網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

LINES,

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFORD, BART.

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

Thou who thy honor as thy God rever’st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive off’ring I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd;
His worth, his honor, all the world approv'd.
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling!

Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave.

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,

Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress,

Honor's war we strongly waged,

But the Heavens denied success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend;
The wide world is all before us,

But a world without a friend !

THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning ;

The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,

And wild-scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale :

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care ?

No flow'rs gayly springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice,

A king and a father to place on his throne ? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn, --
My brave, gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn;

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot, bloody trial.
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return!

THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE

COUNTRY.

TUNE

Roslin Castle.

I.

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

III.

'Tis not the surging billows' roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear.
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

IV.

Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales,
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves !
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those ;
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonie banks of Ayr.

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.

SCENES of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew, Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu!

Bonie Doon, sae sweet and gloamin,

Fare thee weel before I gang! Bonie Doon, whare, early roaming,

First I weav'd the rustic sang !

Bow’rs, adieu, whare Love, decoying,

First inthrall’d this heart o' mine, There the safest sweets enjoying,

Sweets that Mem’ry ne'er shall tyne !

Friends, so near my bosom ever,

Ye hae render'd moments dear

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever,

Then the stroke, O how severe !

Friends! that parting tear, reserve it,

Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be!

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu !

THE FAREWELL TO THE BRETHREN OF ST.

JAMES’S LODGE, TARBOLTON.
TUNE “ Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!

I.

ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu!

Dear brothers of the mystic tye!
Ye favor'd, ye enlightend few,

Companions of my social joy!
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing fortune's sliddery ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,

I'll mind you still, tho’ far awa'.

II.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful, festive night;

« 上一頁繼續 »