Слике страница
PDF
ePub

tune was a beautiful Highland air, entitled Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh, or the Pretty Milkmaid.

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!

But the bonniest flower 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, 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!

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud

rose;

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS.

The Lord President of the Court of Session (Dundas) died on the 13th December, and it seems to have been suggested to Burns by Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, that he should bring his Muse into play for the celebration of the event. There must have been some reason beyond the merits of the President for Hay having advised this step, and for the proud soul of Burns having stooped to adopt it. He set to bewailing the decease of the great man in the usual style of the venal bards of the age of patronage, and, as might be expected, with no great success.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering

rocks;

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves,
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;

Where to the whistling blast and water's roar

Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,

Her doubtful balance eyed, and swayed her

rod;

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow

She sank, abandoned to the wildest wo.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry.

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlistened tale,
And much-wronged Misery pours th' unpitied

wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains :
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,

Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

A FAREWELL TO CLARINDA,

ON LEAVING EDINBURGH.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie,
Deprived of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?

We part-but, by these precious drops

es!

That fill thy lovely eyes

No other light shall guide my steps

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day;

And shall a glimmering planet fix

My worship to its ray?

1

CONTRIBUTIONS

TO THE SECOND VOLUME OF JOHNSON'S MUSEUM.1

WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD.

Он whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad,
Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad;
Though father and mother and a' should gae
mad,

Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad.

1 The number of songs sent in Burns's handwriting to Johnson's Scots Musical Museum has been stated at one hundred and eighty; but many of these were old songs, gathered by him from oral tradition; many had only received from him a few improving touches; and only forty-seven were finally decided upon by Dr. Currie as wholly and undoubtedly the production of Burns. The poet himself, through the voluminousness of Johnson's collection seems to have disposed him to regard it as "the text-book and standard of Scottish song and music," felt ashamed of much that he had contributed to it. "Here, once for all," said he in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "let me apologise for the many silly compositions of mine in this work. Many beautiful airs wanted words, and in the hurry of other avocations, if I could string a parcel of rhymes together, anything near tolerable, I was fain to let them pass." On the other hand, a considerable number of his contributions to Johnson were equal to the best of his compositions, and had already attained popularity.

« ПретходнаНастави »