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Thread: Robert Burns

  1. #41
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    Default Robert Burns

    Bonnie Wee Thing
    By Robert Burns

    Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
    Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
    I would wear thee in my bosom,
    Lest my jewel I should tine.

    Wishfully I look and languish
    In that bonnie face of thine;
    And my heart it stounds with anguish
    Lest my wee thing be na mine.

    Bonnie wee thing…..

    Wit and grace, and love and beauty,
    In ae constellation shine!
    To adore thee is my duty,
    Goddess of this soul o’ mine.

    Bonnie wee thing…..
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    This beautiful song was sung to the tune ‘Bonnie Wee Thing,’
    There is a tune dated 1629 with the rudiments of this air.

    Taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    This song was often beautifully sung in Wick in the 1950s by Henry Rosie one time organist of Wick Parish Church.

  2. #42
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    Default Robert Burns

    Ay Wakin’ O !
    By Robert Burns

    Ay wakin’ O!
    Wakin’ ay, an eerie,
    Sleep I canna get,
    For thinkin’ on my dearie,
    Ay wakin’ o !

    Spring’s a pleasant time,
    Flow’rs of ev’ry colour,
    The water rins o’er the heugh,
    And I long for my lover.

    Ay wakin’ O !

    When I sleep I dream,
    When I wauk I’m eerie,
    Sleep I can get nane
    For thinkin’ on my dearie.

    Ay wakin’ O !

    Lanely night comes on,
    A’ the lave are sleepin’
    I think on my bonnie lad,
    And I bleer my een wi greetin.

    Ay wakin O!
    Wakin’ ay, an eerie,
    Sleep I canna get
    For thinkin’ on ma dearie,
    Ay wakin’ O !

    …………………
    This is a very old song, which has been touched by many hands.
    The chorus is certainly old and the above words are said to have been by Burns,
    Though the second verse is thought to have been from the original song.
    It isalso thought that Mr Stenhouse may have contributed some of the words.

    The above taken from Songs of Scotland by G F Graham.
    …………………………………………….
    Some of you will remember this beautiful song was sung at the Funeral Service of John Smith, Leader of the Labour Party. C. 1994

  3. #43
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    Default Rabbie Burns

    Rabbie Burns wis borne in Ayr
    thru an entry n up a stair
    if ye waant tae seem um there
    hire a taxi fae Jimmy Mair

    "ma dad"

  4. #44

    Default

    Not exactly my favourite, but when I was very young, long before the days of PC, this used to make me giggle . I didn't, and still don't, understand half the words. But I read them like a Two Ronnies fun-with-words sketch, and it's still fun . I hope I still think so when I look like Willie's wife .

    Sic A Wife As Willie Had


    Robert Burns, 1792

    Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
    The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
    Willie was a wabster gude,
    Could stown a clue wi' ony body:
    He had a wife was dour and din,
    O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
    Sic a wife as Willie had,
    I wad na gie a button for her!

    She has an e'e, she has but ane,
    The cat has twa the very colour;
    Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
    A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
    A whiskin beard about her mou',
    Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
    Sic a wife as Willie had,
    I wadna gie a button for her!

    She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shin'd,
    Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
    She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
    To balance fair in ilka quarter:
    She has a lump upon her breast,
    The twin o' that upon her shouther;
    Sic a wife as Willie had,
    I wadna gie a button for her!

    Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
    An' wi' her loof her face a-washin;
    But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
    She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;
    Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
    Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
    Sic a wife as Willie had,

    I wadna gie a button for her!



    Happy Burns' Night everyone!
    Last edited by helenwyler; 25-Jan-09 at 11:49. Reason: poem not formatted properly

  5. #45
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    Default In Memory

    I hope nobody minds if I submit this poem is in memory of my grandfather David Steven who died on this day in 1957 - he was a great 'Burns man' and this was his favourite, Ca the Yowes was his favourite Burn's song.

    Tam O' Shanter

    by Robert Burns 1790

    When chapman billies leave the street,
    And
    drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
    As market days are wearing late,
    And folk begin to
    tak the gate,
    While we sit bousing at the nappy,
    An' getting fou and unco happy,
    We think na on the lang Scots miles,
    The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
    That lie between us and our hame,
    Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
    Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
    Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

    This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
    As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
    (Auld Ayr,
    wham ne'er a town surpasses,
    For honest men and bonie lasses).

    O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
    As
    taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
    She tauld thee
    weel thou was a skellum,
    A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
    That frae November till October,
    Ae market-day thou was na sober;
    That ilka
    melder wi' the Miller,
    Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
    That ev'ry
    naig was ca'd a shoe on
    The Smith and thee
    gat roarin' fou on;
    That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
    Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
    She prophesied that late or soon,
    Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
    Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
    By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

    Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
    To think how mony counsels sweet,
    How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
    The husband frae the wife despises!

