The Complete Works of Robert Burns
Chapter 166 : Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo._"["I am at this moment," says Burns

Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo._"

["I am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, "holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an English one.]

I.

How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And, to the wealthy b.o.o.by, Poor woman sacrifice!

Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife.

II.

The ravening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinions tries: Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet!

CCLIV.

MARK YONDER POMP.

Tune--"_Deil tak the wars._"

[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. "You see," said he, "how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in honour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.]

I.

Mark yonder pomp of costly fas.h.i.+on Round the wealthy, t.i.tled bride: But when compar'd with real pa.s.sion, Poor is all that princely pride.

What are the showy treasures?

What are the noisy pleasures?

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art: The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart.

II.

But did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day; O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!

Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His wors.h.i.+p'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

CCLV.

THIS IS NO MY AIN La.s.sIE.

Tune--"_This is no my ain house._"

[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the happiest modern songs. When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the "fair dame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parna.s.sus."]

I.

O this is no my ain la.s.sie, Fair tho' the la.s.sie be; O weel ken I my ain la.s.sie, Kind love is in her e'e.

I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place: It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e.

II.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e.

III.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the e'e.

IV.

It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e.

O this is no my ain la.s.sie, Fair tho' the la.s.sie be; O weel ken I my ain la.s.sie, Kind love is in her e'e.

CCLVI.

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE

GROVE IN GREEN.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,

"Had I a cave on some wild distant sh.o.r.e."]

I.

Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers: The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe?

II.

The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

III.