THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND.
51
WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAVE MET IN THE MORNING?
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AIR, " SAW YE MY FATHER ?"
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Where are the joys I have
in the morn - ing, That
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danced to the lark's ear - ly
song !
Where is the peace that
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wait - ed my wan - d'ring At eve - ning, the wild woods a - mong?
The last stanza may be omitted.
No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair;
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad-sighing care.
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And grim surly winter is near ?
No, no ; the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jennie, fair Jennie, alone.
[Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ;
Come then, enamour'd, and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe.]
" Whf.ee are the Joys I have met in the Mornino?" The air, " Saw ye my father?" does not appear in any very
early musical publication. The old words first appeared in Herd's Collection, 1769. In a letter written in September
1793, to Mr. George Thomson, Burns expresses himself thus : — " ' Saw ye my father' is one of my greatest favourites.
The evening before last, I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is its native style. I must premise
that the old way, and the way to give most effect, is to have no starting-note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at
once into the pathos. Every country girl sings, ' Saw ye my father,' " &c.
We have adopted this song of Burns' in the present work, and subjoin the old verses for those who may prefer
them.
Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mither,
Or saw ye my true love John ?
I saw nae your father, I saw nae your mither,
But I saw your true love John.
It's now ten at night, an' the stars gi'e nae light,
An' the bells they ring ding-dang,
He's met wi' some delay that causes him to stay,
But he will be here ere lang.
The surly auld carle did naething but snarl,
An' Johnnie's face it grew red,
Yet tho' he often sigh'd, he ne'er a word replied,
Till a' were asleep in bed.
Then up Johnnie rose, an' to the door he goes,
An' gently tirl'd at the pin,
The lassie takin' tent, unto the door she went,
An' she open'd an' lat him in.
An' are ye come at last ! an' do I hold you fast !
An' is my Johnnie true !
I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's I like mysel,
Sae lang sail I like you.
Flee up, nee up, my bonnie grey cock,
An' craw when it is day ;
An' your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gold, -
An' your wings of the silver grey.
The cock proved false, an' untrue he was,
For he crew au hour owre soon :
The lassie thocht it day when she sent her love away,
An' it was but a blink o' the moon.