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Till Charlie Stewart cam at last,
Sae far to set us free;

My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his Country fell,
Upon Culloden field.

Ochon! O Donald, oh!

Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie!

Nae woman in the warld wide,
Sae wretched now as me.

It was a' for Our Rightfu' King.1

It was a' for our rightfu' King
We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' King
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain ;

My Love and Native Land fareweel,
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore, my dear,
And adieu for evermore.

1 The third verse of this beautiful song is found in a stall-ballad, but the date of the ballad is not ascertained.

Scott introduced the verse, with variations, in "A weary lot is Thine, fair maid," in Rokeby.


The soger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my Love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again, my dear,

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa,

The lee-lang night and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night and weep.

Ode for General Washington's Birthday.1

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;

'Tis liberty's bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!

See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
And dash it in a tyrant's face,

And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared

No more the despot of Columbia's race!

A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,

They shout-a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.

Where is man's godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold-
That eye that can unmov'd behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That e'er created fury dared to raise ?
Avaunt thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despot's nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

1 The Ode, or part of it, was sent to Mr Perry for The Morning Post. Mr Miller of Dalswinton (as Scott informed Lockhart) wished Burns to increase his income by contributing to this newspaper.

The last paragraph was printed by Currie; the rest of the poem, taken from the original MS., first appeared in the Kilmarnock edition of 1876.

Canst laud the hand that struck th' insulting blow! Art thou of man's Imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine?

Each skulking feature answers, No! But come, ye sons of Liberty,

Columbia's offspring, brave as free,

In danger's hour still flaming in the van,

Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!

Alfred! on thy starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,

No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design,

To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,

Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is mine!" That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice

And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,

That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,

Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;

Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,

Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;


Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,
Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring!-
Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,

No more that glance lightens afar;

That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.

Inscription to Miss Graham of Fintry.1

HERE, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined,
Accept the gift; though humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.


may no ruffled feeling in my breast,
Discordant, jar thy bosom-chords among;
But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song,

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears,

As modest Want the tale of woe reveals;
While conscious Virtue all the strains endears,
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals.

On the Seas and far away.2

Tune-"O'er the hills and far away."

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad;
How can I the thought forego-
He's on the seas to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love;
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day,
Are with him that's far away.

1 Daughter of Burns's patron in the department of the Customs.

Thomson did not think this " one

of Burns's happiest productions," and he was right.

Chorus. On the seas and far away,

On stormy seas and far away;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day,
Are aye with him that's far away.

When in summer noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun,
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun;
Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away.
On the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far away;
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away.

At the starless, midnight hour

When Winter rules with boundless power,
As the storms the forests tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can-I weep and pray
For his weal that's far away.
On the seas and far away,
On stormy seas and far away;
All I can-I weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild War his ravage end,
Man with brother Man to meet,

And as a brother kindly greet;

Then may heav'n with prosperous gales,
Fill my sailor's welcome sails;
To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that's far away.

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