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THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.

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"You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.' When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets." - Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 12th March, 1791.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was

gray;

And as he was singing, the tears fast down

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There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in weep the yerd:

It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld

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There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the

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lost

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

At the close of January, Burns met a serious loss, both as respecting his fortunes and his feelings, in the death of his amiable patron James, Earl of Glencairn, who, after returning from a futile voyage to Lisbon in search of health, died at Falmouth, in the forty-second year of his age. The deep, earnest feeling of gratitude which Burns bore towards this nobleman is

highly creditable to him. He put on mourning for the earl, and designed, if possible, to attend his funeral in Ayrshire. At a later time, he entered a permanent record of his gratitude in the annals of his family, by calling a son James Glencairn.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam

Looked on the fading yellow woods

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewailed his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

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His locks were bleachèd white with time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears;
And as he touched his trembling harp,
And as he tuned his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting through their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang:

"Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the agèd year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;

But nocht in all revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending, agèd tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain

But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hold of earth is gane:

Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.

"I've seen sae monie changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown;
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay;

The flower amang our barons bold,

His country's pride, his country's stay!

In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead,

And hope has left my aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of wo and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay – Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb,

Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom.

"In Poverty's low barren vale

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turned the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

"O why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen gray with time?
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of wo!

O had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride, Was made his wedded wife yestreen; last night

The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been;

The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

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