on MR. R***** A***, at his departure fROM
Illum etiam Lauri, etiam flevere Myrica.
Him even the Laurels and the Tamarisks lamented.
AE Mornin', whan, wi bonny smile,
The Sin shot down his cheery ray;
An' meads, wi' a' that could beguile,
Set out the beauties o' the day.
Whan, frae the lift, the Lavrocks clear
War liltin' up their early spring;
An' soundin' Echo, far an' near,
Gar'd ilka glen, an' hilloc ring.
Whan, on the risin' blade was seen
The glittrin' dew, in siller bells;
An' Nature smil'd, o'er glen an' green,
Whar rural, sweet contentment dwells.
Far o'er the braes, the Northart cauld
To distant climes had ta'en its way:
Nae mair the snaw coor'd o'er the fauld,
Nor fogs row'd up the face o' day.
Whan lambs, along the flow'ry dell,
In sportive capers, sweetly strave;
Or, round their guardian master's cell,
Gaed nibblin' in a social drave.
Whan rustic beauty o' the dale,
Wi' bare-fit, lily-white, an' clean,
Bure on her head the milkin' pail,
As saft she tript it o'er the green.
Twa social, neighbour swains, that bonny day,
Had met, by chance, upo' the flow'ry plain;
Whan cheerfu' Jamie, canty ay, an' gay,
To sadder Johnie thus began the strain.
O! why is the Shepherd sae sad?
For what does my Johnie think lang?
Come, cheer up your spirits, my lad,
An' tune up your Jamie a sang.
Whan Simmer, an' Ceres appear,
cause has my Friend to complain?
Whan Flora, the joy o' the year,
Sae sweetly has blossom'd the plain.
Just leuk to the flocks on the leas
How sweetly contentit they stray:
What pleasure an' joy wad it gie,
War ye but as cheery as they?
How socially croudit they feed,
An' ne'er discontentedly strive;
But, surely, ye'll haud up your head,
An' gie us a lilt o't belive.
Ance, lad, thou ca'd me canty cheery swain;
But, thou need never ca' me that again.
Nae mair, nae mair my aiten pipe I'll blaw,
While risin' Echo whispers't far awa.
Ne'er sal the herdies, in a cheerfu' thrang,
E'er listen to the words o' Johny's sang.
Aft, whan I sang o' Peggy's jet-black e’en,
Or play'd the charms o' my nain bonny Jean;
In joyfu' raptures, ilka peasant chiel'
Admir'd the tune, an' said I play'd it weel.
Amang the shepherds a' I bure the bell,
An' play'd the neist to Robin, Robin own'st himsel'.
Nae mair, tho' Jamie soud lilt up a spring,
Will ever Johnie deign to dance or sing.
Ilk sportive nymph, an' swain, wi' mirth an' glee,
Link'd arm in arm, may wanton o'er the lea;
Nae mair will Johnie join the youthfu' ban',
In wonted sallies, o'er the dewy lawn.
In saut, saut tears, I'll ever, ever mane;
The guid, the honest, cheery Robin's gane.
Gane! Is he dead? O, Sirs! gin that be sae
Sure ilka herd will sair be fill'd wi' wae ;
The cheeriest swain that ere the meadows saw;
Alakanee! Is Robin gane awa?
He is na dead, my Friend, but left thir plains, An' a' his friends, for ither meads an' swains ; He's left our crystal burns, an' tinklin' rills, An' herds, whilk ance he tentit o'er the hills.
O, sad the loss! an' mournfu' is the change: Nae mair, wi' him, o'er dewy fields we'll range; Nae mair, aneath yon gracefu' spreadin' tree, He'll sing his loves to Jamie an' to me.
Aft did the Nymphs, an' bonny Nymphs war they, Come trippin' o'er the green to hear him play. Now wordy Robin tunes his pipe nae mair, But to the Nymphs and to the Swains o' Ayr.
Can Coila's claim, tho' water'd by the sea, Shaw brawer fields, or bonnier meads than we
Can a' the fields, or a' the meads o' Ayr,
Shaw kinder swains, or brag o' Nymphs as fair?
Do flowers mair plenty Coila's groves adorn,
Or sangsters sweeter wake the risin' morn?
Can Coila's groves, or Coila's verdant bowers,
Shaw sweeter to my Robin's e'e than ours?
Or, are their flocks, o' whilk they are sae vain,
Their wooy flocks, mair thrivin' than our nain?
Ye shepherd swains, around fair Glotta's side,
Or, whar the Cartha rows her siller tide,
Walk pensive out, at morn, and e’en, alane,
An' mourn your cheery Friend, your Robin gane.
I saw his herd, yestreen, gaun o'er the brae ;
Wi' heart-felt grief I heard their mournfu' bae:
Nane was to cheer them wi' a hearty sang,
An' nane to guide them whar the braird was lang.
I saw them, tentless, wander o'er the hight,
An' griev'd to think upo' the comin' night;
In ae place, here, wander'd some bleatin' ram,
An' ther a tender wee ane tint its dam;
Nae herd, as yet, took Robin's cruik in haun,
An' ilka field concern was left to staun.
Poor things! quo I, while tears drapt frae ilk e'e,
Y've tint a friend, whase like ye'll never see.
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