THE WIND blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the suns departing beam
Lookd on the fading yellow woods,
That wavd oer Lugars winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewaild his lord,
Whom Death had all untimely taen.
He leand him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mouldring down with years;
His locks were bleached white with time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi tears!
And as he touchd his trembling harp,
And as he tund his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro their caves,
To Echo bore the notes alang.
Ye scatterd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques o the vernal queir!
Ye woods that shed on a the winds
The honours of the agèd year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again yell charm the ear and ee;
But nocht in all-revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.
I am a bending agèd tree,
That long has stood the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hald of earth is gane;
Nae leaf o mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.
Ive seen sae mony changefu years,
On earth I am a stranger grown:
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing, and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unrelievd,
I bear alane my lade o care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a that would my sorrows share.
And last, (the sum of a my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flowr amang our barons bold,
His countrys pride, his countrys stay:
In weary being now I pine,
For a the life of life is dead,
And hope has left may aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.
Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only, friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the Bard
Thou brought from Fortunes mirkest gloom.
In Povertys low barren vale,
Thick mists obscure involvd me round;
Though oft I turnd the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou foundst me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.
O! why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen grey with time?
Must thou, the noble, genrous, great,
Fall in bold manhoods hardy prim
Why did I live to see that day
A day to me so full of woe?
O! had I met the mortal shaft
That laid my benefactor low!
The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But Ill remember thee, Glencairn,
And a that thou hast done for me!
