Hale nights I lie an' listen
Wi' feelings lane and drear;
An' whan I hear the risin' storm
I'm like to swarf wi' fear.
But while the win's are whistlin'
Wi' wild an' eerie tune,
For my dear Jamie's safety
I look to Ane aboon;
For He can calm the stormy win',
An' still the ragin' sea,
An' bring again my dear gudeman
To my sweet bairn and me.
Farewell, ye Streams.
[Cunningham.—Air, "Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."]
Farewell, ye streams, sae dear to me,
My bonnie Cluden, Nith, an' Dee;
Ye burns that row sae bonnilie,
Your siller waves nae mair I'll see.
Yet tho' frae your green banks I'm driven,
My saul away could ne'er be riven;
For still she lifts her een to heaven,
An' sighs to be again with thee.
Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
An' lilt alang the verdant mead,
Or blythly on your whistles blaw;
An' sing auld Scotia's barns an' ha's;
Her bourtree dykes an' mossy wa's;
Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,
Whar love an' freedom sweetens a'.
Sing o' her carles, teuch an' auld;
Her carlines grim, that flyte an' scauld;
Her wabsters blythe, an' souters bauld;
Her flock an' herds sae fair to see.
Sing o' her mountains, bleak an' high;
Her fords, whar neighrin' kelpies ply;
Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;
Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.
To you the darling theme belangs,
That frae my heart exulting spangs;
O mind, amang your bonnie sangs,
The lads that bled for liberty.
Think on our auld forbears o' yore,
Wha dy'd the muirs wi' hostile gore;
Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
An' bravely fell for you an' me.
My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,
Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,
Aye true unto your country be.
Wi' daring look her durk she drew,
An' coost a mither's e'e on you;
Then letna onie spulzien crew
Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.
By Allan Stream.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection.—"I walked out yesterday evening," says the poet, "with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up 'Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c. as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure."]
By Allan stream I chanced to rove,
While Phœbus sank beyond Benledi,
The winds were whisp'ring through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthful pleasures many;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang—
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!
O, happy be the woodbine bower;
Nae nightly bogle mak' it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever!
While many a kiss the seal impress'd,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.
The haunt o' spring 's the primrose brae;
The summer joys the flocks to follow,
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,
Is autumn in her weeds of yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?
