Robert Burns.
By George W. Doneghy
(A PARAPHRASE.)
I.
Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray
Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,
Or usher in the unhallowed day
When we forget that thou wert born!
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?
II.
That sacred day can we forget,
Can we forget the hallowed spot
Where by the winding Ayr was set
The sparkling jewel in lowly cot?
Eternity will not efface
The record dear of time that's past;
Thy memory sweet we still embrace,
And will as long as life shall last!
III.
Ayr, congeald to its pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, shorn of green;
The leafless birch and hawthorn hoar
Were planted round the wintry scene;
No flowers sprang wanton to be pressed--
No birds sang love on every spray--
But brightest yet o'er all the rest
Will ever shine thy natal day!
IV.
Still o'er thy songs our rapture wakes,
And memory broods with miser care!
Time but their music sweeter makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou again a Highland maid,
Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?