The Best of Burns { Oure Robb }

The Thames flows proudly to the sea

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,

Where royal cities stately stand ;

But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command.



When shall I see that honour'd land,

That winding stream I luve sae dear!

Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand

For ever, ever keep me here?



How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where bounding hawthorns gaily bloom,

And sweetly spread thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!



Tho' wandering now maun be my doom

Far frae thy bonnie banks and braes,

May there my latest hours consume

Amang the friends frae early days!

- Robert Burns -

( 1759 - 1796 )



The River Nith

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns

Tune--"I had a horse, I had nae mair"

http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk/bu...s - 0110-1.png

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:

Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:

Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:

Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ilka happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:

Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!



Renditionhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/images/youtube.png, by Dick Gaughan

Rendition, by the Band of Burns,
sung by Ríoghnach Connolly

"Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns" was the first song that Robert Burns ever wrote. He was seventeen years old at the time. His father had sent him off to a summer school on the Carrick Border to receive a few lessons in higher math. Ah, but he was distracted !

Burns was born in a humble peasant croft in 1759, in Alloway, Ayreshire, Scotland. His father, whose family had been both landed and cultured in Aberdeenshire before the Scottish Rebellion of 1745, had had to go into hiding in the wake of that event, and thus, lived in diminished social circumstances.

There were only about eight books on the bookshelf in the Croft where Burns spent his childhood. Yet he mastered them all. One of the books, was Buffon's Natural History. See how familiar Burns was with the birds whose pictures he had studied in books !

Abraham Lincoln, who was born almost exactly fifty years after Robert Burns, in 1809, also grew up in humble circumstances - in a Log Cabin, on the frontier in Kentucky. His father also only had about eight books on the shelf in the cabin. Like Burns, Lincoln studied and mastered them all. One of the books that Abe read when he was young was a book of the Poems of Robert Burns.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw




Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly lo’e the west

For there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best

There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, and mony a hill between

But day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air

There's not a bonnie flower that springs by fountain, shaw, or green

There's not a bonnie bird that sings, but minds me o' my Jean

What sighs and vows amang the knowes hae passed atween us twa!

How fond to meet, how wae to part, the day she gaed 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!



O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft among the leafy trees

Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale bring hame the laden bees

And bring the lassie back to me that's aye sae neat and clean

Ae smile o' her wad banish care, sae charming is my Jean

- Cache - Sung by various artists

Sung by Kenneth McKellar

I'll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig




When o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,

And owsen frae the furrow'd field

Return sae dowf and weary O



Down by the burn, where scented birks

Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.



At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,

My ain kind Dearie O



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae weary O,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.



The hunter lo'es the morning sun

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo

At noon the fisher seeks the glen

Adown the burn to steer, my jo



Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,

It maks my heart sae cheery O,

To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind Dearie O.

*******

Song, with
Pianoforte


Cache, Sung by
Various Artists


Note:

Robert Burns, although he was quite articulate and accomplished in "the King's English" (London English, derived from the Southern, predominantly Saxon dialect) wrote Poetry and composed Songs in the North Anglian dialect, the dialect of the Commons in the eighteenth century in Ayresire, his home County in Western Lowland Scotland. You may click on the links in order to see the translation from North Anglian into English.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide





O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide

That day I was my Willie's bride,

And years sin syne hae o'er us run

Like Logan to the simmer sun.



But now thy flowery banks appear

Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,

While my dear lad maun face his faes

Farm far frae me and Logan braes.



Again the merry month of May

Has made our hills and vallies gay;

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers

The bees hum round the breathing flowers;



Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,

And Evening's tears are tears o' joy:

My soul delightless a' surveys,

While Willie's far frae Logan braes.



Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,

Amang her nestlings sits the thrush:

Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,

Or wi' his song her cares beguile.



But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,

Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,

Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,

While Willie's far frae Logan braes.



O, wae upon you, Men o' State,

That brethren rouse in deadly hate

As ye make monie a fond heart mourn,

Sae may it on your heads return!



Ye mindna' mid your cruel joy

The widow's tears, the orphan's cries;

But soon may peace bring happy days,

And Willie hame to Logan braes.




Note :


As far as I can tell, this was the first Anti-War / Protest Song ever written.


Sung by Jean Redpath, Arrangement by Serge Hovey


MacPolvo - Logan Braes


Sung a capella by Davidona Pittock