MY HANDSOME NELL.

[Burns himself notes this song (which is usually printed with a Fal-lal-de-rai Chorus) as in point of time, not merit, the first of his performances. It was penned while he was yet a mere boy of fifteen, the heroine of the lines being one Nelly Blair, a servant in the family of a large landed proprietor in Ayrshire.]

Tune-" I am a man unmarried."

Он, once I loved a bonnie lass,

Aye, and I love her still;

And whilst that virtue warms my breast I'll love my handsome Nell.

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen,

And mony full as braw; But for a modest, gracefu' mien, The like I never saw.

A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e,

But without some better qualities

She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet;

And, what is best of a',

Her reputation is complete,
And fair without a flaw.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat,

Baith decent and genteel;

And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air

May slightly touch the heart; But it's Innocence and Modesty That polishes the dart.

T is this in Nelly pleases me,

'Tis this enchants my soul ! For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

[This was composed at seventeen years of age, under profound depression.]

OH, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
Oh, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O;

But luckless Fortune's northern storms

Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

I DREAMED I LAY FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING.

[These verses, like the foregoing, were written in 1776, when the Poet was no more than seventeen.]

[This was another production of Burns when he was no more than seventeen. Tibbie was one Isabel Steven, the daughter of a small farmer near Lochlea.]

Tune "Invercauld's Reel."

springing

Gaily in the sunny beam, Listening to the wild birds singing

By a falling crystal stream:

Straight the sky grew black and daring; Through the woods the whirlwinds

rave:

Trees with aged arms were warring,

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,

Such the pleasures I enjoyed;

But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,

A' my flowery bliss destroyed.

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me,
(She promised fair and performed but
ill,)

Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me,
I beat a heart shall support me still.

[Under the title of "Fickle Fortune," the last

Ye spak' na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye slighted me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

But sorrow tak' him that 's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows such a saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

Although a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt,

And answer him fu' dry.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

able,

But, if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,

I'll meet thee with an undaunted

mind.

Ye 'll fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice:
Your daddie's gear mak's you sae nice;
The de'il a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day, &c.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gi'e her in her sark
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark!
Ye need na look sae high.

O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye slighted me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.

[Although Burns refers to this scornfully as a wild rhapsody, he at the same time speaks of the particular pleasure he has in conning it over, expressing as it does the genuine feelings of his heart.]

Tune-"The Weaver, and his shuttle, O." My father was a farmer,

Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me

In decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part,

Though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest, manly heart,

No man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world

My course I did determine, O;
Though to be rich was not my wish,

Yet to be great was charming, O.
My talents they were not the worst,
Nor yet my education, O;
Resolved was I at least to try
To mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay,

I courted Fortune's favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between,

To frustrate each endeavour, O: Sometimes by foes I was o'erpowered; Sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top,

I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harassed, and tired at last,
With Fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams,
And came to this conclusion, O:
The past was bad, and the future hid;
Its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my power,
And so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I,
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil,
And labour to sustain me, O.
To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred,
Was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus, all obscure, unknown and poor,⋅

Through life I'm doomed to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, O; Alive to-day as well's I may,

Regardless of to-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well
As a monarch in a palace, O,
Though Fortune's frown still hunts me
down

With all her wonted malice, O;
I make indeed my daily bread,

But ne'er can make it farther, O;
But as daily bread is all I need,
I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune

Comes generally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,
Or my good-natured folly, O;
But come what will, I've sworn it still,

I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

All you who follow wealth and power
With unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss,
You leave your view the farther, O.
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,
Or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful, honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.

THE RIGS O' BARLEY. [This exquisite song was one of the choicest gems in the first small volume of poems published in 1786, at Kilmarnock. Burns himself

referred to it as written at the time of his resi

dence at Lochlea, before he went to Irvine.

My

fixed conviction is that it bears allusion to a much later period than that, namely, to the time when he was under the maddening influence of the Armour miseries, Annie being the merest blind for another name, the dearest to him in all the world. It was, as I conceive, in his wild Scotch way, the Poet's own Epithalamium.]

Tune- "Corn rigs are bonnie." It was once upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light I held awa' to Annie:

The time flew by wi' tentless heed,

'Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me through the barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

An' corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:

I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I loved her most sincerely;
I kissed her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

I locked her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely;
My blessings on that happy place
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.

I ha'e been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I ha'e been merry drinkin';

I ha’e been joyfu' gatherin' gear ;
I ha'e been happy thinkin':
But a' the pleasures ere I saw,

Though three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

An' corn rigs are bonnie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.

[Peggy was the housekeeper of Archibald Montgomery of Coilsfield. Her coquetry gave Burns little more than a heartache, on his finding that, before they met, she had been engaged to another.]

Tune-"Galla Water."

ALTHOUGH my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy, would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. When o'er the hill beat surly storms, And winter nights were dark and rainy; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

Were I a baron, proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a' 't wad gi'e o' joy to me,
The sharin't wi' Montgomery's Peggy.

SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. [The Peggy here celebrated was that charm. ing fillette, by name Margaret Thomson, wholiving next door to the school-house at Kirkoswald, where Burns at eighteen was, in 1777, studying geometry and mensuration-so overset his trigonometry, and drove him off at a tangent from the spheres of his studies, that he could only struggle on a few days longer with his

sines and cosines. He at one time even medi

tated marrying her, and would probably have done so only that he was foredoomed to espouse Jean Armour, while Peggy Thomson was reserved to become later on, in the town of Ayr, the wife of one Neilson.]

Tune-"I had a horse, and I had nae mair."

"Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns

Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring

wings,

Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,

Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,

To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ;

The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains; Through lofty groves the cushat roves,

The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus every kind their pleasure find—
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander.
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic Man's dominion;
The sportman's joy, the murdering cry,
The fluttering, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow; The sky is blue, the fields in view,

All fading-green and yellow : Come, let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of Nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,

Till the silent moon shine clearly; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal showers to budding flowers, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!