Lx.x.xIV.

THE

HUMBLE PEt.i.tION OF BRUAR WATER

TO THE

n.o.bLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: "he threw himself," said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Pet.i.tion enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]

I.

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.

II.

The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow, They're left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.

III.

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, Even as I was he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

IV.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel', Worth gaun a mile to see.

V.

Would then my n.o.ble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, And bonnie spreading bushes.

Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.

VI.

The sober laverock, 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.

VII.

This, too, a covert shall insure 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.

VIII.

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.

IX.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain gray; 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.

X.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' 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.

XI.

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 bonnie la.s.ses?"

Lx.x.xV.

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL

IN LOCH-TURIT.

[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours.

Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]

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, Nature'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.

Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.

Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels: But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glories in his heart humane-- And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays, Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend, And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, Other lakes and other springs; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave.

Lx.x.xVI.