Слике страница
PDF
ePub

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head-
'Here lies a famous Bullock!'

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drunken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum.
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin;
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son,

Up higher yet, my bonnet!

And sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When govin', as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

10

20

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen ;
Except good sense and social glee,
An' (what surprised me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;

The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his lordship I shall learn
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

40

30

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.

O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above,

I know Thou wilt me hear

When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my pray'r sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas'd to spare;

To bless his little filial flock,

And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush—

Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide Thou their steps alway.

When soon or late they reach that coast,
O'er life's rough ocean driven,

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heaven!

[ocr errors][merged small]

THE FAREWELL.

FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains
Where rich ananas blow!

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft
Of my parental care,

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,
O then befriend my Jean!

10

When bursting anguish tears my heart,
From thee, my Jeany, must I part?
Thou weeping answ'rest 'no!'
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace;
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much-indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!
All-hail then the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles,

I'll never see thee more!

20

INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE

ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
'No storied urn nor animated bust;'
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate:
Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd,
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State,

And thankless starv'd what they so much admir'd.

This humble tribute with a tear he gives,

A brother Bard, who can no more bestow :
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than Art can show.

ΙΟ

VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF

FERGUSSON THE POET,

IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO
A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787.

CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL

IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF
OCHTERTYRE.

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,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
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,
Would be lord of all below;

10

« ПретходнаНастави »