TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
   That lov’st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st in the day
   My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary! dear departed shade! 
   Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
   Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,—­
   Can I forget the hallowed 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 ’t was our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
   O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
   Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
   The birds sang love on every spray,—­
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
   Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes,
   And fondly broods with miser care! 
Time but the impression stronger makes,
   As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary! dear departed shade! 
   Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
   Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

ROBERT BURNS.

MINSTREL’S SONG.

O sing unto my roundelay! 
  O, drop the briny tear with me! 
Dance no more at holiday;
  Like a running river be.
    My love is dead,
    Gone to his death-bed,
    All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,
  White his neck as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light;
  Cold he lies in the grave below.
    My love is dead, etc.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note;
  Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
  O, lie lies by the willow-tree!
    My love is dead, etc.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
  In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
  To the nightmares as they go.
    My love is dead, etc.

See! the white moon shines on high;
  Whiter is my-true-love’s shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
  Whiter than the evening cloud.
    My love is dead, etc.

Here, upon my true-love’s grave
  Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
  All the coldness of a maid.
    My love is dead, etc.

With my hands I’ll bind the briers
  Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
  Here my body still shall be.
    My love is dead, etc.