There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings

But minds me omy Jean.

O blaw

ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees;
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale

Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me

That's ay sae neat and clean;
Ae smile o’her wad banish care,

Sae charming is my Jean.

What sighs and vows amang the knowes

Hae passed atween us twa!
How fond to meet, how wae to part

That night she gacd awa!
The Powers aboon can only ken

To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me

As my sweet lovely Jean!

Robert Burns

75

MARY MORISON

O

MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see

That make the miser's treasure poor:

Knowes: hills

Shaw: grove

Westlin: west

How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A
weary

slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string

The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing, -

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a’,

“Ye are na Mary Morison.”

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns

76

TAM GLEN

Y heart is a-breaking, dear tittie,

Some counsel unto me come len';
To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

Tittie: sister

Braw: handsome, gaily dressed
Stoure: dust, turmoil

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,

In poortith I might mak a fen':
What care I in riches to wallow,

If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller,

“Guid-day to you,” brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But, if it's ordained I maun take him,

O wha will i get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a sten:
For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written, “Tam Glen”!

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken:
His likeness cam up the house staukin,

And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!

Ben: into the parlor
Braw: handsome
Breeks: breeches
Deave: deafen

Droukit: wet
Fen: successful struggle
Minnie: mother
Poortith: poverty

Sark-sleeve: shirt-sleeve
Siller: silver
Sten: leap
Waukin: watching

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry;

I'll gie ye my bonnie black hen,
Gif

will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

ye

Robert Burns

77

M

Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one for another given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

Sir Philip Sidney

78

HA

AVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance

Guided so well that I obtained the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,

Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make.
How far they shot awry! the true cause is,

Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Sir Philip Sidney

791

NO

TOR roses kindling when the Night grows old,

Nor sound of lute, nor song-birds singing hymns,
Nor jewels bosomed in a band of gold:
Nor Zephyrs blowing softly o'er the wold,

Nor the wave's ripple round the prow it rims,

Nor dance of nymphs with slowly swaying limbs,
Nor all things springing after Winter's cold:

Nor bastioned camps thick-set with bristling pikes,

Nor caverns where the sunlight hardly strikes,
Nor soaring tree-tops clustered in the air,

Nor solemn stillness of dumb rocks, can yield

Me so much pleasure as a grassy field,
Wherein my hopes may pasture on Despair.

Pierre Ronsard

80

WHEN alone beweep my outcast state,

HEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least; 1 The translation is by George Wyndham, and is reprinted with the permission of Macmillan & Co., Ltd.