The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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Samson’s dead!

      When August winds the heather wave,

      And sportsmen wander by yon grave,

      Three volleys let his mem’ry crave

      O’ pouther an’ lead,

      ’Till echo answer frae her cave

      Tam Samson’s dead!

      Heav’n rest his soul, whare’er he be!

      Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me;

      He had twa fauts, or may be three,

      Yet what remead?

      Ae social, honest man want we:

      Tam Samson’s dead!

      EPITAPH

      Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies,

      Ye canting zealots spare him!

      If honest worth in heaven rise,

      Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.

      PER CONTRA

      Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly

      Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie,

      Tell ev’ry social honest billie

      To cease his grievin’,

      For yet, unskaith’d by death’s gleg gullie,

      Tam Samson’s livin’.

      XLI. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S AMOUR

      “Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!

      And sweet affection prove the spring of woe.”

Home.

      [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. “This was a most melancholy affair,” says the poet in his letter to Moore, “which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality.” Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was “written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham’s darling sweetheart alighting him and marrying another:—she acted a wise part.” With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady’s wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.]

      I.

      O thou pale orb, that silent shines,

      While care-untroubled mortals sleep!

      Thou seest a wretch who inly pines,

      And wanders here to wail and weep!

      With woe I nightly vigils keep,

      Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam,

      And mourn, in lamentation deep,

      How life and love are all a dream.

      II.

      A joyless view thy rays adorn

      The faintly marked distant hill:

      I joyless view thy trembling horn,

      Reflected in the gurgling rill:

      My fondly-fluttering heart, be still:

      Thou busy pow’r, Remembrance, cease!

      Ah! must the agonizing thrill

      For ever bar returning peace!

      III.

      No idly-feign’d poetic pains,

      My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim;

      No shepherd’s pipe—Arcadian strains;

      No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:

      The plighted faith; the mutual flame;

      The oft-attested Pow’rs above;

      The promis’d father’s tender name;

      These were the pledges of my love!

      IV.

      Encircled in her clasping arms,

      How have the raptur’d moments flown!

      How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms,

      For her dear sake, and hers alone!

      And must I think it!—is she gone,

      My secret heart’s exulting boast?

      And does she heedless hear my groan?

      And is she ever, ever lost?

      V.

      Oh! can she bear so base a heart,

      So lost to honour, lost to truth,

      As from the fondest lover part,

      The plighted husband of her youth!

      Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth!

      Her way may lie thro’ rough distress!

      Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,

      Her sorrows share, and make them less?

      VI.

      Ye winged hours that o’er us past,

      Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d,

      Your dear remembrance in my breast,

      My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d,

      That breast, how dreary now, and void,

      For her too scanty once of room!

      Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d,

      And not a wish to gild the gloom!

      VII.

      The morn that warns th’ approaching day,

      Awakes me up to toil and woe:

      I see the hours in long array,

      That I must suffer, lingering slow.

      Full many a pang, and many a throe,

      Keen recollection’s direful train,

      Must wring my soul, ere Phœbus, low,

      Shall kiss the distant, western main.

      VIII.

      And when my nightly couch I try,

      Sore-harass’d out with care and grief,

      My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

      Keep watchings with the nightly thief:

      Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,

      Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright:

      Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief,

      From such a horror-breathing night.

      IX.

      O! thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanse

      Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway!

      Oft has thy silent-marking glance

      Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray!

      The time, unheeded, sped away,

      While love’s luxurious pulse beat high,

      Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,

      To mark the mutual kindling eye.

      X.

      Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!

      Scenes never, never to return!

      Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

      Again I feel, again I burn!

      From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn,

      Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’;

      And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll

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