[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with his eyes fixed on "a bright, particular star," was found by his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared in the Museum.]

I.

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

II.

That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love!

Eternity cannot efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

III.

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled sh.o.r.e, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn, h.o.a.r, Twin'd am'rous round the raptured scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray-- Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

IV.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care!

Time but th' impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Lx.x.xVI.

EPPIE ADAIR.

Tune--"_My Eppie._"

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the Musical Museum without any name." It is partly an old strain, corrected by Burns: he communicated it to the Museum.]

I.

An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie!

Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair?

By love, and by beauty, By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair!

II.

An' O! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie!

Wha wadna be happy Wi' Eppie Adair?

A' pleasure exile me, Dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee, My Eppie Adair!

Lx.x.xVII.

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.

Tune--"_Cameronian Rant._"

[One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the battle of Sheriff-muir: Burns was in nowise pleased with the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved version.]

I.

"O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?

Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?"

I saw the battle, sair and tough, And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh.

My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

II.

The red-coat lads, wi' black c.o.c.kades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyll led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles: They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, 'Till fey men died awa, man.

III.

But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs And covenant true blues, man; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath, They fled like frighted doos, man.

IV.

"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?

The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue The hors.e.m.e.n back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a hunt.i.t, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man!"

V.

My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good-will That day their neebors' blood to spill; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose--they scar'd at blows.

And so it goes, you see, man.

VI.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man!

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man: Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; And mony bade the world guid-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell, And Whigs to h.e.l.l did flee, man.