bluebird of bitterness

It’s the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns (1759-1796). In his short life, Burns sired twelve offspring, some of them legitimate; and he wrote hundreds of poems and song lyrics, some of them suitable for polite company. When Scottish Television polled its viewers in 2009 on the question of who was the greatest Scot of all time, Robert Burns was the winner (William Wallace was the runner-up).

Scottish folk singer Jean Redpath (1937-2014) and American composer and ethnomusicologist Serge Hovey (1920-1989) teamed up in 1976 to record the complete songs of Robert Burns. Had they completed this rather ambitious project, it would have run to 22 volumes; but Hovey’s death in 1989 meant that only seven volumes were completed. This song appeared in Volume 4.

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay;
Nor quit for me the trembling spray;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
Surely that would touch her heart
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Nocht but love and sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe could wauken!

Thou tells o’ never-ending care, 
O’ speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken.

It’s the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns (1759-1796). In his short life, Burns sired twelve offspring, some of them legitimate; and he wrote hundreds of poems and song lyrics, some of them suitable for polite company. When Scottish Television polled its viewers in 2009 on the question of who was the greatest Scot of all time, Robert Burns was the winner (William Wallace was the runner-up).

Scottish folk singer Jean Redpath (1937-2014) and American composer and ethnomusicologist Serge Hovey (1920-1989) teamed up in 1976 to record the complete songs of Robert Burns. Had they completed this rather ambitious project, it would have run to 22 volumes; but Hovey’s death in 1989 meant that only seven volumes were completed. This song appeared in Volume 1.

The winter it is past, and the summer’s come at last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree;
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my lover is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my lover is parted from me.  

My love is like the sun in the firmament does run,
Forever constant and true;
But his is like the moon that wanders up and down,
And every month it is new.

All you that are in love and cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure; 
For experience makes me know that your hearts are full of woe,
A woe that no mortal can cure.

It’s the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns (1759-1796). In his short life, Burns sired twelve offspring, some of them legitimate; and he wrote hundreds of poems and song lyrics, some of them suitable for polite company. When Scottish Television polled its viewers in 2009 on the question of who was the greatest Scot of all time, Robert Burns was the winner (William Wallace was the runner-up).

Scottish folk singer Jean Redpath (1937-2014) and American composer and ethnomusicologist Serge Hovey (1920-1989) teamed up in 1976 to record the complete songs of Robert Burns. Had they completed this rather ambitious project, it would have run to 22 volumes; but Hovey’s death in 1989 meant that only seven volumes were completed. This song appeared in Volume 3.

There’s nought but care on ev’ry hand,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life of man,
An ’twere not for the lasses, O.
Green grow the rushes, O;
Green grow the rushes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.

The worldly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And tho at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.
Green grow the rushes, O;
Green grow the rushes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.

Gie me a cannie hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
And worldly cares, and worldly men,
May all gae tapsalteerie, O.
Green grow the rushes, O;
Green grow the rushes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the world e’er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Green grow the rushes, O;
Green grow the rushes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rushes, O;
Green grow the rushes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O. 

It’s the birthday of Scotland’s most famous poet, Robert Burns (1759-1796). In his short life, Burns sired twelve offspring, some of them legitimate; and he wrote hundreds of poems and song lyrics, some of them suitable for polite company. When Scottish Television polled its viewers in 2009 on the question of who was the greatest Scot of all time, Robert Burns was the winner (William Wallace was the runner-up).

Scottish folk singer Jean Redpath (1937-2014) and American composer and ethnomusicologist Serge Hovey (1920-1989) teamed up in 1976 to record the complete songs of Robert Burns. Had they completed this rather ambitious project, it would have run to 22 volumes; but Hovey’s death in 1989 meant that only seven volumes were completed. This song appeared in Volume 5.

You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, 
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May
That’s half sae welcome’s thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappet hen, gae bring her ben, 
To welcome Willie Stewart.

You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, 
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May
That’s half sae welcome’s thou art. 

May foes be strang, and friends be slack 
Ilk action, may he rue it;
May woman on him turn her back 
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart.

O lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May
That’s half so sweet as thou art.

The flower it blaws, it fades, it falls,
And art can ne’er renew it;
But worth and truth, eternal youth
Will gie to Polly Stewart!

O lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May
That’s half so sweet as thou art.

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms
Possess a leal and true heart;
To him be given to ken the heaven
He grasps in Polly Stewart.