The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw,

      Now bleezin’ bright,

      A tight outlandish hizzie, braw

      Come full in sight.

      Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht;

      The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht;

      I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht

      In some wild glen;

      When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,

      And stepped ben.

      Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs

      Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows,

      I took her for some Scottish Muse,

      By that same token;

      An’ come to stop those reckless vows,

      Wou’d soon be broken.

      A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace”

      Was strongly marked in her face;

      A wildly-witty, rustic grace

      Shone full upon her:

      Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space,

      Beam’d keen with honour.

      Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen,

      ’Till half a leg was scrimply seen:

      And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

      Could only peer it;

      Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,

      Nane else came near it.

      Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

      My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

      Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw

      A lustre grand;

      And seem’d to my astonish’d view,

      A well-known land.

      Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

      There, mountains to the skies were tost:

      Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast,

      With surging foam;

      There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast,

      The lordly dome.

      Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods;

      There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:

      Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods,

      On to the shore;

      And many a lesser torrent scuds,

      With seeming roar.

      Low, in a sandy valley spread,

      An ancient borough rear’d her head;

      Still, as in Scottish story read,

      She boasts a race,

      To ev’ry nobler virtue bred,

      And polish’d grace.

      By stately tow’r, or palace fair,

      Or ruins pendent in the air,

      Bold stems of heroes, here and there,

      I could discern;

      Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare,

      With feature stern.

      My heart did glowing transport feel,

      To see a race[20] heroic wheel,

      And brandish round the deep-dy’d steel

      In sturdy blows;

      While back-recoiling seem’d to reel

      Their southron foes.

      His Country’s Saviour,[21] mark him well!

      Bold Richardton’s[22] heroic swell;

      The chief on Sark[23] who glorious fell,

      In high command;

      And He whom ruthless fates expel

      His native land.

      There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade[24]

      Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,

      I mark’d a martial race portray’d

      In colours strong;

      Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d

      They strode along.

      Thro’ many a wild romantic grove,[25]

      Near many a hermit-fancy’d cove,

      (Fit haunts for friendship or for love,)

      In musing mood,

      An aged judge, I saw him rove,

      Dispensing good.

      With deep-struck, reverential awe,[26]

      The learned sire and son I saw,

      To Nature’s God and Nature’s law,

      They gave their lore,

      This, all its source and end to draw;

      That, to adore.

      Brydone’s brave ward[27] I well could spy,

      Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye;

      Who call’d on Fame, low standing by,

      To hand him on,

      Where many a Patriot-name on high

      And hero shone.

      DUAN SECOND

      With musing-deep, astonish’d stare,

      I view’d the heavenly-seeming fair;

      A whisp’ring throb did witness bear

      Of kindred sweet,

      When with an elder sister’s air

      She did me greet.

      “All hail! My own inspired bard!

      In me thy native Muse regard!

      Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,

      Thus poorly low!

      I come to give thee such reward

      As we bestow.

      “Know, the great genius of this land,

      Has many a light aërial band,

      Who, all beneath his high command,

      Harmoniously,

      As arts or arms they understand,

      Their labours ply.

      “They Scotia’s race among them share;

      Some fire the soldier on to dare;

      Some rouse the patriot up to bare

      Corruption’s heart.

      Some teach the bard, a darling care,

      The tuneful art.

      “‘Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,

      They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour;

      Or ‘mid the venal senate’s roar,

      They, sightless, stand,

      To mend the honest patriot-lore,

      And grace the hand.

      “And when the bard, or hoary sage,

      Charm or instruct the future age,

      They СКАЧАТЬ