THE RED, RED ROSE. In Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs. "Do you know," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "the beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs, called, 'Oh, gin my love?' The thought it contains is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain." "After balancing myself for a few minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. That they are far inferior to the foregoing I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place, as every poet, who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke." Oh, were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. A third stanza, written by a Mr. Richardson, appears in some collections; but it is scarcely worthy of association with these two. The air is Highland, and was formerly known as "Lord Balgonie's favourite." G OH, MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. ANONYMOUS.-Revised by Burns for "Johnson's Musical Museum." Он, my love is like a red, red rose That's sweetly play'd in tune. And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And I will come again, my love, Though it were ten thousand mile. OH, POORTITH CAULD. BURNS. Air-"I had a horse, I had nae mair." OH, poortith cauld and restless love, Oh, why should fate sic pleasure have, This warld's wealth when I think on, Fie, fie, on silly coward man, Oh, why, &c. Her een sae bonnie blue betray Oh, why, &c. Oh, wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? Oh, wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am? Oh, why, &c. How blest the humble cottar's fate! He woos his simple dearie; The silly bogles wealth and state Can never make him eerie. Oh, why, &c. THE LEA-RIG. BURNS. Air-The Lea-Rig." WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary 0; Down by the burn where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen at midnicht hour If through that glen I gaed to thee, Although the night were ne'er sae wild, An' I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, It maks my heart sae cheery O, My ain kind dearie O. Burns, in sending this song to George Thomson, which he had founded upon an olden composition with the same title, says, "Who shall rise up, and say, 'Go to! I will make a better' (then an old song)? For instance, on reading over the 'Lea-rig,' I immediately set trying my hand upon it, and after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough!" The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 'Tis not the surging billows' roar, Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. BURNS. Air-"I wish my love were in a myre." AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hue, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dew. And maun I still on Menie doat, And fear the scorn that's in her ee? |