There was a lass.
[This song, which is remarkable for its beauty and ballad-like simplicity. Burns wrote to the tune of "Bonnie Jean," and sent it to Thomson for his collection. Thomson inserted it, but adapted it to the tune of "Willie was a wanton wag." The heroine was Miss Jean Macmurdo (aftorwards Mrs. Crawford) eldest daughter of John Macmurdo, Esq. of Drumlanrig. "I have not painted her," says the poet, "in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager."]
There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kurk and market to be seen,
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie:
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o' the stream.
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist'na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak' her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me!
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.