Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, My Donald's arm was wanted then, Their waefu' fate what need I tell, Ochon! O Donald, oh! Ochon, Ochon, Ochrie! Nae woman in the warld wide, It was a' for Our Rightfu' King.1 It was a' for our rightfu' King Now a' is done that men can do, My Love and Native Land fareweel, He turn'd him right and round about, And gae his bridle reins a shake, 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. WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY The soger frae the wars returns, When day is gane, and night is come, I think on him that's far awa, The lee-lang night and weep, my dear, Ode for General Washington's Birthday.1 No Spartan tube, no Attic shell, 'Tis liberty's bold note I swell, See gathering thousands, while I sing, 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- 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, No more thy England own! Dare injured nations form the great design, To make detested tyrants bleed? Thy England execrates the glorious deed! 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 Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among, Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song, Where is that soul of Freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead, Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies Nor give the coward secret breath! Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm? ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate, 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, So may no ruffled feeling in my breast, Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; On the Seas and far away.2 Tune-"O'er the hills and far away." How can my poor heart be glad, 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; When in summer noon I faint, At the starless, midnight hour When Winter rules with boundless power, And thunders rend the howling air, Peace, thy olive wand extend, And as a brother kindly greet; Then may heav'n with prosperous gales, |