Robert Burns

ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu; Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favourèd, enlighten’d few, Companions of my social joy; Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’; With melting heart, and brimful eye, I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa.

Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft, honour’d with supreme command, Presided o’er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but Craftsmen ever saw Strong Mem’ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes, when far awa.

May Freedom, Harmony, and Love, Unite you in the grand Design, Beneath th’ Omniscient Eye above, The glorious Architect Divine, That you may keep th’ unerring line, Still rising by the plummet’s law, Till Order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray’r when far awa.

And you, farewell! whose merits claim Justly that highest badge to wear: Heav’n bless your honour’d noble name, To Masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,— When yearly ye assemble a’, One round, I ask it with a tear, To him, the Bard that’s far awa.

THE WINTRY west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,” The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest; they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want—O do Thou grant This one request of mine!— Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

AH, woe is me, my mother dear! A man of strife ye’ve born me: For sair contention I maun bear; They hate, revile, and scorn me.

I ne’er could lend on bill or band, That five per cent. might blest me; And borrowing, on the tither hand, The deil a ane wad trust me.

Yet I, a coin-deniиd wight, By Fortune quite discarded; Ye see how I am, day and night, By lad and lass blackguarded!

THE LAMP of day, with-ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell, Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train; 1 Or mus’d where limpid streams, once hallow’d well, 2 Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 3

Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing’d flew o’er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east. And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, ’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d: Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d, That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar, And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.

“My patriot son fills an untimely grave!” With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried; “Low lies the hand oft was stretch’d to save, Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride.

“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear; The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry; The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier; And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!

“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

“My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.

“And I will join a mother’s tender cares, Thro’ future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”— She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.

Note 1. The King’s Park at Holyrood House.—R. B. [back] Note 2. St. Anthony’s well.—R. B. [back] Note 3. St. Anthony’s Chapel.—R. B. [back]

O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev’rence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains, The tender father, and the gen’rous friend; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride; The friend of man-to vice alone a foe; For “ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.” 1

Note 1. Goldsmith.—R. B. [back]

GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun.

Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife, count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair.

There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fecht and fen’; But here we’re a’ in ae accord, For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. Then gudewife, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; And Pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out. Then gudewife, &c.

WHEN dear Clarinda, 1 matchless fair, First struck Sylvander’s raptur’d view, He gaz’d, he listened to despair, Alas! ’twas all he dared to do.

Love, from Clarinda’s heavenly eyes, Transfixed his bosom thro’ and thro’; But still in Friendships’ guarded guise, For more the demon fear’d to do.

That heart, already more than lost, The imp beleaguer’d all perdue; For frowning Honour kept his post— To meet that frown, he shrunk to do.

His pangs the Bard refused to own, Tho’ half he wish’d Clarinda knew; But Anguish wrung the unweeting groan— Who blames what frantic Pain must do?

That heart, where motley follies blend, Was sternly still to Honour true: To prove Clarinda’s fondest friend, Was what a lover sure might do.

The Muse his ready quill employed, No nearer bliss he could pursue; That bliss Clarinda cold deny’d— “Send word by Charles how you do!”

The chill behest disarm’d his muse, Till passion all impatient grew: He wrote, and hinted for excuse, ’Twas, ’cause “he’d nothing else to do.”

But by those hopes I have above! And by those faults I dearly rue! The deed, the boldest mark of love, For thee that deed I dare uo do!

O could the Fates but name the price Would bless me with your charms and you! With frantic joy I’d pay it thrice, If human art and power could do!

Then take, Clarinda, friendship’s hand, (Friendship, at least, I may avow;) And lay no more your chill command,— I’ll write whatever I’ve to do.SYLVANDER.

Note 1. A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose. [back]

MY girl she’s airy, she’s buxom and gay; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May; A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: She’s always good natur’d, good humour’d, and free; She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me; I never am happy when out of her sight.