GALA WATER. BURNS. THERE's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws But there is ane, a secret ane, Abune them a' I lo'e him better; Although his daddie was nae laird, And though I hae nae mickle tocher; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks on Gala water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure! The old tune to which this is sung is very beautiful. Its exact date is unknown. It is said to have been a great favourite of Haydn's. The words of the old song are lost, with the exception of the following: Braw, braw lads of Gala water, Braw, braw lads of Gala water; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, O'er yon moss amang the heather, I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love through the water. MY NANNIE'S AWA. BURNS. Air-" There'll never be peace until Jamie comes hame." Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw; Thou laverock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, Come, Autumn, sae pensive in yellow and grey, WANDERING WILLIE. BURNS. Air-"Wandering Willie." HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie, And tell me thou bringst me my Willie the same. Ye hurricanes, rest in the caves o' your slumbers; And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, Oh, still flow between us, thou wide roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trow it; But dying believe that my Willie's my ain! As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Tell me thou bringst me my Willie the same. Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Rest, ye wild storms, in the caves o' your slumbers; Blow soft, ye breezes, roll gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he's faithless, and minds not his Nannie, While dying I think that my Willie's my ain! Burns, with his usual judgment, adopted some of these alterations, and rejected others. MY NANNIE O. BURNS. BEHIND yon hills where Stinchar flows The westlan wind blaws loud an' shrill, My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young; Her face is fair, her heart is true, A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me 0; My riches a' 's my penny-fee, Our auld gudeman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie 0 ; Come weel, come wae, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me 0; But live an' love my Nannie O. "In the printed copy of My Nannie O,"" says Burns to Thomson, "the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it to Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.' Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables." The heroine of this song, written when the poet was very young, was a Miss Fleming, daughter of a farmer in the parish of Tarbolton, Ayrshire. Allan Ramsay wrote a song to the same exquisite melody, but it is in no respect equal to Burns'. THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. BURNS. Air-" Seventh of November." THE day returns, my bosom burns, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. And crosses o'er the sultry line; While day and night can bring delight, When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part; It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! And I sae weary fou o' care! Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds, That wanton through the flowery thorn; Ye mind me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. "There is an air," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "called 'The Caledonian Hunt's delight,' to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,' might, I think, find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his nights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsicord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that in a few days Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed that he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music!" |