Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/306

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
242
THE SONGS OF BURNS.
My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:May ill befa' the flattering tongueThat wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,As spotless as she's bonie, O:The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,Nae purer is than Nanie, O.
A country lad is my degree,An' few there be that ken me, O;But what care I how few they be,I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,An' I maun guide it cannie, O;But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to viewHis sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O;Nae ither care in life have I,But live, an' love my Nanie, O.

NOW WESTLIN WINDS.

TUNE—'I HAD A HORSE, I HAD NAE MAIR.'

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring gunsBring autumn's pleasant weather;The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,Amang the blooming heather:Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,Delights the weary farmer;And the moon shines bright, when I rove at nightTo muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;The plover loves the mountains;The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;The soaring hern the fountains:Thro' 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 ev'ry 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 murd'ring cry,The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning'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 ev'ry happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,Till the silent moon shine clearly;I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,Swear how I love thee dearly:Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,Not autumn to the farmer,So dear can be, as thou to me,My fair, my lovely charmer!
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.