wi' you i'll canter ony gate,
tho' 'twere a trip to yon blue warl',
whare birkies march on burning marl:
then, sir, god willing, i'll attend ye,
and to his goodness imend ye.
r. burns
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns elegy on “stella” elegy on “stella”
the following poem is the work of some hapless son of the muses who deserved a better fate. there is a great deal of “the voice of cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.—r.b.
strait is the spot and green the sod
from whence my sorrows flow;
and soundly sleeps the ever dear
inhabitant below.
pardon my transport, gentle shade,
while o'er the turf i bow;
thy earthy house is circumscrib'd,
and solitary now.
not one poor stone to tell thy name,
or make thy virtues known:
but what avails to me—to thee,
the sculpture of a stone?
i'll sit me down upon this turf,
and wipe the rising tear:
the chill blast passes swiftly by,
and flits around thy bier.
dark is the dwelling of the dead,
and sad their house of rest:
low lies the head, by death's cold arms
in awful fold embrac'd.
i saw the grim avenger stand
incessant by thy side;
unseen by thee, his deadly breath
thy lingering frame destroy'd.
pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
and wither'd was thy bloom,
till the slow poison brought thy youth
untimely to the tomb.
thus wasted are the ranks of men—
youth, health, and beauty fall;
the ruthless ruin spreads around,
and overwhelms us all.
behold where, round thy narrow house,
the graves unnumber'd lie;
the multitude that sleep below
existed but to die.
some, with the tottering steps of age,
trod down the darksome way;
and some, in youth's lamented prime,
like thee were torn away:
yet these, however hard their fate,
their native earth receives;
amid their weeping friends they died,
and fill their fathers' graves.
from thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart
was taught by heav'n to glow,
far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke
surpris'd and laid thee low.
at the last limits of our isle,
wash'd by the western wave,
touch'd by thy face, a thoughtful bard
sits lonely by thy grave.
pensive he eyes, before him spread
the deep, outstretch'd and vast;
his mourning notes are borne away
along the rapid blast.
and while, amid the silent dead
thy hapless fate he mourns,
his own long sorrows freshly bleed,
and all his grief returns:
like thee, cut off in early youth,
and flower of beauty's pride,
his friend, his first and only joy,
his much lov'd stella, died.
him, too, the stern impulse of fate
resistless bears along;
and the same rapid tide shall whelm
the poet and the song.
the tear of pity which he sheds,
he asks not to receive;
let but his poor remains be laid
obscurely in the grave.
his grief-worn heart, with truest joy,
shall meet he wee shock:
his airy harp shall lie unstrung,
and silent on the rock.
o, my dear maid, my stella, when
shall this sick period close,
and lead the solitary bard
to his belov'd repose?
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the bard at inverary the bard at inverary
whoe'er he be that sojourns here,
i pity much his case,
unless hees to wait upon
the lord their god, his grace.
there's naething here but highland pride,
and highland scab and hunger:
if providence has sent me here,
'twas surely in his anger.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epigram to miss jean scott epigram to miss jean scott
o had each scot of ancient times
been, jeanie scott, as thou art;
the bravest heart on english ground
had yielded like a coward.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns on the death of john mleod, esq, on the death of john m'leod, esq,
brother to a young lady, a particular friend of the author's.
sad thy tale, thou idle page,
and rueful thy alarms:
death tears the brother of her love
from isabella's arms.
sweetly deckt with pearly dew
the morning rose may blow;
but cold successive noontide blasts
may lay its beauties low.
fair on isabella's morn
the sun propitious smil'd;
but, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
succeeding hopes beguil'd.
fate oft tears the bosom chords
that nature finest strung;
so isabella's heart was form'd,
and so that heart was wrung.
dread omnipotence alone
can heal the wound he gave—
can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
to scenes beyond the grave.
virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
and fear no withering blast;
there isabella's spotless worth
shall happy be at last.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns elegy on the death of sir james hunter blair elegy on the death of sir james hunter blair
the lamp of day, with—ill presaging glare,
dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air,
and hollow whistled in the rocky cave.
lone as i wander'd by each cliff and dell,
once the lov'd haunts of scotia's royal train;
or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well,
or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.
th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
the clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,
the groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
and shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
the paly moon rose in the livid east.
and 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form
in weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
and mix'd her wailings with the raving storm
wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
'twas caledonia's trophied shield i view'd:
her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,
the lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,
reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
that like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
and brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.
“my patriot son fills an untimely grave!”
with accents wild and lifted arms she cried;
“low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save,
low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.
“a weeping country joins a widow's tear;
the helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry;
the drooping arts surround their patron's bier;
and grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!
“i saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
i saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow:
but ah! how hope is born but to expire!
relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
“my patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung,
while empty greatness saves a worthless name?
no; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
and future ages hear his growing fame.
“and i will join a mother's tender cares,
thro' future times to make his virtues last;
that distant years may boast of other blairs!”—
she said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns impromptu on carron iron works impromptu on carron iron works
we cam na here to view your warks,
in hopes to be mair wise,
but only, lest we gang to hell,
it may be nae surprise:
but when we tirl'd at your door
your porter dought na hear us;
sae may, shou'd we to hell's yettse,
your billy satan sair us!