Her lover heard her mourning,
As by he chanced to pass:
And pressed unto his bosom
The lovely brucket lass.
My dear, he said, cease grieving;
Since that you lo'ed so true,
My bonnie brucket lassie,
I'll faithful prove to you.
I had a horse.
[Printed in the second edition of David Herd's collection, 1776. Burns says that the song is founded on fact. A John Hunter, the son of a farmer in Galston parish, Ayrshire, was the hero of the story.]
I had a horse, and I had nae mair,
I gat him frae my daddy,
My purse was light, and my heart was sair,
But my wit it was fu' ready.
And sae I thought me on a time,
Outwittens of my daddy,
To fee mysel' to a lowland laird,
Wha had a bonnie lady.
I wrote a letter, and thus began:
Madam, be not offended,
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you,
And care not though ye kend it:
For I get little frae the laird,
And far less frae my daddy,
And I wad blythely be the man,
Wad strive to please his lady.
She read the letter and she leugh,
Ye needna been sae blate, man,
You might ha'e come to me yoursel',
And tauld me o' your state, man:
Ye might ha'e come to me yoursel',
Outwittens of ony body,
And made John Goukstone of the laird,
And kiss'd his bonnie lady.
Then she pat siller in my purse;
We drank wine out o' a cogie,
She fee'd a man to rub my horse,
And wow but I was vogie!
But I gat ne'er sae sair a fleg,
Since I came frae my daddy,
The laird came rap, rap to the yett,
When I was wi' his lady.
Then she put me behint a chair,
And hap'd me wi' a plaidie,
But I was like to swarf wi' fear,
And wish'd me wi' my daddy.
The laird gaed out, he saw na me,
I gaed when I was ready:
I promised, but I ne'er gaed back,
To see his bonnie lady.
Puirtith Cauld.
[Wkitten by Burns to the tune of "I had horse."]
O, puirtith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet puirtith a' I could forgi'e,
An 'twere na for my Jeanie.
O, why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?
This world's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie on sUly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.
Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her owerword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O, wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O, wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
How blest the humble cottar's lot!
He woos his simple dearie;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
Oh, why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?
