I'd clasp thee to this breast of mine, Around my stronger limbs should twine, Times on the wing, and will not stay, O let nae scorn undo thee. While Love does at his altar stand, The will of him wha loves thee. The whole song is attributed to Ramsay, the chorus does not mingle happily with the song.] THE WINTER TIME IS PAST, The winter time is past→ Sunny summer's come at last; The little birdies sing on ilka tree The hearts of these are glad : But mine is mair than sad; For my true love has parted frae me, The bloom upon the breer, By the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet and the bee Their little loves are blest, And their little hearts at rest; But my true love is parted frae me. My love is like yon sun, Whose bright course is begun, And is constant for ever and true; Cold, comfortless, changing, untrue. Oh you that are in love! And may it not remove O, I pity the pangs that you endure: A woe that no mortal can cure. [From Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. ii. 1788, with additions by Allan Cunningham, who supposes this tender little song to be the composition of a lady.] SLIGHTED NANCIE. 'Tis I hae sev'n braw new gowns, And yet for a' my new gowns And Sandy he has but three; My daddie's a delver o' dykes, My mither can card and spin, And the siller comes linkin in. The siller comes linkin in, Whenever our Bawty does bark, When I was at my first prayers, I fash'd na my head about gear, If I gat but a handsome young man. But now when I'm at my last prayers, That sic a braw lassie as I Should die for a woo'er I trow! [From the Tea Table Miscellany.] F VOL. II. LUCKY NANSY. While fops in soft Italian verse, But neither darts nor arrows here, And yet with these fine sounds I swear, I was ay telling you, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me. Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove, I was ay telling you, &c. But stay, I had amaist forgot But Nansy, 'tis nae matter. Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhime, I was ay telling you, &c. Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see, Leeze me on thy snawy pow, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, Dryest wood will eithest low, Troth I have sung the sang to you, Which ne'er anither bard wad do; Hear then my charitable vow, Dear venerable Nansy, But if the warld my passion wrang, And say, ye only live in sang, [From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. Burns thought the whole song was Ramsay's composition, save the chorus; but Lord Woodhouselie told Mr. Cromek the Editor of Burns' Reliques, that he believed no part of it was Ramsay's; "I have been informed," writes his Lordship, "by good authority, that the words were written by the Hon. Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session." |