The moon still fills her silver horn,
But, ah! her beams nae mair they see;
Nor crowing cock, nor dawning morn.
Disturbs the worm's dark revelry.
For they were na fou, na, nae that fou,
But clay-cauld death has clos'd ilk e'e,
And, waefu', now the gowden morn
Beams on the graves o' a' the three.
Nae mair in learning Willie toils,
Nor Allan wakes the melting lay,
Nor Rab, wi' fancy-witching wiles,
Beguiles the hour o' dawning day.
For though they were na very fou,
That wicked wee drap in the e"e
Has done its turn—untimely, now
The green grass waves o'er a' the three.
The Soldier’s Return.
[The original words of the fine old Scotch air called "The Mill, Mill, O," are rather coarse and indelicate. The same objection holds, though in a smaller degree, to Ramsay's version of "The Mill, Mill, O," beginning,
"Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid
Was sleeping sound and still, O."
But the words of Burns to the same tune, which he wrote for Thomson's collection, are fortunately beyond the reach of cavil, being alike remarkable for purity of thought and diction. "Burns, I have been informed," (thus writes a Durafinesshire clergyman to Thomson,) "was one summer evening in the inn at Brownhill, with a couple of friends, when a poor way-worn soldier passed the window. Of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, and get the recital of his adventures; after hearing which he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the region where he had his garland and his singing-robes about him, and the result was this admirable song he sent you for 'The Mill, Mill, O.'"]
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger;
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor but honest sodger.
A leal light heart beat in my breast,
My hands unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile,
That caught my youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy oft I courted.
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling?
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my e'e was swelling.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet las,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger,
I've served my king and country lang:
Tak' pity on a sodger.
Sae wistfully she gazed on me,
And lovelier grew than ever;
Quoth she, A sodger ance I loved,
Forget him will I never.
Our humble cot and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake o't;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.
She gazed—she redden'd like a rose—
Syne pale as ony lily,
She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him, who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded;
I am the man! and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin' plenish'd fairly;
Then come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly.
