Thy handsome air and graceful look,
Excels each clownish roguie;
Thou'rt match for laird, or lord, or duke,
My charming Kath'rine Ogie.
O! were I but some shepherd swain,
To feed my flock beside thee;
At buchting-time to leave the plain,
In milking to abide thee.
I'd think myself a happier man,
Wi' Kate, my club, and dogie,
Than he that hugs his thousands ten,
Had I but Kath'rine Ogie.
Then I'd despise th' imperial throne,
And statesmen's dang'rous stations,
I'd be no king, I'd wear no crown,
I'd smile at conqu'ring nations,
Might I caress, and still possess
This lass of whom I'm vogie
For they're but toys, and still look less,
Compar'd with Kath'rine Ogie.
I fear for me is not decreed
So fair, so fine a creature,
Whose beauty rare makes her exceed
All other works of nature.
Clouds of despair surround my love,
That are both dark, and foggie;
Pity my case, ye Powers above!
I die for Kath'rine Ogie.
Highland Mary.
[Burns thought the words of "Kath'rine Ogie" unworthy of so beautiful an air, and wrote his "Highland Mary" to the same tune. The story of Highland Mary is now familiar to all readers. In a letter to Thomson the poet says, "The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days, and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity."]
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flow'rs,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry!
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder:
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower so early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now those rosy lips
I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Mary Morison.
[Written by Burns early in life, and afterwards sent to George Thomson, to be inserted in his collection, to the tune of "Bide ye yet." Hazlitt somewhere quotes the second stanza of this song as one of extreme beauty.]
O, Mary, at thy window be;
It is the wished, the trysted hour:
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blytheiy wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave from sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen, when to the stented string
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing—
I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast o' a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison.