    But to our tale: Ae market night,
    Tam had got planted unco right,
    Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
    Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
    And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
    His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
    Tam
    lo'ed him like a very brither;
    They had been
    fou for weeks thegither.
    The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
    And aye the ale was growing better:
    The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
    Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
    The
    Soutertauld his queerest stories;
    The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
    The storm without might
    rair and rustle,
    Tam did na
    mind the storm a whistle.

    Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
    E'en drown'd himselamang the nappy.
    As bees
    fleehame wi' lades o' treasure,
    The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
    Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
    O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

    But pleasures are like poppies spread,
    You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
    Or like the snow falls in the river,
    A moment white-then melts for ever;
    Or like the Borealis race,
    That
    flit ere you can point their place;
    Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
    Evanishing amid the storm. -
    Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
    The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
    That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
    That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
    And sic a night he taks the road in,
    As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

    The wind blew as 'twad
    blawn its last;
    The rattling showers rose on the blast;
    The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
    Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
    That night, a child might understand,
    The
    deil had business on his hand.

    Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
    A better never lifted leg,
    Tam skelpit on thro'
    dub and mire,
    Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
    Whiles holding fast his
    gude blue bonnet,
    Whiles
    crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
    Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
    Lest bogles catch him unawares;
    Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
    Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

    By this time he was cross the ford,
    Where in the
    snaw the chapman smoor'd;
    And past the birks and meikle stane,
    Where drunken Charlie
    brak's neck-bane;
    And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
    Where hunters
    fand the murder'd bairn;
    And near the thorn,
    aboon the well,
    Where Mungo's
    mither hang'd hersel'.
    Before him Doon pours all his floods,
    The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
    The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
    Near and more near the thunders roll,
    When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
    Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
    Thro' ilka
    bore the beams were glancing,
    And loud resounded mirth and dancing.


    To be continued...

  6. #46
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    Default Tam O'Shanter cont...

    Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
    What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
    Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
    Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
    The swatssae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
    Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
    But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
    Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
    She ventur'd forward on the light;
    And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

    Warlocks and witches in a dance:
    Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
    But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
    Put life and mettle in their heels.
    A winnock-bunker in the east,
    There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
    A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
    To gie them music was his charge:
    He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
    Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
    Coffins stood round, like open presses,
    That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
    And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
    Each in its cauld hand held a light.
    By which heroic Tam was able
    To note upon the haly table,
    A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
    Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
    A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
    Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
    Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
    Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
    A garter which a babe had strangled:
    A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
    Whom his ain son of life bereft,
    The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
    Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
    Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
    Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
    Wi' lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
    Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
    Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.

    As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
    The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
    The Piper loud and louder blew,
    The dancers quick and quicker flew,
    The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
    Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
    And coost her duddies to the wark,
    And linkit at it in her sark!

    Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
    A' plump and strapping in their teens!
    Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
    Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-
    Thirbreeks o' mine, my only pair,
    That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
    I wad haegien them off my hurdies,
    For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
    But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
    Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
    Louping an'flinging on a crummock.
    I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

    To be continued...

  7. #47
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    Default Tam O'Shanter cont...

    But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
    There was ae winsome wench and
    waulie
    That night enlisted in the core,
    Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
    (For mony a beast to
    dead she shot,
    And perish'd mony a
    bonie boat,
    And shook
    baithmeikle corn and bear,
    And kept the country-side in fear);
    Her
    cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
    That while a lassie she had worn,
    In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
    It was her best, and she was vauntie.
    Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
    That
    sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
    Wi
    twapund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
    Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

    But here my Muse her wing
    maun cour,
    Sic flights are far beyond her power;
    To sing how Nannie
    lap and flang,
    (A
    souple jade she was and strang),
    And how Tam stood, like
    ane bewithc'd,
    And thought his very
    een enrich'd:
    Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd
    fu' fain,
    And
    hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
    Till first ae caper, syne anither,
    Tam
    tint his reason a thegither,
    And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
    And in an instant all was dark:
    And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
    When out the hellish legion sallied.

    As bees
    bizz out wi' angry fyke,
    When plundering herds assail their byke;
    As open pussie's mortal foes,
    When, pop! she starts before their nose;
    As eager runs the market-crowd,
    When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
    So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
    Wi' mony
    aneldritch skreich and hollow.

    Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll
    get thy fairin!
    In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
    In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
    Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
    Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
    And
    win the key-stone o' the brig;
    There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
    A running stream they dare
    na cross.
    But
    ere the keystane she could make,
    The
    fient a tail she had to shake!
    For Nannie, far before the rest,
    Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
    And flew at Tam
    wi' furious ettle;
    But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
    Aespring brought off her master hale,
    But left behind her ain grey tail:
    The
    carlinclaught her by the rump,
    And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

    Now,
    wha this tale o' truth shall read,
    Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
    Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
    Or Cutty-sarks
    rin in your mind,
    Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
    Remember Tam
    o' Shanter's mare.

  8. #48

    Default

    http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SrPFrtNtF1k

    This is lovely - the sung version of The Lea Rig.

    Have your tissues handy if you're the blubbering type like me .

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    Thumbs up Thank you

    Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?

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    Default Robert Burns

    Thank you for The Lea Rig Helenwyler - so well sung with such feeling. I dont know the singer, though I felt there was a touch of Aberdeen in the voice ?
    Does anyone know ?

    Lavenderblue2, that was really great, what a lot of typing!
    It's such a good story !

    I think we've all had a good Burns Nicht. I have certainly enjoyed myself, though I am a bit hoarse with all the singing.
    We seem to have covered most of Burns favourites, I hope it was enjoyed by many.

    Here's tae ye Rabbie,

    Trinkie

  11. #51

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    Hats off to the BBC for this...
    http://www.bbc.co.uk/robertburns/works/

  12. #52
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    Default Robert Burns

    And hats off to you too for telling us about this ! I have enjoyed several performances already !

    Trinkie

  13. #53
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    Default

    Quote Originally Posted by helenwyler View Post

    http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=SrPFrtNtF1k

    This is lovely - the sung version of The Lea Rig.

    Have your tissues handy if you're the blubbering type like me .

    Quote Originally Posted by Lavenderblue2 View Post

    Thank you for posting The Lea Rig Helen - it was beautifully sung by whom I wonder?
    That was indeed beautifully sung, and after some research, I believe it was by the Scottish folk group "Sangsters" from Fife. Take a listen to The Lea Rig in the music samples from their "Begin" album on Amazon, and it sounds the same as the recording on YouTube.

    http://www.amazon.com/Begin-Sangster...3085609&sr=1-1

    Samples from their other album "Sharp and Sweet" (as well as from "Begin") can be heard below, where there is a wee write-up about the folk group.

    http://www.musicscotland.com/acatalo...weet_2002.html

    There is also some more about them here:

    http://www.folkmusic.net/htmfiles/webrevs/cdtrax065.htm

  14. #54
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    Default 'Address to Edinburgh' by Robert Burns, 1786.

    Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
    All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
    Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
    Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs:
    From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs,
    As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
    And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
    I shelter in they honour'd shade.

    Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
    As busy Trade his labours plies;
    There Architecture's noble pride
    Bids elegance and splendour rise:
    Here Justice, from her native skies,
    High wields her balance and her rod;
    There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
    Seeks Science in her coy abode.

    Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
    With open arms the stranger hail;
    Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,
    Above the narrow, rural vale:
    Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,
    Or modest Merit's silent claim;
    And never may their sources fail!
    And never Envy blot their name!

    Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
    Gay as the gilded summer sky,
    Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
    Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
    Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
    Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
    I see the Sire of Love on high,
    And own His work indeed divine!

    There, watching high the least alarms,
    Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
    Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,
    And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
    The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
    Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
    Have oft withstood assailing war,
    And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

    With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
    I view that noble, stately Dome,
    Where Scotia's kings of other years,
    Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
    Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
    Their royal name low in the dust!
    Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
    Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

    Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
    Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
    Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
    Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
    Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
    Haply my sires have left their shed,
    And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
    Bold-following where your fathers led!

    Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
    All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
    Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
    Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
    From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
    As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
    And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
    I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
    I am living for today, always remembering yesterday, and looking forward to tomorrow!

  15. #55
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    Default

    Sporran,
    You have received so many Thank You PMs for this Burns Nicht Thread, that your inbox is full !

    It's been great fun reading all the poems again. Thanks to everyone.

    Trinkie

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    Default

    Whoops, I'd better make some room in my inbox right now, Trinkie! Thanks for the reminder!
    I am living for today, always remembering yesterday, and looking forward to tomorrow!

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    Default

    Burns' was a visionary and could see the danger of tyrannic man's dominion. A very lyrical song.

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDB0P57nQds

    Now Westlin Winds

    by Robert Burns

    Lyric as sung by Dick Gaughan

    Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns
    Bring autumn's pleasant weather
    The moorcock springs on whirring wings
    Among the blooming heather
    Now waving grain, wild o'er the plain
    Delights the weary farmer
    And the moon shines bright as I rove at night
    To muse upon my charmer

    The partridge loves the fruitful fells
    The plover loves the mountain
    The woodcock haunts the lonely dells
    The soaring hern the fountain
    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 sportsman'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 shines clearly
    I'll grasp thy waist and, fondly pressed,
    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
    Last edited by Stavro; 27-Jan-10 at 20:44.

