Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (40 page)
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Authors: Robert Burns
192.
The Bonie Lass of Albany (Song)
Tune
— “Mary’s Dream.”
MY
heart is wae, and unco wae,
To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
An’ the bonie Lass of Albany.
This lovely maid’s of royal blood
5
That ruled Albion’s kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonie face,
They’ve wrang’d the Lass of Albany.
In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
10
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.
But there’s a youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place where she should be;
We’ll send him o’er to his native shore,
15
And bring our ain sweet Albany.
Alas the day, and woe the day,
A false usurper wan the gree,
Who now commands the towers and lands —
The royal right of Albany.
20
We’ll daily pray, we’ll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe an’ drum
We’ll welcome hame fair Albany.
193.
On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Lock Turit
A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.
“This was the production of a solitary forenoon’s walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. ‘Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come.” —
R. B., Glenriddell MSS.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat’ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
5
Parent, filial, kindred ties? —
Common friend to you and me,
yature’s gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
10
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow’s shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace,
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
15
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedom’s pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
20
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But Man, to whom alone is giv’n
A ray direct from pitying Heav’n,
Glories in his heart humane —
25
And creatures for his pleasure slain!
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand’ring swains,
Where the mossy riv’let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
30
All on Nature you depend,
And life’s poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man’s superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
35
Man with all his pow’rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
40
194.
Tune
— “Andro and his Cutty Gun.”
Chorus.
— Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.
BY
Oughtertyre grows the aik,
5
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonier lass
Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her looks were like a flow’r in May,
10
Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o’ Earn,
As light’s a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
Her bonie face it was as meek
15
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet,
As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wide,
20
And o’er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.
195.
A Rose-bud by my Early Walk (Song)
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
5
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
10
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
15
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
20
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray
That watch’d thy early morning.
196.
Epitaph for Mr. W. Cruickshank
HONEST
Will to Heaven’s away
And mony shall lament him;
His fau’ts they a’ in Latin lay,
In English nane e’er kent them.
197.
Tune
— “Bhanarach dhonn a’ chruidh.”
HOW pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flow’rs blooming fair!
But the boniest flow’r on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
5
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn;
10
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud rose:
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
15
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
198.
Braving Angry Winer’s Storms (Song)
Tune
— “Neil Gow’s Lament for Abercairny.”
WHERE, braving angry winter’s storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms
First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who by some savage stream
5
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish’d, doubly marks it beam
With art’s most polish’d blaze.
Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade,
And blest the day and hour,
10
Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d,
When first I felt their pow’r!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
15
Must be a stronger death.
199.
Tune
— “Tha a’ chailleach
ir mo dheigh.”
MY Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit Age might warm;
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy’s angel air,
5
Her face so truly heavenly fair,
Her native grace, so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy’s heart.
The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
10
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose nobly dear,
The gentle look that rage disarms —
15
These are all Immortal charms.