Poetry of Burns
Robert Burns
born 1759, died 1796 |
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The Chevalier's Lament
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
The hawthorn trees blow, in the dew of the morning,
And wild scattered cowlips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,
A king, and a father, to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none:
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, - forlorn,
My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn;
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot-bloody trial -
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?
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