But I will reign, and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe:
But 'gainst my batt'ries if I find
Thou storm or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,
I'll never love thee more.
And in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others should pretend a part,
Or dare to share with me;
Or committees if thou erect,
Or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.
But if no faithless action stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways,
As ne'er were known before;
I'll deck and crown my head with bays,
And love thee evermore.
Sly Widow Skinner.
[Thomas C. Latto.—Air, "The Lothian Lassie."]
O the days when I strutted (to think o't I'm sad)
The heir to a cosy bit mailen,
When sly Widow Skinner gat round me, the jaud!
For she thocht my auld daddy was failin', was failin',
For she thocht my auld daddy was faillin'.
I promised to tak' her for better for worse,
Though sma' was my chance to be happy,
For I found she had courted na me but my purse,
What's waur—that she liket a drappy, a drappy,
What's waur that she liket a drappy.
Then ae nicht at a kirn I saw Maggy Hay,
To see her was strait to adore her;
The Widow look'd blue when I pass'd her neist day,
An' waited na e'en to speer for her, speer for her,
An' waited na e'en to speer for her.
O pity my case, I was terribly raw,
And she was a terrible Tartar;
She spak about "measures" and "takin' the law,"
And I set mysel' down for a martyr, a martyr,
And I set mysel' down for a martyr.
Weel! I buckled wi' Meg, an' the blythe honeymoon
Scarce was owre when the Widow, I met her,
She girningly whisper'd, "Hech! weel ha'e ye dune,
But tent me lad I can do better, do better,
But tent me lad I can do better:—
'Gin ye canna get berries put up wi' the hools,
Her proverb I countit a blether,
But,—widows for ever for hookin' auld fules,—
Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther, my feyther!
Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther!
The Braes o' Ballochmyle.
[Written by Burns in 1788, and set to music by his friend Allan Masterton. Ballochmyle, before it came into the hands of Mr. Alexandor, was the seat of the Whitefoord family, and the song was written as a farewell to the family residence. The Maria mentioned in the song was the eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord. She afterwards became Mrs. Cranston. Caleb Whitefoord, celebrated by Goldsmith in his poem of "The Retaliation," belonged to this family.]
The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Through faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!
Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye burdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!
