The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill :: :: University of Virginia Library

While the heavy lashing rains
Swell our rivers, drench our plains,
And the angry ocean roars
Round our broken, craggy shores;
But, mindful of our Poet's worth,
We hail the honour'd day that gave him birth.

Come, ye vot'ries of the lyre,
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire,
Raise the song in Scotia's praise;
Sing anew her bonnie braes,
Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams;
Sing her sons beyond compare,
Sing her daughters, peerless, fair;
Sing, till winter's storms be o'er,
The matchless bards that sung before;
And I, the meanest of the Muse's train,
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain.

Dear Scotia, though thy clime be cauld,
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld,
Thy daughters, modest, kind, and leal,
The fairest in creation's fiel';
Alike inur'd to every toil,
Thou 'rt foremost in the battle broil;
Prepar'd alike in peace and weir
To guide the plough or wield the spear.
As the mountain torrent raves,
Dashing through its rugged caves,
So the Scottish legions pour,
Dreadful in the avenging hour.
But when Peace, with kind accord,
Bids them sheath the sated sword,

See them, in their native vales,
Jocund as the summer gales,
Cheering labour all the day
With some merry roundelay.

Dear Scotia, though thy nights be drear,
When surly winter rules the year,
Around thy cottage hearths are seen
The glow of health, the cheerful mien;
The mutual glance, that fondly shares
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares:
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet,
The canty lads and lasses meet.
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free,
The hours of joy come dancing on
To share their frolic and their fun.
Here many a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound
Perform'd in dreary wizard glen
By wrinkled hags and warlock men;
Or of the hell-fee'd crew combin'd,
Carousing on the midnight wind,
On some infernal errand bent,
While darkness shrouds their black intent.
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight
To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments flee
Without a care, unless for thee,
Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon,
And sought the native sphere aboon.
Thy “lovely Jean,” thy “Nannie, O,”
Thy much-lov'd “Caledonia,”

Thy “Wat ye wha's in yonder toun,”
Thy “Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,”
Thy “Shepherdess on Afton Braes,”
Thy “Logan Lassie's” bitter waes,
Are a' gane o'er, sae sweetly tun'd,
That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound,
Fa's lown, and sings with eerie slight,
“O let me in this ae, ae night.”

Alas! our best, our dearest Bard,
How poor, how great was his reward!
Unaided, he has fix'd his name,
Immortal, in the rolls of fame;
Yet who can hear without a tear
What sorrows wrung his manly breast,
To see his little, helpless, filial band
Imploring succour from a father's hand,
And there no succour near?
Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest,
Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest:
For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone—
She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.