It is na, Jean.
[These verses were furnished by Burns to Johnson's Museum. He says they were originally English, but he gave them a Scotch dress. The tune, called "The Maid's Complaint," was composed by Oswald, and published in 1742.]
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire,
Although thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awake desire.
Something, in ilka part o' thee,
To praise, to love, I find;
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.
Nae mair ungen'rous wish I ha'e,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than if I canna mak' thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.
Content am I, if heaven shall give
But happiness to thee:
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,
For thee I'd bear to die.
Arran Maid.
[Written by Robert Allan. Music composed by Alex. Lee. For one or two voices.]
Speed, O speed, thou bonnie bark!
An' blaw, thou gentle gale;
An' waft me to my native shore,
An' sweet Glen-Rosa vale.
Glen-Rosa! thou art clear to me,
An' dear to me the shade,
Where I ha'e woo'd, where I ha'e won,
My lovely Arran maid;
Where I ha'e woo'd, &c.
When hung the mist upon the brae,
An' thunder loud would swell,
In echoes from the rugged cliff,
An' down the hollow dell;
Ev'n then, amid Glen-Rosa's wilds,
I ha'e delighted stray'd,
To win the smile of that dear ane,
My lovely Arran maid.
When flowers were waving owre the stream,
An' blooming in their prime,
An' owre the towering Goatfell hung,
The harebell and the thyme.
'Twas sweet to climb the airy height,
Or ream the dusky glade,
Wi' thee my heart sae fondly woo'd,
My lovely Arran maid.
O were I chief of Arran's isle,
Its hills and glens sae steep,
Nae mair my bark would beat the wave,
Nae mair would plough the deep,
Glen-Rosa! I would haunt thy bowers,
Nor seek a sweeter shade,
Than thine, with Rosie in my arms,
My lovely Arran maid.
The bright sun had given.
[William Train.—Tune, "Angel's Whisper."—Here first printed.]
The bright sun had given,
His light from the heaven,
And had sunk down again over mountain and lea,
When as Mary sat sighing
By the red embers dying,
She cried—"Hope never twineth a garland for me!
"I'm sportive as any,
Yet look on the many—
On the many young maids round the old village tree;
They dance 'neath its cover,
Each one with her lover,
While my Willie is always so bashfu' to me!"
Young Willie was listening,
His bright eye was glistening,
As he sprung to her side with a heart full of glee,
The fair one's confession
Outdid all expression,
And if Mary was happy, what think you was he?
The bright sun had given
His light from the heaven,
And had sunk down again over mountain and lea,
When a young mother's numbers
To her first baby's slumbers,
Were—"Kind hope had indeed a fair garland for me!"
