Robert Burns (रॉबर्ट बर्न्स)

FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North,The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth.

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Chorus.—My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer.

Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,Farewell to the straths and green vallies below.

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

THE SUN had clos’d the winter day,The curless quat their roarin play.

And hunger’d maukin taen her way,To kail-yards green.

While faithless snaws ilk step betray,Whare she has been.

The thresher’s weary flingin-tree,The lee-lang day had tired me.

And when the day had clos’d his e’e,Far i’ the west.

Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.

There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey’d the spewing reek.

That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek,The auld clay biggin.

An’ heard the restless rattons squeak,About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,I backward mus’d on wasted time.

How I had spent my youthfu’ prime,An’ done nae thing.

But stringing blethers up in rhyme,For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,I might, by this, hae led a market.

Or strutted in a bank and clarkit,My cash-account.

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,Is a’ th’ amount.

I started, mutt’ring, “blockhead! coof!”,And heav’d on high my waukit loof.

To swear by a’ yon starry roof,Or some rash aith.

That I henceforth wad be rhyme-proof,Till my last breath—.

When click! the string the snick did draw,An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’.

An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw,Now bleezin bright.

A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht,The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht.

I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht,In some wild glen.

When sweet, like honest Worth, she blusht,An’ steppèd ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs,Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows.

I took her for some Scottish Muse,By that same token.

And come to stop those reckless vows,Would soon been broken.

A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace”,Was strongly markèd in her face.

A wildly-witty, rustic grace,Shone full upon her.

Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space,Beam’d keen with honour.

Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen,Till half a leg was scrimply seen.

An’ such a leg! my bonie Jean,Could only peer it.

Sae straught, sae taper, tight an’ clean—,Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,My gazing wonder chiefly drew.

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw,A lustre grand.

And seem’d, to my astonish’d view,A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost,There, mountains to the skies were toss’t.

Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast,With surging foam.

There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast,The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods,There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds.

Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods,On to the shore.

And many a lesser torrent scuds,With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,An ancient borough rear’d her head.

Still, as in Scottish story read,She boasts a race.

To ev’ry nobler virtue bred,And polish’d grace. 2.

By stately tow’r, or palace fair,Or ruins pendent in the air.

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,I could discern.

Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare,With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,To see a race heroic 3 wheel.

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel,In sturdy blows.

While, back-recoiling, seem’d to reel,Their Suthron foes.

His Country’s Saviour, 4 mark him well!,Bold Richardton’s heroic swell,; 5.

The chief, on Sark who glorious fell, 6,In high command.

And he whom ruthless fates expel,His native land.

There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade,Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid, 7.

I mark’d a martial race, pourtray’d,In colours strong.

Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d,They strode along.

Thro’ many a wild, romantic grove, 8,Near many a hermit-fancied cove.

(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,In musing mood).

An aged Judge, I saw him rove,Dispensing good.

With deep-struck, reverential awe,The learned Sire and Son I saw: 9.

To Nature’s God, and Nature’s law,They gave their lore.

This, all its source and end to draw,That, to adore.

Brydon’s brave ward 10 I well could spy,Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye.

Who call’d on Fame, low standing by,To hand him on.

Where many a patriot-name on high,And hero shone.

DUAN SECONDWith musing-deep, astonish’d stare,I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair.

A whispering throb did witness bear,Of kindred sweet.

When with an elder sister’s air,She did me greet.

“All hail! my own inspired bard!,In me thy native Muse regard.

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,Thus poorly low.

I come to give thee such reward,As we bestow!.

“Know, the great genius of this land,Has many a light aerial band.

Who, all beneath his high command,Harmoniously.

As arts or arms they understand,Their labours ply.

“They Scotia’s race among them share,Some fire the soldier on to dare.

Some rouse the patriot up to bare,Corruption’s heart.

Some teach the bard—a darling care—,The tuneful art.

“’Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,They, ardent, kindling spirits pour.

Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar,They, sightless, stand.

To mend the honest patriot-lore,And grace the hand.

“And when the bard, or hoary sage,Charm or instruct the future age.

They bind the wild poetric rage,In energy.

Or point the inconclusive page,Full on the eye.

“Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young,Hence, Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue.

Hence, sweet, harmonious Beattie sung,His ’Minstrel lays’.

Or tore, with noble ardour stung,The sceptic’s bays.

“To lower orders are assign’d,The humbler ranks of human-kind.

The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind,The artisan.

All choose, as various they’re inclin’d,The various man.

“When yellow waves the heavy grain,The threat’ning storm some strongly rein.

Some teach to meliorate the plain,With tillage-skill.

And some instruct the shepherd-train,Blythe o’er the hill.

“Some hint the lover’s harmless wile,Some grace the maiden’s artless smile.

Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil,For humble gains.