Answer to Burns' 'Lovely Jean'
By Hugh Porter
My Burns is gane, I鈥檓 left alane,
My dearest spouse no more
Shall bless my arms, an鈥� praise my charms,
An鈥� tell them o鈥檈r an鈥� o鈥檈r.
We baith confess鈥檇 we baith were bless鈥檇,
But O! transportin鈥� scene,
Too soon ye fled, my Burns is dead,
And I鈥檓 no more his Jean!
In summer days whon owre the braes,
The gentle breezes blaw,
The fields wad ring to hear him sing
鈥淢y Jenny dings them a鈥欌��;
Nae lover鈥檚 lass that ever was,
Nor the most happy Queen
That e鈥檈r sat on a royal throne,
Was half sae bless鈥檇 as Jean.
How often he wi鈥� sang an鈥� glee,
Has charm鈥檇 my ravish鈥檇 ear,
An鈥� made to glow, this cheek that now
Sustains the gushin鈥� tear;
Whon by my side my Burns, my pride,
Wad sit him down at e鈥檈n,
Few, few could vie wi鈥� me, for I
Was then his happy Jean.
Nae man alive need ever strive
To gild my bosom鈥檚 gloom,
No, no, I swear he breathes not air
Shall fill my Robin鈥檚 room,
Wha鈥檚 pen could paint each lovely tint
That decks the flowery green,
Wha鈥檚 haun could twine the laurel fine,
An鈥� dress it on his Jean.
What raptures thro鈥� my bosom flew
The day he first was mine,
What joys possess鈥檇 this pantin鈥� breast,
Now left by him behin鈥�:
But why complain, departed swain,
A few short months between,
An鈥� then I come to share thy tomb
An鈥� be again thy Jean.