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    Default To The Immortal Memory

    The English have their Shakespeare
    Who wrote a word or two
    He did a play about a pound
    Of flesh claimed by a Jew
    Another was about a prince
    Of Denmark, o’er the sea
    Who clutched a skull and mumbled out
    ‘To be or not to be
    And then there was Macbeth of course
    Whose wife, the silly tart
    Persuaded him tae stab the King
    At night-time through the heart
    I read a bit and yawned a lot
    A King that thrashed the sea?
    Yeah right, precisely what has that
    To do with now and me?

    Now Jamesie Joyce, an Irishman
    Wrote Ulysses I’m told
    Something that should evoke the tales
    Of Homer, back in old
    The Wake, I heard, of Finnegan
    Was worth a look or two
    The cover didn’t turn me on
    I read – no, not a clue
    The artist as a young man is
    A work of class I’m told
    But on the Dublin master’s works
    I cannot say I’m sold
    And anyway, the guys in Dublin
    Don’t regard his birth
    As being fit for party date
    In any way of worth

    America produced a chap
    Quite tall, as tall as tree
    Or maybe I misread that bit
    ‘’Twas Longfellow you see
    A master of the new world word
    I caught the point he made
    His poems was wrote for folk like me
    I think that’s what he said
    But story? Couldn’t see it quite
    This Hiawatha brave
    I just let oot a chuckly laugh
    A Mini-haha gave
    That is enough 'bout foreign chaps
    No more about the others

    I’m keen on works of Scotland’s Bard
    And not his writing brothers

    So then we have our Robert Burns
    A giant of a Scot
    Who wrote short words on man and love
    Was proud about his lot
    In life he saw a pride in warth
    He’d hate iniquity
    Hoped man to man the world o’er
    Would one day brithers be
    Such lines, such bold simplicity
    And still today alive
    Please join in toast to Robert Burns
    May his day thrive and thrive
    Last edited by Tubthumper; 31-Jan-10 at 13:26. Reason: It didn't scan!
    Working On Behalf Of The Community!

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    Brilliant poem, Tubthumper!

    I love it!!
    I am living for today, always remembering yesterday, and looking forward to tomorrow!

  20. #60
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    Here's a Health to Ane I lo'e Dear
    by Robert Burns


    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
    Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
    And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.


    Although thou maun never be mine ,
    Although even hope is denied,
    'Tis sweeter for thee despairing.
    Than aught in the warld beside – Jessy.


    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear
    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear.
    Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
    And soft as their parting tear – Jessy.


    I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day,
    as, hopeless, I muse on thy charms,
    But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
    For then I am lockt in thy arms – Jessy.


    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
    Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
    And soft as their parting – Jessy.




    The following verse comes from an old book and is not often included -


    I guess by the dear angel smile,
    I guess by the love-rolling e'e ;
    But why urge the tender confession,
    'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree? - Jessie




    Note in the older book Jessie is spelt with ' ie '


    .................................................. .........................


    The above poem in Blackie's 'Book of Scottish Song' p. 133, is the following note
    'This exquisite little song was among the last Burns ever wrote. It was composed in honour of Jessie Lewars (now Mrs Thomson of Dumfries) the sister of a brother exciseman of the poet, and one who has endeared her name to posterity by the affectionate solicitude with which she tended Burns during his last illness.' Mr Stenhouse in vol v. p 371 of Museum, says that the air was communicated by Burns, but is not genuine. Mr Stenhouse annexes a copy of the music in three-eight time, which he gives as correct, but does not say whence he derived it. The author of the tune is not known. It has little of the Scottish, and still kess if an antique character. In
    Johnson's and other more recent sets of the air, the rhythm is spoled by an interpolation, to make it suit the metre of verses written by Burns, which do not correspond with the metre of the Jacobite song as given by Mr Stenhouse; each stanza of which consists of three lines of eight syllables, and one of seven.
    Burns himself strenuously opposed any alteration in the national Scottish melodies. In a letter to Mr Thomson, April 1793, in which he sends the song beginning 'Farewell, thou stream that winding flows' he writes thus – 'One hint let me give you – whatever Mr Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps depends a great part of their effect.'
    In his answer to that letter Mr Thomson, 26th April 1793 says - 'Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! With the airs which he introduces into the sonatas. I allow him to take such liberties as he pleases but that has nothing to do with the songs.'


    .................................................


    Taken from The Songs of Scotland by G F Graham, etc 1865

    Trinkie

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