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, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among 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.
Here is the glen.
[In a letter to Thomson, Burns says, "I got air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she calls 'The banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and as her Ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."]
Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village bell has told the hour,—
O what can stay my lovely maid?
'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little faithful mate to cheer,
At once 'tis music—and 'tis love.
And art thou come! and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.
The auld Man’s Lament.
[William Cross. Printed with the author's latest corrections.]
My beltane o' life and my gay days are gane,
And now I am feckless, and dowie, and lane,
And my lammas o' life, wi' its floods o' saut tears,
Has drowned a' the joys o' my young happy years.
Full threescore and ten times the gowan has spread
Since first owre the meadow wi' light foot I sped,
And threescore and ten times the blue bells ha'e blawn,
Since to pu' them I first daunder'd biythe owre the lawn.
The burn banks I lo'ed when a callant to range,
And the heather-clad braes, now seem eerie and strange,
The burn seems na clear, and the lift seems na blue;
But it's ablins my auld een that dinna tell true.
The mates o' my young days are a' wede awa',
The sunshine they shared, but escaped frae the snaw,
Like the swallows they fled when youth's warm days were gane,
And I'm left like a winged ane in winter alane.
To yon aged hawthorn that bends o'er the burn,
Its far scattered blossoms can never return,
They are swept to the sea o'er dark plumb and deep linn,
Sae, my comrades ha'e flourish'd and fled ane by ane.
It seems short to look back since my Peggy was young,
Bliss beam'd in her features, joy flow'd frae her tongue,
But my Peggy has left me, and gane like the lave,
And the wind whistles shrill o'er my dear Peggy's grave.
My Peggy was ruddy, my Peggy was fair,
Mild was her blue e'e, and modest her air;
But I needna tell now what my Peggy has been,
For blanch'd are her red cheeks, and closed her blue een.
The wind whistles shrill, snell and bitter's the blast,
And death o'er my head waves his fell rung at last:
I have heard for the last time the laverock's sweet sang,
He may cour frae the storm by my grave or't be lang.
Soon may the worm on this auld body feed,
Soon may the nettles grow rank at my head,
And some herd in thae few words may sum up my fame,
"There's an auld man lies here, I've forgotten his name."
