Part 9
Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew: And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
W. COWPER.
144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! And bleak December's winds ensuin' Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e. On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear.
R. BURNS.
145. A WISH.
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.
The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.
S. ROGERS.
146. TO EVENING.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales;
O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed,
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,-- Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain
Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return.
For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day,
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires; And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name!
W. COLLINS.
147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour:-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in those lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,--
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-- Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.
T. GRAY.
148. MARY MORISON.
O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor: How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,-- I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison."
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
R. BURNS.
149. BONNIE LESLEY.
O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say "I canna wrang thee!"
The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.
R. BURNS.
150.
O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve! And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
R. BURNS.
151. HIGHLAND MARY.
Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
R. BURNS.
152. AULD ROBIN GRAY.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea-- And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he-- Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away; I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
LADY A. LINDSAY.
153. DUNCAN GRAY.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig; Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleert and blin', Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn!
Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide; Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie dee? She may gae to--France for me!
How it comes let doctors tell, Meg grew sick--as he grew heal; Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Duncan was a lad o' grace; Maggie's was a piteous case; Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith: Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
R. BURNS.
154. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.
And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech. His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair-- And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!
If Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave: And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!
For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa.
W. J. MICKLE.
155. JEAN.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs, By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings But minds me o' my Jean.
O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees; Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae pass'd atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part That night she gaed awa! The Powers aboon can only ken To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean!
R. BURNS.
156. JOHN ANDERSON.
John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
R. BURNS.
157. THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
I'm wearing awa', Jean Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, I'm wearing awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, Your task's ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, She was baith guid and fair, Jean; O we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal!
Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean This warld's care is vain, Jean; We'll meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal.
LADY NAIRN.
158. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers That crown the wat'ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed Or urge the flying ball?