Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the Noble Duke of Athole
By Robert Burns (17591796)M
Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Emboldened 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 through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
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,
Even as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad adored me.
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild roaring o’er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well,
As nature gave them me,
I am, although I say’t mysel’,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
To grant my highest wishes,
He ’ll shade my banks wi’ towering trees,
And bonny spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my lord,
You ’ll wander on my banks,
And listen monie 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 flowers;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat
From prone descending showers.
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care.
The flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven 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 gray;
Or by the reaper’s nightly beam,
Mild-checkering through 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 shadows’ watery bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster’s nest,
The close embowering thorn.
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honored native land!
So may, through Albion’s farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be,—“Athole’s honest men,
And Athole’s bonny lasses!”