The moon shone on the castle wa’;
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang
Around her on the castle wa’.
Sae merrily they danced the ring,
Frae eenin’ till the cock did craw;
And the o’erword o’ the spring,
Was Irvine’s bairns are bonie a’.
These three effusions, dear reader, are really and truly the work of Burns—or, if you prefer it, of Burrrrrns. In despair one hunts up something for which the man is noted. Scots Wha Hae one thinks, will serve. It has been described as noble, and marvellous, and inspiring, and Heaven knows what besides. Here it is:
Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,