And we pat on the wee bit pan,
To boil the lick o' meatie o't;
A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan,
And burnt a' the feetie o't.
Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat,
And aye it kick'd the feetie o't,
Till, puir wee elf, it tired itself;
And then began the sleepie o't.
The skirling brat nae parritch gat,
When it gaed to the sleepie o't;
It's waesome true, instead o' 'ts mou'
They're round about the feetie o't.
Keep the country.
[This fragment is from Herd's collection, 1776. The tune is a well-known reel tune.]
Keep the country, bonnie lassie,
Keep the country, keep the country;
Keep the country, bonnie lassie;
Lads will a' gi'e gowd for ye:
Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie,
Gowd for ye, gowd for ye:
Keep the country, bonnie lassie;
Lads will a' gi'e gowd for ye.
The lass that made the bed.
["The bonnie lass that made the bed to me" is the name of an old song, here inadmissable, said to have been composed on a love adventure of Charles the Second, when in Scotland in 1650-51. The heroine was a daughter of the laird of Port Lethem, in Aberdeenshire. Burns took up the theme, and wrote a version of the song, which was subject almost to as strong objections, on the point of delicacy, as the original. He afterwards pruned his first sketch as follows:]
When winter's wind was blawing cauld,
As to the north I bent my way,
The mirksome nicht did me enfauld,
I kenn'd na where to lodge till day.
A charming girl I chanced to meet
Just in the middle of my care,
And kindly she did me invite
Her father's humble cot to share.
Her hair was like the gowd sae fine,
Her teeth were like the ivory,
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the drifted snaw,
Her limbs like marble fair to see;
A fairer form nane ever saw,
Than her's that made the bed to me.
She made the bed baith lang and braid,
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down,
She bade "Gude nicht," and, smiling, said,
"I hope ye'll sleep baith saft and soun'."
Upon the morrow when I raise,
I thank'd her for her courtesie,
A blush cam' o'er the comely face
O' her that made the bed to me.
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne;
The tear stude twinkling in her e'e:
O dearest maid, gin ye'll be mine,
Ye aye sall make the bed to me.
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection, to the tune of "Laddie, lie near me."]
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin;
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoin'
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' t kindness.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion shall follow.
