Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands
When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come, In Heav'n itself I'll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.
Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!
[Footnote 1: Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely sentimental “except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause,” and a tour through the country where Montrose, Claverhouse, and Prince Charles had fought, was cause enough. Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.--Lang.]
Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the Heavens denied success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us-- But a world without a friend.
Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by Winter's chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There immix'd with foulest stains From Tyranny's empurpled hands; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon.
Spicy forests, ever gray, Shading from the burning ray Hapless wretches sold to toil; Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave; Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon.
Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood: Life's poor day I'll musing rave And find at night a sheltering cave, Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonie Castle Gordon.
A' The lads o' Thorniebank, When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky.
Chorus.--Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at shore o' Bucky; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky.
Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean I wat she is a daintie chuckie; And cheery blinks the ingle-gleed O' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! Lady Onlie, &c.