The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray;
[Footnote 1: Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.—R.B.]
If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by. That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.
Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’, Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav’rock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show’rs.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav’n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow’s wat’ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonie lasses!
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Written with a Pencil on the Spot.
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo’s ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lours: Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils—
Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands
When Death’s dark stream I ferry o’er, A time that surely shall come, In Heav’n itself I’ll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.
Strathallan’s Lament^1
Thickest night, o’erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o’er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!
[Footnote 1: Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely sentimental “except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause,” and a tour through the country where Montrose, Claverhouse, and Prince Charles had fought, was cause enough. Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.—Lang.]
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, Honour’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.
Castle Gordon
Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by Winter’s chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There immix’d with foulest stains From Tyranny’s empurpled hands; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon.
Spicy forests, ever gray, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil; Or the ruthless native’s way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave; Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon.
Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood: Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonie Castle Gordon.
Song—Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky
Tune—“The Ruffian’s Rant.”
A’ The lads o’ Thorniebank, When they gae to the shore o’ Bucky, They’ll step in an’ tak a pint Wi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky.
Chorus.—Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at shore o’ Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a’ the shore o’ Bucky.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie; And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, &c.
Theniel Menzies’ Bonie Mary
Air—“The Ruffian’s Rant,” or “Roy’s Wife.”
In comin by the brig o’ Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry; As day was dawnin in the sky, We drank a health to bonie Mary.
Chorus.—Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, Charlie Grigor tint his plaidie, Kissin’ Theniel’s bonie Mary.
Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown’s a berry; And aye they dimpl’t wi’ a smile, The rosy cheeks o’ bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c.
We lap a’ danc’d the lee-lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary; But Charlie gat the spring to pay For kissin Theniel’s bonie Mary. Theniel Menzies’ bonie Mary, &c.
The Bonie Lass Of Albany^1
Tune—“Mary’s Dream.”
My heart is wae, and unco wae, To think upon the raging sea, That roars between her gardens green An’ the bonie Lass of Albany.
This lovely maid’s of royal blood That ruled Albion’s kingdoms three, But oh, alas! for her bonie face, They’ve wrang’d the Lass of Albany.
In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde There sits an isle of high degree, And a town of fame whose princely name Should grace the Lass of Albany.
But there’s a youth, a witless youth, That fills the place where she should be; We’ll send him o’er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany.
Alas the day, and woe the day, A false usurper wan the gree, Who now commands the towers and lands— The royal right of Albany.
We’ll daily pray, we’ll nightly pray, On bended knees most fervently, The time may come, with pipe an’ drum We’ll welcome hame fair Albany.
[Footnote 1: Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.]
On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit
A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.
“This was the production of a solitary forenoon’s walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. ’Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come.” —R.B., Glenriddell MSS.
Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?— Common friend to you and me, yature’s gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow’s shock.