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We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;

But, like the sun eclipsed at morning-tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care!

So decked the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare.


“The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry.". Burns, February, 1791.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,



And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild, wi' monie 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' bonny France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And monie 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 through thy soul shall gae!

The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo
Frae woman's pitying e'e.

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!

look kindly

O 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 flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!


"You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 'There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.' When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets.” — Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 12th March, 1791.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was


And as he was singing, the tears fast down


There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

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My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in weep the yerd:

It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame,

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burden that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; lost But till my last moments my words are the

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There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!


At the close of January, Burns met a serious loss, both as respecting his fortunes and his feelings, in the death of his amiable patron James, Earl of Glencairn, who, after returning from a futile voyage to Lisbon in search of health, died at Falmouth, in the forty-second year of his age. The deep, earnest feeling of grati-. tude which Burns bore towards this nobleman is highly creditable to him. He put on mourning for the earl, and designed, if possible, to attend his funeral in Ayrshire. At a later time, he entered a permanent record of his gratitude in the annals of his family, by calling a son James Glencairn.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam

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