I gaed a waefu' gate.
[Written by Burns in 1789 for the Museum. The subject of the song was a daughter of the Rev. Mr. Jeffrey of Lochmaben, now Mrs. Renwick of New York. The air was composed by Robert Riddle of Glenriddle, Esq., and called "The blue-eyed lassie."]
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate I fear I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white—
It was her een sae bonnie blue.
She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wiled,
She charm'd my soul I wist na how,
But aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But, spare to speak, and spare to speed,
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay me dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.
Gi'e me a lass.
[Written by Allan Ramsay, to supplant old and coarse words to the tune of "The Lass wi' the Lump o' Land." This appears in the 2d vol. of the Tea-Table Miscellany, and also, with the original melody, in the Orpheus Caledonius, 1725.]
Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land,
And we for life shall gang thegither;
Tho' daft or wise, I'll ne'er demand,
Or black or fair, it maksna whether.
I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade,
And blood alane's nae worth a shilling;
But she that's rich, her market's made,
For ilka charm about her's killing.
Gi'e me a lass with a lump o' land,
And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure;
Gin I had ance her gear in my hand,
Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure.
Laugh on wha likes: but there's my hand,
I hate with poortith, though bonnie, to meddle;
Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land,
They'se ne'er get me to dance to their fiddle.
There's meikle gude love in bands and bags;
And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion;
But beauty and wit and virtue, in rags,
Have tint the art of gaining affection:
Love tips his arrows with woods and parks,
And castles, and riggs, and muirs, and meadows;
And naething can catch our modern sparks,
But weel-tocher'd lasses, or jointured widows.
Hey for a lass.
[Written by Burns for George Thomson's collection, to an Irish tune, called "Balinamona Ora." "Your 'Hey for a lass wi' a tocher,'" says Thomson, "is a most excellent song, and with you the subject is something new indeed. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire into an amateur of acres and guineas." We have placed this song of Burns's in juxtaposition with one on a similar subject and in a similar spirit by Ramsay, that the reader may indulge his curiosity by comparing the two. In this case, we think, the older poet surpasses his distinguished successor in vigour and humour.]
Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms;
O, gi'e me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gi'e me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms!
Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher!
The nice yellow guineas for me!
Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charms o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new-deckit wi' bonnie white ewes.
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has bless'd,
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possess'd;
But the sweet yellow darlings, wi' Geordie imprest,
The langer ye ha'e them, the mair they're carest.
