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SWEET AFTON

Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old Time and Nature their changes tell;
But never ranging, still unchanging,
I adore my bonie Bell.

Sweet Afton.1

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.

Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds, in yon thorny den,
Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

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.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

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 flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

1 There is a great deal of learning about this poem and its origin, which means that, in fact, nothing is certainly

known. Mary may, or may not, be Highland Mary.

ADDRESS TO THOMSON

Address to the Shade of Thomson,1

On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays.

WHILE virgin Spring by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between.

While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade.

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed.

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows.

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son.

1 An imitation of Collins. The piece was written for Lord Buchan, who patronised poetry in a very ludicrous

manner.

The text is that of the edition of 1793, differing much from the earlier sketch extant in MS., and showing that the verses cost Burns some trouble.

FRAE THE FRIENDS I LOVE

Nithsdale's welcome Hame.1

THE noble Maxwells and their powers
Are coming o'er the border,

And they'll gae big Terreagles' towers,
And set them a' in order.
And they declare Terreagles fair,
For their abode they choose it;
There's no a heart in a' the land
But's lighter at the news o't.

Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
And angry tempests gather;
The happy hour may soon be near
That brings us pleasant weather:
The weary night o' care and grief
May hae a joyfu' morrow;
So dawning day has brought relief,
Fareweel our night o' sorrow.

Frae the Friends and Land I love.2

Tune-"Carron Side."

FRAE the friends and land I love,
Driv'n by Fortune's felly spite;

Frae my best belov'd I rove,
Never mair to taste delight:
Never mair maun hope to find
Ease frae toil, relief frae care;
When Remembrance wracks the mind,
Pleasures but unveil despair.

⚫ build.

1 Written for Lady Winifred Constable, whom Sir Walter Scott, in a letter to Lockhart, speaks of with scanty respect. Lady Winifred was descended from the Nithsdale of 1715,

and of the romantic escape from prison. Lady Winifred rebuilt Terreagles House.

2 Another Jacobite ditty: Burns only claimed the four last lines.

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES

Brightest climes shall mirk appear,
Desert ilka blooming shore,
Till the Fates, nae mair severe,
Friendship, love, and peace restore.
Till Revenge, wi' laurel'd head,
Bring our banished hame again;
And ilk loyal, bonie lad

Cross the seas, and win his ain.

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation.1

FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro' many warlike ages,

Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;

But English gold has been our bane-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day
That Treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!

But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration;

We're bought and sold for English gold—

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

1 Based on an old and well known

song against the Union, and the poli

ticians who procured it.

I HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN

Ye Jacobites by name.1

YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear,

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear,

Ye Jacobites by name,

Your fauts I will proclaim,

Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear.

What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law, by the law? What is Right, and what is Wrang, by the law?

What is Right, and what is Wrang?

A short sword, and a lang,

A weak arm and a strang, for to draw.

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?
What makes heroic strife, famed afar?

What makes heroic strife?

To whet th' assassin's knife,

Or hunt a Parent's life, wi' bluidy war?

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state,

Then let your schemes alone, in the state.

Then let you schemes alone,

Adore the rising sun,

And leave a man undone, to his fate.

I hae been at Crookieden.2

I HAE been at Crookieden,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie,
Viewing Willie and his men,

My bonie laddie, Highland laddie.

1 If a reference to the French Revolution is meant, it is extremely obscure. The " man undone," if Henry, Cardinal Duke of York, is intended, had, of course, no party, except the Laird of Gask, in 1792, when the song was published.

2 The den of Crookie is hell, of course. The reference to the Duke of Cumberland in the Scottish Inferno, is older than Burns, as in

Baith Scott and Lockhart's sent to hell

For to acquaint mama, Willie, That sune ye will be there yoursel' To roast ayont them a', Willie.

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