And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, The merle, in his noontide bower, Now blooms the lily by the bank, May rove their sweets amang; I was the queen o' bonny France, Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, And never-ending care. 1 But as for thee, thou false woman! Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee; look kindly And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me! O soon to me may summer suns And the next flowers that deck the spring THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME. "You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.' When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets.” — Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 12th March, 1791. By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, gray; And as he was singing, the tears fast down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in weep the yerd: It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; lost But till my last moments my words are the same, - There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. At the close of January, Burns met a serious loss, both as respecting his fortunes and his feelings, in the death of his amiable patron James, Earl of Glencairn, who, after returning from a futile voyage to Lisbon in search of health, died at Falmouth, in the forty-second year of his age. The deep, earnest feeling of gratitude which Burns bore towards this nobleman is highly creditable to him. He put on mourning for the earl, and designed, if possible, to attend his funeral in Ayrshire. At a later time, he entered a permanent record of his gratitude in the annals of his family, by calling a son James Glencairn. THE wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Looked on the fading yellow woods Laden with years and meikle pain, He leaned him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mouldering down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing, But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. I am a bending, agèd tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold of earth is gane: |