Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/359
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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
287
LOVELY DAVIES.
TUNE—'MISS MUIR.'
O how shall I, unskilfu', tryThe poet's occupation,The tunefu' powers, in happy hours,That whisper inspiration?Even they maun dare an effort mair,Than aught they ever gave us,Or they rehearse, in equal verse,The charms o' lovely Davies.Each eye it cheers, when she appears,Like Phœbus in the morning,When past the shower, and ev'ry flowerThe garden is adorning.As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,When winter-bound the wave is;Sae droops our heart when we maun partFrae charming lovely Davies.
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift,That maks us mair than princes;A scepter'd hand, a King's command,Is in her darting glances:The man in arms, 'gainst female charms,Even he her willing slave is;He hugs his chain, and owns the reignOf conquering, lovely Davies.My Muse to dream of such a theme,Her feeble powers surrender;The eagle's gaze alone surveysThe sun's meridian splendour:I wad in vain essay the strain,The deed too daring brave is;I'll drap the lyre, and mute admireThe charms o' lovely Davies.
KENMURE'S ON AND AWA.
TUNE—O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE'
O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie!O Kenmure's on and awa!And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lordThat ever Galloway saw.
Success to Kenmure's band, Willie!Success to Kenmure's band;There's no a heart that fears a WhigThat rides by Kenmure's hand.
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie!Here's Kenmure's health in wine;There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude,Nor yet o' Gordon's line.
O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie!O Kenmure's lads are men;Their hearts and swords are metal true—And that their faes shall ken.
They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie!They'll live or die wi' fame;But soon, wi' sounding victorie,May Kenmure's lord come hame.
Here's him that's far away, Willie!Here's him that's far awa;And here's the flower that I love best—The rose that's like the snaw!
O STEER HER UP.
TUNE—'O STEER HER UP, AND HAUD HER GAUN.'
O steer her up, and haud her gaun—Her mother's at the mill, jo;And gin she winna take a man,E'en let her take her will, jo;First shore her wi' a kindly kiss,And ca' another gill, jo,And gin she take the thing amiss,E'en let her flyte her fill, jo.
O steer her up, and be no blate,And gin she tak it ill, jo,Then lea'e the lassie till her fate,And time nae langer spill, jo:Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute,But think upon it still, jo;Then gin the lassie winna do't,Ye'll fin' anither will, jo.