Page images
PDF
EPUB

When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun :
Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away!

At the starless midnight hour,
When winter rules with boundless power;
As the storms the forest tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,

Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can-I weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet:
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales

Fill my sailor's welcome sails,

To my arms their charge convey,

My dear lad that's far away.

Burns was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings on many a lasting verse.

He was dazzled indeed with the first bright outburst of the French Revolution, and hailed in common with millions of men the fabric of an old and formidable despotism, crumbled at the touch of national liberty. But he lived not to see a martial tyranny aspiring to universal conquest-filling the world with bloodshed, and teaching the rights of man with bayonet and cannon. Had he seen this, he would have loved liberty more fondly, since he saw she was a native of his own glens and hills; and he would have poured out patriotic songs to inspire us both by land and wave.

BANKS OF THE DEVON.

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!

O, 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.

Of the origin of "The Banks of the Devon," Burns says, "These verses were composed on a charming girl, Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James Adair, physician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gawin Hamilton of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr, but was residing when I wrote these lines at Harveyston in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon." To this lady Burns addressed a dozen of his finest letters, which, in an hour of carelessness or vexation, were committed to the fire.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale :

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne?

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find

none.

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn;
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no better return?

When Prince Charles Stuart saw that utter ruin had fallen on all those who loved him and fought for him— that the axe and the cord were busy with their persons, and that their wives and children were driven desolate,

he is supposed by Burns to have given utterance to his feelings in this touching lament.

O ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

Mirk and rainy is the night,

No a starn in a' the carry ;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?

Let me in, for loud the linn

Is roaring at the warlock craigie.

Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank,

The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;

Loud the iron yate does clank,

And cry o' howlets makes me eerie.

Aboon my breath I daurna speak,

For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie ; cheek;

Cauld's the blast upon my

O rise, rise, my bonnie lady!

She opt the door, she let him in,
He coost aside his dreeping plaidie :
Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye.
Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie!
What care I for howlet's cry,

For boortree bank, or warlock craigie!

« PreviousContinue »