Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Low i' the dust. Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid, Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To misery's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, SONG. THE gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, The autumn mourns her ripening corn She sees the scowling tempest fly: 'Tis not the surging billows roar, 'Tis 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 transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes! SONG. FROM thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw They never, never can divide Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, But the last throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, Eliza, is thy part, SONG. Composed in August. NOW westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, The partridge loves the fruitful fells; Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, Some social join, and leagues combine; Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, So dear can be as thou to me, SONG. GAIN rejoicing nature sees AG Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze CHORUS. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e! For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be! |