Poem by Robert Burns

The Soldier's Return

When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
          And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
         And mony a widow mourning, –
I left the lines and tented field,
         Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
         A poor and honest sodger.

A leal light heart was in my breast,
         My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again
         I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
         I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
         That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach’d the bonnie glen,
         Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill, and trysting thorn,
         Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
         Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
         That in my een was swelling.

Wi’ alter’d voice quoth I, Sweet lass,
         Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
         That’s dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
         And fain wad be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my King and Country lang –
         Take pity on a sodger!

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,
         And lovelier was than ever:
Quo’ she, a sodger ance I lo’ed,
         Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
         Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
         Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.

She gazd-she redden’d like a rose –
         Syne pale like ony lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
         Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him who made yon sun and sky,
         By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
         True lovers be rewarded!

The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
         And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
         And mair we’se ne’er be parted.
Quo’ she, My grandsire left me gowd,
         A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
         Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
         The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize;
         The sodger’s wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
         Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his Country’s stay
         In day and hour o’ danger.

1. Blythe Was She
2. The Flowery Banks of Cree
3. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
4. The Banks of Nith (THE THAMES flows proudly to the sea)
5. Farewell to Ballochmyle

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