Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
185 . The Humble Petition of Bruar Water
M
Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. As poet Burns came by. That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’, Worth gaun a mile to see. To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show’rs. Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav’n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow’s wat’ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn. Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonie lasses!”