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Poem by Robert Wilson Elegy on the Death of Burns “Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus, Tam cari capitis? Đraecipe lugubris Cantus, Melpomene, cui liquidam pater Vocem cum cithara dedit.” –– Hor. COME a’ ye minstrels, auld an’ gray, An’ stent yer strings, an’ saftly play Some waefu’ dowie langsyne lay, An’ sadly mourn; For Robin’s gane, alack-a-day! Ne’er to return. His sangs war a’ sae saft an’ clever, They gar’d a body’s heart-strings quiver; Alake! that grousome death sou’d ever, Wi’ shaft sae keen, Gar’d him sae soon an’ laithfu’ sever Frae his dear Jean. Wha cou’d hae thought it wad been sae, When they forgether’d on the brae. An’ unco frien’ship seem’d to hae. Ere they did part; I wonder sair gin death was wae To throw the dart. Now cauld’s the breast that us’d to glow Wi’ nature’s fire, the purest lowe; His harp, that charm’d ilk heigh an’ howe, Wi’ chearfu’ strain, Hangs tuneless on a laurel bough, To wind an’ rain. Mourn, lovely Rose, o’ flow’rs the wale! Mourn, humble daisy, in the dale! Mourn, gentle breeze, an’ stormy gale, That swell the wave! O whisper saft my waefu’ tale, Owre Robin’s grave! Ye ragweeds wavin’ owre the lee, Wi’ yellow taps sae fair to see; Ye whins an’ broom sae bonnilie That gild the plain, Ilk little flow’r an’ blossom tree, Come join my mane. Alack-a-day! nae mair he’ll view Or sing yer crimson-tipped hue, Bedeck’d wi’ clearest blobs o’ dew, Like siller sheen; While wand’rin’ ’hint the halesome plew At morn an’ e’en. Mourn, cushats wild, in brake an’ shaw, At mornin’s dawn, or e’enin’s fa’; Ilk chirpin’ bird, an’ croakin’ craw, For Robin mourn; In Charon’s boat he’s e’en awa’, Ne’er to return! Nae mair ye’ll hear him i’ the spring, Ahint the plew sae blythesome sing, Or see him stauk, an’ furthy fling Athwart the seed; Or build the joyfu’ harvest bing, For now he’s dead, Mourn, wimplin’ burnies, as ye rin Down ’mang the stanes wi’ tinklin’ din, Or whar owre brae or rocky linn Ye roarin’ fa’, Tell ilka trout that spreads a fin, Robin’s awa’. Nae mair he’ll sing yer siller stream, Bright glancin’ ’neath sweet Luna’s beam; Yer braes, whar wild-flow’rs sweetly teem, Or rocky steeps; Alack-a-day! in death’s lang dream He soundly sleeps! Now winter may wi’ fury blaw Its bitter storms o’ hail or snaw, An’ burns swoll’n grit wi’ sudden thaw May tummlin’ roar, An’ Chanticleer in vain may craw, To wake him more. Robert Wilson Poem Theme: Robert Burns Poems of the other poets with the same name: 2300 Views |
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