DIRGE. Written on reading an Account of ROBERT BURNS’ Funeral. ___ LET grief for ever cloud
the day, That
saw our Bard borne to the clay; Let
joy be banish’d every eye, And
nature, weeping seem to cry, “He’s gone, he’s gone! he’s frae us torn! “The ae best fellow e’er was born.” Let
shepherds from the mountains steep, Look
down on widow’d Nith, and weep, Let
rustic swains their labours leave, And
sighing murmur o'er his grave, “He’s gone, he’s gone! &c. Let
bonny Doon and winding Ayr, Their
bushy banks in anguish tear, While
many a tributary stream, Pours
down its griefs to swell the theme, “He’s gone, he’s gone! &c. All
dismal let the night descend, Let
whirling storms the forests rend, Let
furious tempests sweep the sky, And
dreary-howling caverns cry, “He’s gone, he’s gone! he’s frae us torn ! “The ae best fellow e’er was born!” |