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It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady :

And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry : So though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”—

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“ haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”—

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her, When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Uullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“ Come back! come back !” he cried in grief,

“ Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter oh my daughter!”

'Twas vain :--the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.



SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality :
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.


And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at Burns's na
Exorcised by his memory;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstasies
With Pythian words unsought, unwilld,
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter



Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,

But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love?
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught !-how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms,
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet views,
The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom BURNS's song inspires !
Beat not his Caledonian veins,
As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,
And all their scorn of death and chains ?

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep
In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier resting on his arms,
In BURNS's carol sweet recalls
The scenes that bless'd him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, ’midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the Poet brings :
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,
And only tears of kindred fall,
Who but the bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

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