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Dirge

 

Written on reading an Account of ROBERT BURNS' Funeral.

 

 

LET grief for ever cloud the day
That saw our Bard borne to the clay ;
Let joy be banish'd every eye,
And Nature, weeping, seem to cry—
“He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn!
“The ae best fellow e'er was born !”

 

Let Sol resign his wonted powers,
Let chilling north winds blast the flowers ;
That each may droop its withering head,
And seem tae mourn our Poet dead.
“He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn !
“The ae best fellow e'er was born !”

 

Let shepherds from the mountains steep,
Look down on widow'd Nith and weep,
Let rustic swains their labours leave,
And sighing murmur o'er his grave,
“He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn !
“The ae best fellow e'er was born !”

 

Let bonny Doon and winding Ayr
Their bushy banks in anguish tear,
While many a tributary stream
Pours down its griefs to swell the theme—
“He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn !
“The ae best fellow e'er was born !”

 

All dismal let the nicht descend,
Let whirling storms the forest rend,
Let furious tempests sweep the sky,
And dreary, howling caverns cry—
“He's gone, he's gone ! he's frae us torn !
“The ae best fellow e'er was born !”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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