till all the frighted echoes tell
the blood-notes of the chase!
full on the quarry point their view,
full on the base usurping crew,
the tools of faction, and the nation's curse!
hark how the cry grows on the wind;
they leave the lagging gale behind,
their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;
with murdering eyes already they devour;
see brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
his life one poor despairing day,
where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
such havock, howling all abroad,
their utter ruin bring,
the base 'tates to their god,
or rebels to their king.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns on the death of robert dundas, esq., of arniston, 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 dashing 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 god,
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.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns sylvander to clarinda sylvander to clarinda 注释标题 a grass-widow, mrs. m'lehose.
extempore reply to verses addressed to the author by a lady, under the signature of “clarinda” and entitled, 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 friendships' 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.
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 passion 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, friendship's hand,
(friendship, at least, i may avow;)
and lay no more your chillmand,—
i'll write whatever i've to do.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns love in the guise of friendship 1788
love in the guise of friendship
your friendship 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.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns go on, sweet bird, and sooth my care 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.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns clarinda, mistress of my soul 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 sex,
has blest my glorious day;
and shall a glimmering planet fix
my worship to its ray?
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns im oer young to marry yet 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.
my mammie coft me a new gown,
the kirk maun hae the gracing o't;
were i to lie wi' you, kind sir,
i'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
i'm o'er young, c.
hallowmass ise and gane,
the nights are lang in winter, sir,
and you an' i in ae bed,
in trowth, i dare na venture, sir.
i'm o'er young, c.
fu' loud an' shill the frosty wind
blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir;
but if yee this gate again;
i'll aulder be gin simmer, sir.
i'm o'er young, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns to the weavers gin ye go to the weavers gin ye go
my heart was ance as blithe and free
as simmer days were lang;
but a bonie, westlin weaver lad
has gart me change my sang.
chorus.—to the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids,
to the weaver's gin ye go;
i rede you right, gang ne'er at night,
to the weaver's gin ye go.
my mither sent me to the town,
to warp a plaiden wab;
but the weary, weary warpin o't
has gart me sigh and sab.
to the weaver's, c.
a bonie, westlin weaver lad
sat working at his loom;
he took my heart as wi' a net,
in every knot and thrum.
to the weaver's, c.
i sat beside my warpin-wheel,
and aye i ca'd it roun';
but every shot and evey knock,