Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/141

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
89
If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man;The sympathetic tear manu fa', For Matthew was a kind man.
If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man;This was a kinsman o' thy ain, For Matthew was a true man.
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er gude wine did fear, man;This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man.
If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man;May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree,And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out-owre the grassy lea:Now Phœbus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies;But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.
Now laverocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing;The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring;The mavis mild wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest:In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae:The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang;But I the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen o' bonie France, Where happy I hae been,Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en:And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there;Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae,Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae:The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee;Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying ee.
My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine;And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine!God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee:And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!
Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns Nae mair light up the morn!Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn!And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave;And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave!


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