 | The poetical remains |  |
77
ELEGY.
Britannia! tear thy laurel leaf,
Untwine it frae thy bonny brow;
Filled is the measure o' thy grief,
Nae splendour will become thee now:
Bind on thy temples wreathes o' rue,
And mournful rest on Charlotte's tomb;
Bid Windsor Palace wave wi' yew,
And ceaseless wail her early doom.
Untwine it frae thy bonny brow;
Filled is the measure o' thy grief,
Nae splendour will become thee now:
Bind on thy temples wreathes o' rue,
And mournful rest on Charlotte's tomb;
Bid Windsor Palace wave wi' yew,
And ceaseless wail her early doom.
Blest wi' the husband o' thy choice,
Sweet Charlotte! happiness was thine;
Life then to thee was fu' o' joys,
A foretaste o' the bliss divine:
But Fate! why bind the eglantine
Wi' the dark blossoms o' the grave?
Why, why, the mournfu' wreath entwine,
And bid it over Charlotte wave?
Sweet Charlotte! happiness was thine;
Life then to thee was fu' o' joys,
A foretaste o' the bliss divine:
But Fate! why bind the eglantine
Wi' the dark blossoms o' the grave?
Why, why, the mournfu' wreath entwine,
And bid it over Charlotte wave?
When lingering on the verge of death,
Intent ye gazed upon thy love;
Grasped his warm hands to cheer his faith,
And never bade thy fond eyes rove:
Mildly they beamed and never strove
To stray frae him, but gazed their fill;
And when in death they ceased to move,
They pointed to the husband still.
Intent ye gazed upon thy love;
Grasped his warm hands to cheer his faith,
And never bade thy fond eyes rove:
78
To stray frae him, but gazed their fill;
And when in death they ceased to move,
They pointed to the husband still.
Blest wi' the flush o' beauty's bloom,
A nation's pride, a nation's joy;
How soon to slumber in the tomb,
An' ilka rising hope destroy!
Restin' wi' thee's the bonny boy,
Who might hae wore the British crown;
Lately our hopes met no alloy,
But now a nation's glory's flown.
A nation's pride, a nation's joy;
How soon to slumber in the tomb,
An' ilka rising hope destroy!
Restin' wi' thee's the bonny boy,
Who might hae wore the British crown;
Lately our hopes met no alloy,
But now a nation's glory's flown.
Britannia! tear thy laurel leaf,
Untwine it frae thy bonny brow;
Filled is the measure o' thy grief,
Nae splendour will become thee now;
Bind on thy temples wreathes o' rue,
And mournful rest on Charlotte's tomb;
Bid Windsor Palace wave wi' yew,
And ceaseless wail her early doom.
Untwine it frae thy bonny brow;
Filled is the measure o' thy grief,
Nae splendour will become thee now;
Bind on thy temples wreathes o' rue,
And mournful rest on Charlotte's tomb;
Bid Windsor Palace wave wi' yew,
And ceaseless wail her early doom.
| The poetical remains | |