The Canongate Burns (52 page)
Read The Canongate Burns Online
Authors: Robert Burns
Tune: I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
I am my mammie's ae bairn,
one child
        Wi' unco folk I weary,
Sir, strangers
And lying in a man's bed,
        I'm fley'd it make me irie, Sir.
frightened/melancholy
Chorus
5
I'm owre young, I'm owre young,
too
        I'm owre young to marry yet;
I'm owre young, âtwad be a sin
        To tak me frae my mammie yet.
from
Hallowmass is come and gane,
All Saints' Day, gone
10
        The nights are lang in winter, Sir;
long
And you an' I in ae bed,
one
        In trowth, I dare na venture, Sir.
truth, not
                I'm o'er young, &c.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind
full
        Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir;
blows, timber/trees
15
But if ye come this gate again,
        I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.
older, come, summer
                I'm o'er young, &c.
This is a traditional song re-written by Burns. He kept the original chorus and added new verses. The lyric plays on the subject of viginity with the promise that, come next summer, the young lass will let her suitor have his way. The female voices of these songs are constantly frank and honest about their sexual desires.
â
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Now Simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
summer, hillsides
And o'er the crystal streamlets plays;
Come let us spend the lightsome days
         In the birks of Aberfeldey. â
Chorus
5
Bonie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonie lassie, will ye go
         To the birks of Aberfeldey?
The little birdies blythely sing
happily
10
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
hang
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
         In the birks of Aberfeldey. â
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
walls
The foaming stream, deep-roaring fa's
falls
15
O'er hung with fragrant-spreading shaws,
leaves
         The birks of Aberfeldey. â
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
waterfall, small burn/stream
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
makes wet
20
         The birks of Aberfeldey. â
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
from
Supremely blest wi' love and thee
         In the birks of Aberfeldey. â
Composed during the poet's tour of the Highlands in 1787. Burns has a predilection for rivers and streams as the essence of the spirit of place.
Tune: McPherson's Farewell
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
        The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long,
        On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus
5
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
riotously
        Sae dauntingly gae'd he:
went
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round
tune
        Below the gallows-tree.
O what is death but parting breath?
10
        On many a bloody plain
I've dar'd his face, and in this place
        I scorn him yet again!
                Sae rantingly, &c.
Untie these bands from off my hands,
        And bring to me my sword,
15
And there's no a man in all Scotland
        But I'll brave him at a word.
                Sae rantingly, &c.
I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
trouble
        I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart
20
        And not avenged be.
                Sae rantingly, &c.
Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright,
        And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
        The wretch that dares not die!
                Sae rantingly, &c.
This song immortalises James MacPherson (illegitimate son of a gentleman to a gypsy woman), a cattle thief who robbed in Moray-shire and was hanged on 7th November, 1700. While myth and folklore enshrine Macpherson's memory, it does seem factually true that he did play a fiddle tune of his own composition prior to his execution and then, before the crowd, destroyed his fiddle. Burns, in opposition to the original ballad of the early 1700s, which was a âconfessional and crudely moralistic' song (Low,
The Songs of Robert Burns,
p. 232) warning others not to steal cattle, characteristically presents Macpherson as a rebellious hero.
Tune: McLauchlin's Scots-Measure
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair,
no, so
Shall ever be my Muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland Lassie, O.
give
Chorus
5
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
so
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O,
above, so rushy
I set me down wi' right guid will,
good
To sing my Highland Lassie, O.
O were yon hills and valleys mine,
10
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland Lassie, O.
     Within the glen &c.
But fickle Fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
must
15
But while my crimson currents flow,
blood
I'll love my Highland Lassie, O.
     Within the glen &c.
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honor's glow,
20
My faithful Highland Lassie, O.
     Within the glen &c.
For her I'll dare the billows' roar;
For her I'll trace a distant shore;
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland Lassie, O.
     Within the glen &c.
25
She has my heart, she has my hand,
My secret troth and honor's band!
âTill the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my Highland Lassie, O.
Final Chorus
Farewell, the glen sae bushy, O!
so
30
Farewell, the plain sae rashy, O!
so
To other lands I now must go
To sing my Highland Lassie, O.Â
This is an early work of Burns referring to Mary Campbell, so-called âHighland Mary', whose premature death has provoked a myriad of largely pointless speculation. To some extent Burns himself in later life was responsible for this mythification of Mary Campbell; see, for example, Cromek's
Reliques
(1808), p. 237.
