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 !” [1]
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 !
[2]
This Dirge first appeared in Vernor and Hood's Poetical London Magazine for 1805, along with other three pieces by Tannahill.—Ed.
Note by Ramsay.—“Reprinted from the first edition.”
Robert Burns, the distinguished poet of Scotland, was born at Alloway, near Ayr, on Thursday, 25th January, 1759. The peasant boy devoted himself early to the Muses, and commenced writing verses with such remarkable splendour that the whole country was electrified with his mighty genius. The vigour of his understanding, the manner in which he grasped a subject with his masculine mind, the universality of his poetry, and the keenness of his wit, won for him, with universal acclaim, the title of “The National Bard of Scotland.” His first volume of poems was published in 1786; and edition after edition of his poems and songs in every shape and form, with correspondence, lives, notes, and annotations have appeared,—the last in 1874. In that latter year, The Burns’ Calendar was published in Kilmarnock, giving a list of 403 editions so far as known; and since that publication, a great number more have been discovered. His works are read wherever the English tongue is spoken, and have been translated into almost every European language. Robert Burns died at Dum¬fries on Thursday, 21st, and his funeral took place on Monday, 25th July, 1796. Our own gifted lyrist contributed his quota to the name and fame of Burns in writing the Dirge on his funeral, and being the chief promoter of the Paisley Burns' Club, and by composing Odes for Three Anniversaries of the immortal Bard. See Notes to Nos. 6, 7, and 8.—Ed.
[1] Note by Ramsay.—“This verse, which has not been inserted in any former edition, is copied from the Author's Manuscript.”
[2] Note by Ramsay.—“Writing to Clark about this Dirge on 31st August, 1805, the author says—‘I am much obliged to you for fitting me with an air suitable to the stanza I formerly sent you; and, though it answers the words as well as ever tune did any, I am doubtful that the verses will not do to sing at all, owing to the repetition of the same two lines at the hinder end of every stanza, which two lines being repeated twice (to the music) will be intolerably insipid. However, I will give you the whole of it, so that you may judge.’ ”
The refrain is the first two lines of the second verse of Burns' Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, a retired military gentleman, who resided in Carrubber's Close, Edinburgh, and kept company with the best society of that city. The Elegy was written in 1790, and Burns says it was a tribute to the memory of a man he loved much. In a few short years thereafter, Tannahill appropriately used the quotation for the author himself; and in quoting these lines, he might more justly have altered the word “fellow” into poet than the Scotch word gane into the English gone, and made the refrain read thus—
“He's gone, he's gone! he's frae us torn!
The ae best poet e'er was born!”—Ed.
[Semple 4]