Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 55

On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston,

Late Lord President of the Court of Session.

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with das.h.i.+ng rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a hollow moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!

Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly; Where, to the whistling blast and water's roar, Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!

Justice, the high vicegerent of her G.o.d, Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod: Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men: See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry: Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times, View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains, Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign; Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure-- That would degenerate ages cannot cure.

Sylvander To Clarinda^1

Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of "Clarinda" and ent.i.tled, On Burns saying he 'had nothing else to do.'

When dear Clarinda, 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 Friends.h.i.+ps' 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.

[Footnote 1: A gra.s.s-widow, Mrs. M'Lehose.]

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 pa.s.sion 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, friends.h.i.+p's hand, (Friends.h.i.+p, at least, I may avow;) And lay no more your chill command,-- I'll write whatever I've to do.

1788

Love In The Guise Of Friends.h.i.+p

Your friends.h.i.+p much can make me blest, O why that bliss destroy!

Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny!

Your thought, if Love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought.

Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care

For thee is laughing Nature gay, For thee she pours the vernal day; For me in vain is Nature drest, While Joy's a stranger to my breast.

Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul

Clarinda, mistres of my soul, The measur'd time is run!

The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy?

We part--but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise!

She, the fair sun of all her s.e.x, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My wors.h.i.+p to its ray?

I'm O'er Young To Marry Yet

Chorus.--I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet.

I am my mammny's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk I weary, sir; And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd it mak me eerie, sir.

I'm o'er young, &c.