If ance I were kippled wi' Ailie,
She'll seldom ha'e cause to complain;
We'll jog on through life aye right cannie,
When I get a wife o' my ain.
But if that my Ailie prove faithless,
And marry before I return,
I'll ne'er, like a coof, greet about her,
Nor yet for ae minute I'll mourn.
Awa' straight to some other beauty
Without loss o' time I will hie,
And shaw to the lasses I'm careless,
Unless they're as willing as I.
Bonnie Lesley.
[Written by Burns in honour of Miss Lesley Baillie of Ayrshire, afterwards Mrs. Cumming of Logie, and sent to Thomson's collection for the tune of "The Collier's Bonnie Lassie." The poet, in a letter to Mrs Dunlop dated August, 1792, thus describes the cause and manner of the composition of this song. "Know that the heart-struck awe, the distant humble approach, the delight we should have in gazing upon and listening to a messenger of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations soar in transport—such, so delighting and so pure, were the emoyions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley Baillie, your neighbour. Mr. Baillie, with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, did me the honour of calling on me; on which I took my horse (though God knows I could ill spare the time,) and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when I left them; and riding home, composed the following ballad."]
O, saw ye bonnie Lesley,
As she gaed o'er the border?
She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley;
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he coudna scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say, I canna wrang thee!
The powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune shanna steer thee;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we ha'e a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.
My love she's but a lassie.
[James Hogg.—For the original song of "My love she's but a lassie yet," see page 512.]
My love she's but a lassie yet,
A lightsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do
To sit an' woo
Down by the stream sae glassy yet,
But there's a braw time coming yet,
When we may pang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,
When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
She's neither proud nor saucy yet,
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,
Bonnie blinking,
Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But O, her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete;
An' right or wrang,
Ere it be lang,
I'll bring her to a parley yet.
I'm jealous o' what blesses her,
The very breeze that kisses her,
The flowery beds
On which she treads,
