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 locked embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;
But, oh ! 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 kissed sae fondly !
And closed, for aye, the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly !
And mouldering now in silent dust,

The heart that loved me dearly !
But still within my bosom's core,

Shall live my Highland Mary.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.*
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lovest to greet the early morn!
Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

Highland Mary (Mary Campbell), to whom Burns was much attached, and to whom he was about to be married. Before visiting her relatives in order to make preparations for her wedding, she met Burns in a sequestered spot on the banks of the river Ayr. There, on a Sunday, they plighted their vows over an open Bible, and took water in their hands from the river, and scattered it in the air to intimate that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They then parted, but never met again. On returning from her friends, Mary caught a malignant fever, and died before Burns even heard of her illness.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene : The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes

And fondly broods with miser-care ! Time but the impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast.

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE

BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.
SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Chains and slavery !
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?

Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',

Let him follow me !
By oppression's woes and pains !
By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free !
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or die !

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

The wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the sun's departing beam
Looked on the fading yellow woods

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewailed his lord,

Whom death had all untimely ta’en.
He leaned him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mouldering down with years
His locks were bleached white wi' time,

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears !

And as he touched his trembling harp,

And as he tuned his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting through their caves,

To echo bore the notes alang.

“ Ye scattered birds, that faintly sing,

The relics of the vernal quire !
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds

The honours of the aged year !
A few short months, and, glad and gay,

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;
But nocht in all revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain, But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is

gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm,

And ithers plant them in my room.

I've seen sae monie changefu' years,

On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowing and unknown : Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bare alane my lade o' care, For silent, low on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

And last (the sum of a' my griefs !)

My noble master lies in clay ; The flower amang our barons bold,

His country's pride, his country's stay : In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever fled. Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of woe and wild despair ; Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair : And thou, my last, best, only friend,

That fillest an untimely tomb ! Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. In Poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turned the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me, like the morning sun

That melts the fog in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song

Became alike thy fostering care. Oh why has worth so short a date ?

While villains ripen grey with time, Must thou, the noble, generous, great,

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ? Why did I live to see that day!

A day to me so full of woe ! Oh, had I met the rtal shaft

Which laid my benefactor low ! The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me !"