Through the lane muir I have followed my Willie;
Through the lang muir I have followed him hame.
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us;
Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain.
Here awa', there awa', here awa', Willie!
Here awa', there awa', haud awa', hame!
Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me,
Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame.
Wandering Willie.
[Burns, who was fond of the tune of "Here awa', there awa'," wrote the following fine verses to it, in March, 1793, and sent them to Thomson's collection. Some verbal alterations were made upon them by Thomson and his friend Erskine.]
Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie!
He're awa', there awa', haud awa' hame!
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie;
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie again.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting;
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e:
Welcome now, summer, and welcome, my Willie;
The summer to nature, and Willie to me.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the caves of your slumbers!
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou dark heaving main!
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!
Eskdale Braes.
[William Julius Mickle, translator of "The Lusiad."]
By the banks of the crystal-stream'd Esk,
Where the Wauchope her yellow wave joins,
Where the lambkins on sunny braes bask,
And wild woodbine the shepherd's bower twines,
Maria, disconsolate maid,
Oft sigh'd the still noontide away,
Or by moonlight all desolate stray'd,
While woeful she tuned her love lay:
Ah! no more from the banks of the Ewes
My shepherd comes cheerly along;
Broomholm and the Deans' banks refuse
To echo the plaints of his song.
No more from the echoes of Ewes,
His dog fondly barking I hear;
No more the tir'd bark he pursues,
And tells me his master draws near.
Ah! wae to the wars, and the pride
Thy heroes, O Esk, could display,
When with laurels they planted thy side,
From France and from Spain borne away.
Oh! why did their honours decoy
My poor shepherd lad from the shore?
Ambition bewitch'd the vain boy,—
And oceans between us now roar.
Ah! methinks his pale corpse floating by,
I behold on the rude billows tost;
Unburied his scatter'd bones lie,—
Lie bleaching on some distant coast.
By this stream and the May-blossom'd thorn,
That first heard his love tale, and his vows,
My pale ghost shall wander forlorn,
And the willow shall weep o'er my brows.
With the ghosts of the wars will I wail,
In Warblaw woods join the sad throng,
To Hallowe'en's blast tell my tale,
As the spectres, ungrav'd, glide along.
Still the Ewes rolls her paly blue stream,
Old Esk still her crystal tide pours,
Still golden the Wauchope waves gleam,
And still green, O Broomholm, are thy bow.
No: blasted they seem to my view,
The rivers in red floods combine;
The turtles their widowed notes coo,
And mix their sad ditties with mine.
Discolour'd in sorrow's dim shade,
All nature seems with me to mourn;—
But why are these merry bells play'd?
Can it be my dear Jamie's return?
