O, were I on Parnassus’ hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse’s well;
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel’:
On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
II.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day
I coudna sing, I coudna say,
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o’er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—
By heaven and earth I love thee!
III.
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o’ thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name—
I only live to love thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;
Till then—and then I love thee.
LXXVIII.
THERE’S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
To a Gaelic Air.
[“This air,” says Burns, “is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old: the rest is mine.” They are both in the Museum.]