Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/355

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
283

HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONIE LASS.

TUNE—'LAGGAN BURN.'

Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,Gude night, and joy be wi' thee;I'll come nae mair to thy bower door,To tell thee that I lo'e thee.O dinna think, my pretty pink,But I can live without thee:I vow and swear I dinna careHow lang ye look about ye.
Thou'rt ay sae free informing meThou hast nae mind to marry;I'll be as free informing theeNae time hae I to tarry.I ken thy friends try ilka means,Frae wedlock to delay thee;Depending on some higher chance—But fortune may betray thee.
I ken they scorn my low estate,But that does never grieve me;But I'm as free as any he,Sma' siller will relieve me.I count my health my greatest wealth,Sae lang as I'll enjoy it:I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,As lang's I get employment.
But far aff fowls hae feathers fair,And ay until ye try them:Tho' they seem fair, still have a care,They may prove waur than I am.But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright,My dear, I'll come and see thee;For the man that lo'es his mistress weelNae travel makes him weary.

MY HEART WAS ANCE.

TUNE—'TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO.'

My heart was ance as blythe and freeAs simmer days were lang,But a bonie, westlin weaver ladHas gart me change my sang.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne'er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
My mither sent me to the town,To warp a plaiden wab;But the weary, weary warpin o'tHas gart me sigh and sab.
A bonie westlin weaver ladSat working at his loom;He took my heart as wi' a net,In every knot and thrum.
I sat beside my warpin-wheel,And ay I ca'd it roun';But every shot and every knock,My heart it gae a stoun.
The moon was sinking in the westWi' visage pale and wan,As my bonie westlin weaver ladConvoy'd me thro' the glen.
But what was said, or what was done,Shame fa' me gin I tell;But oh! I fear the kintra soonWill ken as weel's mysel.
To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,To the weavers gin ye go;I rede you right gang ne'er at night,To the weavers gin ye go.
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