OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill 's between; But day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. MARY MORISON. O MARY, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks and braes and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace We tore ourselves asunder; And keenly felt the friendly glow, Reader, attend,-whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HE's gane, he 's gane! he's frae us torn, Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; At dawn, when every grassy blade Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane forever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! And frae my een the drapping rains Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light; Mourn, Empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson; the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone forever! And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around? Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! |