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Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless

showers,

The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowers; Still through the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid caldron boils

*

CASTLE-GORDON.

Designed to be sung to Morag, a Highland tune, of which Burns was extremely fond. · CURRIE.

STREAMS that glide in Orient plains,
Never bound by Winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commixed with foulest stains,
From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray

Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil;
Woods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave;

Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,

Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober, pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood.
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,

And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonny Castle-Gordon.

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,
To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
And the bonny Lass of Albany.

This lovely maid's of royal blood
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonny face,
They've wranged the Lass of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,1
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.2

But there's a youth, a witless youth,

That fills the place where she should be;3
We'll send him o'er to his native shore,
And bring our ain sweet Albany.

Alas the day, and wo the day,
A false usurper wan the gree,

1 Bute.

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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.

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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.

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WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your watery haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

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,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :

But man, to whom alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane

And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might

Dare invade your native right,

On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his powers you scorn;

Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

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