Could I keep still my louping heart,
Or ae word right put to anither,
When for my ain I tried to claim
The bonnie lass amang the heather?
Ah no! though lang I ettled sair,
My tongue could never slip the tether,
But weel the lassie guess'd my mind
That night amang the blooming heather.
The balmy air, the glowing sky,
The thymey sod, the blooming heather,
And sic an angel by my side—
I trow 'twas heaven a' thegither!
The night grew late before we wist,
It took us hours to part wi' ither;
And now she's mine, the bonnie lass
That staw my heart amang the heather.
The Lass o' Livingstone.
[This is the name of an old tune and old song. Burns says, "The old song, in three eight line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.
It begins,
'The bonnie lass o' Livingstone,
Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,
And she has written in her contract
To lie her lane, to lie her lane,' &c."
The following song to the tune of "The Lass o' Livingstone," was written by Ramsay, and published in the first volume of the Tea-Table Miscelliany.]
Pain'd with her slighting Jamie's love,
Bell dropt a tear, Bell dropt a tear;
The gods descended from above,
Well pleased to hear, well pleased to hear;
They heard the praises of the youth,
From her own tongue, from her own tongue,
Who now converted was to truth,
And thus she sung, and thus she sung:
"Bless'd days! when our ingenuous sex,
More frank and kind, more frank and kind,
Did not their lov'd adorers vex,
But spoke their mind, but spoke their mind.
Repenting now, she promis'd fair,
Would he return, would he return,
She ne'er again would give him care,
Or cause him mourn, or cause him mourn.
Why lov'd I the deserving swain,
Yet still thought shame, yet still thought shame,
When he my yielding heart did gain,
To own my flame, to own my flame?
Why took I pleasure to torment,
And seem too coy—and seem too coy?
Which makes me now, alas! lament
My slighted joy, my slighted joy.
Ye fair, while beauty's in its spring,
Own your desire, own your desire;
While love's young power, with his soft wing,
Fans up the fire, fans up the fire.
Oh! do not with a silly pride,
Or low design, or low design,
Refuse to be a happy bride,
But answer plain, but answer plain."
Thus the fair mourner wail'd her crime,
With flowing eyes, with flowing eyes;
Glad Jamie heard her all the time,
With sweet surprise, with sweet surprise.
Some god had led him to the grove,
His mind unchang'd, his mind unchang'd,
Flew to her arms, and cry'd, My love,
I am reveng'd, I am reveng'd.
Address to a Lady.
[This sweet little song, headed, "Address to a Lady," was written by Burns, to the tune of "The Lass o' Livingston." The lady in question was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park.]
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy beild should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign;
The brightest jewel in my crown,
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
