Chapter 10

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?

While some, on earnest business bent Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue, Wild Wit, Invention ever new, And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter Scorn a sacrifice And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath A griesly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise! No more;--where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

T. GRAY.

159. HYMN TO ADVERSITY.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer Friend, the flattering Foe; By vain Prosperity received To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend: Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty:

Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

T. GRAY.

160. THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

I am monarch of all I survey; My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! Where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech; I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more: My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-wingéd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace And reconciles man to his lot.

W. COWPER.

161. TO MARY UNWIN.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true And that immortalizes whom it sings:--

But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright-- There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; And since, thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

W. COWPER.

162. TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah would that this might be the last! My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow-- 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more; My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st, My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past Thy worn-out heart will break at last-- My Mary!

W. COWPER.

163. THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.

Why, Damon, with the forward day Dost thou thy little spot survey, From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, Pursue the progress of the year, What winds arise, what rains descend, When thou before that year shalt end?

What do thy noontide walks avail, To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, Then wantonly to death decree An insect usefuller than thee? Thou and the worm are brother-kind, As low, as earthy, and as blind.

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see The downy peach make court to thee? Or that thy sense shall ever meet The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet Exhaling with an evening blast? Thy evenings then will all be past!

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green (For vanity's in little seen), All must be left when Death appears, In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; Nor one of all thy plants that grow But Rosemary will with thee go.

G. SEWELL.

164. TO-MORROW.

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my lot no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn Look forward with hope for to-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honours await him to-morrow.