buskie Glen
I dinna care a single flee;
He lo'es see weel his craps an' kye,
He has nae love to spare for me:
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e,
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear;
Ae blink o' him I wadna gi'e
For Buskie Glen and a' his gear.
O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught,
The canniest gate the strife is sair;
But aye fu' han't is fechting best,
A hungry care's an unco care:
But some will spend and some will spare,
And wilfu' folk maun ha'e their will;
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.
O gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye,
But the tender heart o' leesome love,