Tune: She Raise and Loot Me In or The Northern Lass.
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Though cruel Fate should bid us part,
       Far as the Pole and Line,
Her dear idea round my heart
       Should tenderly entwine:
Though mountains rise, and desarts howl,
       And oceans roar between;
Yet dearer than my deathless soul
       I still would love my Jean.
This is signed as a work from Burns in Johnson's S.M.M. and unlike the songs marked only with an X or Z, it is original. It is essentially the progenitor of
Of A' The Airts
, written for Jean Armour.
Tune: An Gille dubh ciar dhubh
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!
Well you know how much you grieve me:
                Cruel charmer, can you go!
5
                Cruel charmer, can you go!
By my love so ill-requited:
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
                Do not, do not leave me so!
10
                Do not, do not leave me so!
Burns adored fiddle music, particularly sad, evocative and melodic slow airs. Accordingly, he wrote this lyric for a Highland air he heard during his tour of the Highlands in 1787. Scotland was, particularly after the 1745, fertile in tragic slow airs and defiant fast ones. Burns himself was defined as a âhome fiddler'; that is an amateur not good enough for public performance.
Tune: As song title.
First printed in the S.M.M., Vol. 2, 14th February, 1788.
Thickest night, surround my dwelling!
       Howling tempests, o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents wintry-swelling,
       Roaring by my lonely cave.
5
Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
       Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,
       Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of Right engaged,
10
       Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honor's war we strongly waged,
       But the Heavens deny'd success:
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
       Not a hope that dare attend,
15
The wide world is all before us â
       But a world without a friend!
A haunting, evocative, and powerful Jacobite lyric, this elegiac monologue gives voice to the mourning of James Drummond, whose father, William, Viscount Strathallan, died at the battle of Culloden, 1746. The son fled, taking refuge in a cave, the setting of this first person lament. Unlike earlier commentators, Donaldson interprets this mythically rather than historically, believing it sung from the mouth of William Drummond, the dead father (pp. 80â1). The first stanza sets the scene and mood in poignant juxtaposition, nature's raw beauty contrasted with human desolation. The ferocious winter nightscape is, for a Jacobite, an appropriate metaphor for the complete destruction of his world.
A peculiar mirror image of this poem was collected by Scott Hogg in 1996 from
The Morning Chronicle
, August 1795 and considered by him as possibly by Burns.
Exiles
is written not about a Jacobite exile, but the exile of Thomas Muir, Fysche Palmer and the other radical martyrs of this period. Metrically and musically
Exiles
exactly fits
Strathallan's Lament
. The iconic, âarm'd' Wallace is also compatible with Burns's newly discovered Bruce poems. It is difficult to imagine any specifically Scottish poem appearing in the
Chronicle
from any other source. It is also wholly characteristic of Burns to take a Jacobite theme and recontextualise it in a Radical
context. It can also be read in its last two stanzas as an embryonic version of
Ode for General Washington's Birthday
.Â
   Dark in misty horror glooming,
      Where the Southern Ocean roars
And the hoary Billows booming,
      Ceaseless lash barbaric shores,
5
Round the beach in deep emotion,
      Sternly rov'd a mournful train,
While along the expanse of Ocean
      Echoed far the Patriot strain.Â
       ⦠Arm'd alone with Truth and Reason,
10
Mammon's venal slaves we dar'd;
      Short of triumph was the season: -
Virtue, view the base reward.Â
Doom'd among these wilds to languish,
      Exil'd from our native shore;
15
Friends bewail in bitter anguish,
      Victims they behold no more.
What the cause of our destruction?
      Tell th' astonish'd world around;
'Twas the combat with Corruption;
20
      Britain feels her mortal wound!Â
Scotland, once our boast, our wonder,
      Fann'd by Freedom's purer gale,
When thy Wallace, arm'd with thunder,
      Bade the baffl'd TYRANT wail:
25
O, our Country! Vultures rend thee,
      Proudly riot on thy store;
Who deluded, shall befreind thee?
      Ah! do we thy lot deplore.