Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo’s ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lours: Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils—
Epigram On Parting With A Kind Host In The Highlands
When Death’s dark stream I ferry o’er, A time that surely shall come, In Heav’n itself I’ll ask no more, Than just a Highland welcome.
Strathallan’s Lament1
Thickest night, o’erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o’er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave! [Footnote 1: Burns confesses that his Jacobtism was merely sentimental “except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause,” and a tour through the country where Montrose, Claverhouse, and Prince Charles had fought, was cause enough. Strathallan fell gloriously at Culloden.—Lang.] Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour’s war we strongly waged, But the Heavens denied success. Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend.
Castle Gordon
Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by Winter’s chains; Glowing here on golden sands, There immix’d with foulest stains From Tyranny’s empurpled hands; 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 gray, Shading from the burning ray Hapless 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 bonie Castle Gordon.