AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. ΤΟ MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the' impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN: A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man, whose aged step "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, Where hundreds labour to support |