ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
A. W., "A Pastoral Elegy, in the Scotch Dialect, on the Death of Robert Burns" Scots Magazine 59 (September 1797) 689-90.
1786: Henry Mackenzie
1787: J. B.
1787: Helen Maria Williams
1787: William Cowper
1787: Anna Seward
1788: Gavin Turnbull
1788: J. J-n
1788: J. R-d
1788: James Maxwell
1788: James Macaulay
1789: Rev. Thomas Blacklock
1791: William Gifford
1791 ca.: James Graham
1791: Thomas Scotus
1791: Helen Maria Williams
1792: Samuel Thomson
1793: William Yates
1794: Rev. James Grahame
1796: William Roscoe
1796 ca.: Charlotte Smith
1796: J. H.
1796: Alexander Balfour
1796: W. B.
1796: E. Hyslop
1796: A Lady
1796: An Auld Fifeshire Ploughman
1797: A. W.
1797: William Hamilton Reid
1797: Edward Rushton
1797: William Roscoe
1797: A Mourner
1797: Thomas Mounsey Cunningham
1798: John Struthers
1798: David Crawford
1800: Charles Lamb
1800: William Roscoe
1800: J. F. D.
1800: Thomas Sanderson
1802: Leigh Hunt
1802: James Pace
1803: William Wordsworth
1804: David Irving
1805: Rev. Henry Boyd
1805: A. M. A.
1805: J. G. Bagshaw
1805: Thomas Stott
1806: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1806: John Struthers
1806: Alexander Wilson
1806: H. C.
1806: Hamilton Paul
1807: William Wordsworth
1807: Lady Anne Hamilton
1807: Robert Tannahill
1807: A. M. P.
1808: John-Henry Kenney
1808: A Young Lady of Sixteen
1809: A Caledonian
1810: Robert Tannahill
1812: George Dyer
1812: A. Kyne
1813: Mary Russell Mitford
1813: Lord Byron
1814: Earl of Buchan
1814: W. Jos. Walter
1815: William Henry Ireland
1816: George Colman the Younger
1816: Thomas Campbell
1816: John Mayne
1816: T. W. Lake
1816: An English Lady
1817: Hugh Campbell
1818: John Keats
1818: Charles Lamb
1818: John Keats
1818: S. A. N.
1818: A Lowland Laddie
1818: Richard Hatt
1819: John Wilson
1819: James Thomson of London
1819: A Literary Gentleman
1819: John Gibson Lockhart
1820: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1820: James Montgomery
1820: Nicholas Toms Carrington
1820: James Boswell the Younger
1820: W. G.
1821: Mary Leman Rede
1821: Anne Powell
1822: Fitz-Greene Halleck
1822: James B. Sheys
1822: J. D. C.
1823: Rev. William Gillespie
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: Allan Cunningham
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Henry Mackenzie
1825: James B. Sheys
1825: Allan Cunningham
1826: Herbert Barton
1826: Richard Ryan
1827: Sir Walter Scott
1828: Walter Savage Landor
1828: Thomas Carlyle
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1829: J. S.
1830 ca.: Rev. Henry Francis Cary
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1831: John Wilson
1832: James Hogg
1833: James Montgomery
1836: L. L.
1840: Thomas Carlyle
1842: Robert Story
1842: C. H. Timperley
1843: John Holland
1844: John Wilson
1844: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1866: Bryan Waller Procter
1880: John Service
1882: Epes Sargent
1734: David Mallet
1784: Samuel Johnson
1797: Robert Burns
Come tell me, Jamie, what's the wyte ye mourn?
Why ha'e your thoughts tain sic' a doolsom' turn?
That us'd to be sae fu' o' spunk an' glee,
An' lang sae sweet, sae blyth an' cantilie;
I canna thole to see ye look sae wae;
Lilt up a sang to chace your grief away.
To tak' my reed, or mint to play a spring,
Or yet to try to whistle or to sing,
Is baith aboon my bind an' 'yont my art,
An' wou'd be mair nar fit to break my heart:
Sae Willie say nae mair. — This monie a day
I mak' ye sure I'll neither sing nor play.
I ferlie man what mak's your heart to dunt!
Has Mainie turn'd her back, an' taen the strunt?
