The braes ascend like lofty wa's, The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws-- The birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie la.s.sie, &c.

The h.o.a.ry cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie la.s.sie, &c.

Let Fortune's gifts at randoe flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me; Supremely blest wi' love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie la.s.sie, &c.

The Humble Pet.i.tion Of Bruar Water

To the n.o.ble Duke of Athole.

My lord, I know your n.o.ble ear Woe ne'er a.s.sails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.^1

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 n.o.ble 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 gra.s.sy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat, From p.r.o.ne-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, Hoa.r.s.e-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 gla.s.ses, The grace be--"Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonie la.s.ses!

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, p.r.o.ne down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo's ear, astonished, rends.

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The h.o.a.ry 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 pa.s.sions 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."