Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/177
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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
123
SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL.
April, 1794
No more, ye warblers of the wood—no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend:
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet;
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.
IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1793.
Old Winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,—
'What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;'
''Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,—
'What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me;'
''Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.
TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES,
WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer,
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man's felon snare:
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind—
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.
And with them take the Poet's prayer,
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man's felon snare:
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind—
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.