His dimpled chin and rosy cheeks,
And face sae fair and ruddy, O;
And then a-days his grey breeks
Were neither auld nor duddy, O.
But now they are threadbare worn,
They're wider than they wont to be;
They're tash'd-like and sair torn,
And clouted upon ilka knee.
But gin I had a simmer's day,
As I ha'e had right monie, O,
I'd make a web o' new grey,
To be breeks to my Johnnie, O.
For he's weel wordy o' them,
And better, gin I had to gi'e,
And I'll tak' pains upo' them,
Frae faults I'll strive to keep them free.
To cleid him weel shall be my care,
To please him a' my study, O!
But he maun wear the auld pair
A wee, though they be duddy, O.
For when the lad was in his prime,
Like him there warna monie, O.
He ca'd me aye his bonnie thing,
Sae wha wadna lo'e Johnnie, O?
O, I lo'e Johnnie's grey breeks,
For a' the care they've gi'en me yet,
And gin we live another year,
We'll mak' them hale between us yet.
Menie.
[Written by Burns, to the tune of "Johnnie's Grey Breeks." The chorus was the composition of a gentleman in Edinburgh, a friend of the poet's. It has been generally condemned as an absurd chorus—and certainly is not very appropriate to the song—but still we think it is a good natural verse for all that. "Menie" is the abbreviation of the name "Mariamne."]
Again rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues;
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet-jet black, and it's like a hawk,
And winna let a bodie be.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw;
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team;
Wi' joy the tentie seedman stauks;
But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims;
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry;
The stately swan majestic swims;
And every thing is blest but I.
The shepherd steeks his faulding slaps,
And o'er the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on fluttering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide.
Come, winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me.
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet-jet black, and it's like a hawk,
And winna let a bodie be.
Matilda.
[Written by Alexander Wilson of Paisley, the great American Ornithologist.]
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes that sigh o'er the main,
Here shelter me under your cliffs, while I weep,
And cease, while ye hear me complain.
For distant, alas! from my dear native shores,
And far from each friend now I be,
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
Between my Matilda and me.
