The Book of Scottish Song/Menie

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.

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