* The golden hours, on angel-wings, Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, TO MARY IN HEAVEN.* THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 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 wingèd 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 SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Or to victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See approach proud Edward's power- Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha for Scotland's king and law By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. THE wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Laden with years and meikle pain, He leaned him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mouldering down with years And as he touched his trembling harp, "Ye scattered birds, that faintly sing, 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, And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 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 : A day to me so full of woe! That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; And a' that thou hast done for me!" |