Mary Morison

I think we'd better have a little Robert Burns, since it's his birthday (in my time zone). All my exposure to Burns comes from sitting alone at a piano and reading through great big volumes called things like 'Songs of the North', learning to play and sing the songs before I had any idea who Burns was; and so for me he's all about the gentle love songs, and knowledge of the rest of his prolific career came second. So here's a love song - one of my favourites.

One consequence of being self-taught in this haphazard fashion is that I'm ridiculously fussy about the many, many recordings of Burns songs out there in the world, because when you learn to play something entirely in your own way, nothing else ever sounds quite right! But this poem is not quite the same without its tune, and so after sifting through lots of youtube videos I've decided I like this performance.


O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely 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 thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,—
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, 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.

A Twilight Song: The Lea Rig

This song is by Burns, of course; its supremely jolly tune can be heard all over youtube, but I'm partial to this version. It has seemed appropriate over the last few sunny days of September, with their fiery twilights.


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 birken buds
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.

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face

We've come back to Robbie Burns already! This is much less obscure that the Scotch songs I've posted so far, and not exactly in need of me to promote it - but all the same, I love this.


It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.

Something, in ilka part o' thee,
To praise, to love, I find,
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna make thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if heaven shall give
But happiness to thee;
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,
For thee I'd bear to die.


The almost-unrelated picture is Dicksee's 'The End of the Quest'; I just found it and will probably be using it to illustrate pretty much every post from now on. You have fair warning.