Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonny banks of Ayr.
"T is not the surging billow's roar,
"T is not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear!
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonny banks of Ayr.
Farewell old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr!
LINGER in the autumn noon,
I listen to the partridge call,
I watch the yellow leaflets fall
And drift adown the dimpled Doon.
I lean me o'er the ivy-grown
Old brig, where Vandal tourists' tools
Have ribbed out names that would be known, Are known, known as a herd of fools.
Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines,
With lances levelled here and there, The tinted thorns! the trailing vines!
O braes of Doon! so fond, so fair! So passing fair, so more than fond! The Poet's place of birth beyond, Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr!
I hear the milkmaid's twilight song
Come bravely through the storm-bent oaks;
Beyond, the white surf's sullen strokes
Beat in a chorus deep and strong;
I hear the sounding forge afar,
And rush and rumble of the car,
The steady tinkle of the bell
Of lazy, laden, home-bound cows
That stop to bellow and to browse;
I breathe the soft sea-wind as well,
And now would fain arouse, arise;
I count the red lights in the skies;
I yield as to a fairy spell.
Heard ye the feet of flying horse?
Heard ye the bogles in the air
That clutch at Tam O'Shanter's mare,
That flies this mossy brig across?
O Burns! another name for song,
Another name for passion,
For love and poesy allied;
For strangely blended right and wrong.
I picture you as one who kneeled
A stranger at his own hearthstone;
One knowing all, yet all unknown,
One seeing all, yet all concealed;
The fitful years you lingered here,
A lease of peril and of pain;
And I am thankful yet again
The gods did love you, ploughman! peer!
In all your own and other lands,
I hear your touching songs of cheer;
The peasant and the lordly peer
Above your honored dust strike hands.
A touch of tenderness is shown
In this unselfish love of Ayr,
And it is well, you earned it fair;
For all unhelmeted, alone,
You proved a ploughman's honest claim
To battle in the lists of fame;
You earned it as a warrior earns
His laurels fighting for his land,
And died, it was your right to go.
O eloquence of silent woe!
The Master leaning reached a hand,
And whispered, "It is finished, Burns!"
O sad, sweet singer of a Spring!
Yours was a chill, uncheerful May,
And you knew no full days of June;
You ran too swiftly up the way,
And wearied soon, so over-soon!
You sang in weariness and woe;
You faltered, and God heard you sing,
Then touched your hand and led you so,
You found life's hill-top low, so low,
You crossed its summit long ere noon.
Thus sooner than one would suppose
Some weary feet will find repose.
Ayrshire.
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.
CENES of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',
Fare thee weel before I gang;
Bonny Doon, whare, early roamin',
First I weaved the rustic sang.
Bowers, adieu! where love, decoying,
First enthralled this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.
Friends sae near my bosom ever,
Ye ha'e rendered moments dear;
But, alas! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, O how severe !
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 't is doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.
OY'S wife of Aldivalloch,
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch?
She vowed, she swore she wad be mine,
She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;
But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,
She's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie.
Roy's wife, etc.
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