Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (72 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
436.
Deluded swain, the pleasure (Song)
Tune
— “The Collier’s Dochter.”
DELUDED swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure,
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee:
The billows on the ocean,
5
The breezes idly roaming,
The cloud’s uncertain motion,
They are but types of Woman.
O art thou not asham’d
To doat upon a feature?
10
If Man thou wouldst be nam’d,
Despise the silly creature.
Go, find an honest fellow,
Good claret set before thee,
Hold on till thou art mellow,
15
And then to bed in glory!
437.
Thine am I, my faithful Fair (Song)
Tune
— “The Quaker’s Wife.”
THINE am I, my faithful Fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev’ry pulse along my veins,
Ev’ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,
5
There to throb and languish;
Tho’ despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.
Take away those rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure;
10
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure!
What is life when wanting Love?
Night without a morning:
Love’s the cloudless summer sun,
15
Nature gay adorning.
438.
Impromptu on Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday
4th November 1793.
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
“What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
5
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil.
To counterbalance all this evil;
10
Give me, and I’ve no more to say,
Give me Maria’s natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.”
“‘Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story,
15
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
439.
Tune
— “My Jo Janet.”
“HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, Sir;
Tho’ I am your wedded wife
Yet I am not your slave, Sir.”
“One of two must still obey,
5
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it Man or Woman, say,
My spouse Nancy?’
“If ‘tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
10
I’ll desert my sov’reign lord,
And so, good bye, allegiance!”
“Sad shall I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy;
Yet I’ll try to make a shift,
15
My spouse Nancy.”
“My poor heart, then break it must,
My last hour I am near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think how you will bear it.”
20
“I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancy.”
“Well, Sir, from the silent dead,
25
Still I’ll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you!”
“I’ll wed another like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;
30
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse Nancy.”
440.
Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.
STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
‘Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a poet, roosted near the skies,
5
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.
“Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,
“I know your bent — these are no laughing times:
10
Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears —
Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears;
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
15
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”
I could no more — askance the creature eyeing,
“D’ye think,” said I, “this face was made for crying?
I’ll laugh, that’s poz — nay more, the world shall know it;
20
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!”
Firm as my creed, Sirs, ‘tis my fix’d belief,
That Misery’s another word for Grief:
I also think — so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.
25
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye;
Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive —
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune’s face — the beldam witch!
30
Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur’st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck —
35
Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies — laugh e’en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
40
And love a kinder — that’s your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.
441.
Complimentary Epigram to Mrs. Riddell
“PRAISE Woman still,” his lordship roars,
“Deserv’d or not, no matter?”
But thee, whom all my soul adores,
Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter:
Maria, all my thought and dream,
5
Inspires my vocal shell;
The more I praise my lovely theme,
The more the truth I tell.
442.
THE FRIEND whom, wild from Wisdom’s way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send,
(Not moony madness more astray)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part,
5
Ah! why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! —
‘Tis thine to pity and forgive.
443.
Tune
— “The Sutor’s Dochter.”
WILT thou be my Dearie?
When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer thee!
By the treasure of my soul,
That’s the love I bear thee:
5
I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my Dearie!
Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
10
Or, if thou wilt na be my ain,
O say na thou’lt refuse me!
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
15
Still trusting that thou lo’es me!
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Still trusting that thou lo’es me!
444.
Tune
— “The King o’ France he rade a race.”
AMANG the trees, where humming bees,
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing, O:
‘Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels,
5
She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O:
When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O.
Their capon craws an’ queer “ha, ha’s,”
They made our lugs grow eerie, O;
10
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,
Till we were wae and weary, O:
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d,
A prisoner, aughteen year awa’,
He fir’d a Fiddler in the North,
15
That dang them tapsalteerie, O.