Or ha'e the blastin' winds come o'er your fields?
Or are your ouffen elf-shot i' their bields?
Or are your kye gaen yiel' to gar you weep?
Or has Tod Lowrie worri'd a' your sheep?
Sic things as thae, though weightie they would be,
Wou'd no' be have's gien siccan grief to me;
Nor Mainie, nor my ouffen wou'd I mind,
Nor sheep, nor kye, nor tods, nor blightin' wind.—
Far war nor that's faun' out! O wae's me!
For Rob, our hind, that sang sae cheerullie,
Wha's charmin' music drave awa' our pain,
An' cheer'd our hearts, alake! is dead an' gane.
Is Robie dead? Weel may we a' be wae,
An' dowie too, for year an' month an' day!
An' is he gaen indeed? the blythest he
That ever plew'd or whissl'd o'er the lee.—
Sair fair we'll miss him an' his cantie springs,
Nae mair he he whissles now, alake! nor sings:
Sae sweetlie did his cheerie music's cling,
His meltin' notes made a' the vallies ring.
Lang days an' nights we'll ha'e o' grief an' care,
For cantie Robin plays an' sings nae mair.
I ferlie muckle what can be the wyte,
That Heav'n sae aften shortens our delight?
Is our north clime sae dour an' sae severe,
That charmin' fingers mak' nae thriven here?
We anes had Allan, cantie blyth an' gay,
That wi' sweet singin' bore the gree away;
At last he fell. — Rob Fergusson appear'd,
Whase thrillin' music hills and valley cheer'd,
Death tuik him too. — Then ilka glen was sad,
Till Robin cam' an' made our shielins glad;
Sae sweet he sang, wi' sic melodious air,
But now, alake! he'll sing an' play nae mair.
Had I no' been a stupit doitit ass,
I might hae lear'd frae what has come to pass;
For but the other ouk' nae farder gaen,
I thought the vera brutes did a' complain,
The corbies croupit, an' the dogs did yowl,
Hail nights I sleptna' for the skirling owl.
Loud at the door cam' monie fearsom' raps,
The vera pyets raive our shielin' taps:
Thae a' might stood for warnins sad an' fair,
That daintie Robin was to sing nae mair.
O me! may never ane get sic a fright,
As I gat wi' a dream that awfu' night.
What think ye did I see? — Wi' fearsom' glow,
I saw my house a' bleezin' in a low!
I raiz I thaught, an' try'd to get it smoor'd,
An' muckle pain an' trouble I endur'd:
Till wi' a waff a reek, whan gaun about,
I thought indeed I gat an eye dung out.
An' whan I waken'd, troth to tell ye now,
I thought for lang that a' I saw was true.
I lay a while, an' swatt wi' perfect fright,
But glad was I to see the mornin' light.
I saddlie find my dream true and read to me:
For I wi' him hae lost my best tae eye.
I might hae thaught be this, had I ta'en care,
That daintie Rob was ne'er to whissle mair.
We poor short-sightit mortals canna see
A single inch into futurity.—
What can we do but wi' fell grief be tosst,
An' mourn baith night an' day for him we've lost.
How cantie ha'e I been, on our sheep-gangs,
To lean me down an' read his bonnie sangs;
How he had simple dogs to crack sae nice,
An' wi' their crackin' crub the ways o' vice.
It would gar simple fokes, o' little wight,
A maist believe he had the secon' sight—
Now may we count our haudins toom and bare,
Whan he that us'd to cheer them sings nae mair.
To see I've monie a time been blyth enough,
His horse an' ouffen drawin' i' the pleugh;
An' then he whissl'd ay' wi' sic a glee,
As gart them rock an' row alang the lee.
Mong sweepin' rigs o' corn, I can declare,
I've seen i' hairst our wenches shearin' fair,
Aftimes, for a' their brulziein kemps an' bangs,
Haud still their hooks an' lissen till his sangs;
At which he had sae nice a gait an' knack
As made the vera Briggs o' Ayr to crack.
An' argue steevely, opnin' to our view
Auld warld things, as weel as things that's new.
Mourn Coila, mourn! let sons an' daughters share,
For Rob your darling ne'er will whissle mair.