It's ye hae wooers mony a ane, And, lassie, yeʼre but young, ye ken ; For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae love to spare for me: But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear; Ae blink o' him I wadna gie For Buskie-glen an' a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best; A hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend, and some will spare, An' wilfu' fouk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. O gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve The gowd and siller canna buy. Light is the burden love lays on: Content and love bring peace and joy; I wish Burns had written more of his songs in this lively and dramatic way. The enthusiastic affection of the maiden, and the suspicious care and antique wisdom of the "dame of wrinkled eild," animate and lengthen the song without making it tedious. Robie has indeed a faithful and eloquent mistress, who vindicates true love and poverty against all the insinuations of one whose speech is spiced with very pithy and biting pro verbs. MY MARY. My Mary is a bonnie lass, When Fancy tunes her rural reed, She lives ahint yon sunny knowe, Their shadows o'er the burn. 'Tis not the streamlet-skirted wood, That gars me wait in solitude Among the wild-sprung flow'rs; Down frae the bank out-owre the lea; As through the broom she scours. Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie That erl❜d her my own. The heroine of this song is surrounded with such captivating landscape, that I am at a loss whether to admire the lady or the land she lives in most. The lover himself seems to have been so sensible of the charms of inanimate nature, that he thinks it necessary to warn us that he lingers among the burns and bowers for another It is one of Tannahill's purpose. songs, a very beautiful one. and HAD I A CAVE. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare What peace is there! Good fortune, much more than lyric genius, must assist the poet who seeks to supply the crinkum-crankum tune of Robin Adair with verses meriting the name of poetry. The ancient song, too, is as singular as the air: You're welcome to Paxton, You're welcome but asking, Sweet Robin Adair! How does Johnie Mackerel do? The unfortunate termination of a friend's courtship suggested this song to Burns: the concluding verse is happy and vigorous-there is much said in few words. BLITHE WAS SHE. Blithe, blithe and merry was she, Blithe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen. By Ochtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Her looks were like a flower in May, As light's a bird upon a thorn. |