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Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowers; Still through the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid caldron boils
Designed to be sung to Morag, a Highland tune, of which Burns was extremely fond. · CURRIE.
STREAMS that glide in Orient plains,
Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil;
I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
Wildly here, without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
She plants the forest, pours the flood.
And find at night a sheltering cave,
THE BONNY LASS OF ALBANY.
TUNE- Mary's Dream.
Journeying through the Highlands with a Jacobite companion, Burns could not but feel a little more enthusiastic than he generally did regarding the memory of the Stuarts. His visit to the natal district of those ancestors whom he believed to have followed the Cavalier standard, would give increased energy to his feelings of romantic loyalty. Connecting these considerations with the fact of Prince Charles having this very month, [Sept. 1787] declared the legitimacy of his hitherto supposed natural daughter, styled Duchess
of Albany, I deem it probable that it was at this time that Burns composed a song in honor of that lady which has not till now seen the light.
My heart is wae, and unco wae,
This lovely maid's of royal blood
In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
But there's a youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place where she should be;3
Alas the day, and wo the day,
2 Rothsay, the county town of Bute, gave a title to the eldest sons of the kings of Scotland (Duke of Rothsay).
3 An allusion to the Prince of Wales.
Who now commands the towers and lands, The royal right of Albany.
We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe and drum, We'll welcome hame fair Albany.1
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT.
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
1 Prince Charles, at his death in 1788, left the Duchess of Albany his sole heir, but she did not long survive him. The above song is printed from a portion of a manuscript book in Burns's handwriting, which is now in the possession of Mr. B. Nightingale, London.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
But man, to whom alone is given
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,