Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, I wat she is a dainty chucky; And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky!

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews good ale at sh.o.r.e o' Bucky I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the sh.o.r.e o' Bucky.

Cx.x.xIX.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

Tune--"_Captain O'Kean._"

["Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at the desire of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air and subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to be Robert Cleghorn: he loved the air much, and he was much of a Jacobite.]

I.

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care?

No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

II.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne?

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none; But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn: My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-b.l.o.o.d.y trial-- Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!

CXL.

SONG OF DEATH.

Air--"_Oran an Aoig._"

["I have just finished the following song," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."]

_Scene_--A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:

I.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties-- Our race of existence is run!

II.

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe!

Go frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!

III.

Thou strik'st the dull peasant--he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero--a glorious mark!

He falls in the blaze of his fame!

IV.

In the field of proud honour--our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save-- While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, Oh! who would not die with the brave!

CXLI.

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

Tune--"_Afton Water._"

[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.]

I.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

II.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon th.o.r.n.y den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-- I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

III.

How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

IV.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!

There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

V.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

VI.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!