William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Elegy on the Death of Scots MusicRobert Fergusson (17501774)
O
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft Music rang on ilka shore,
In hamely weid;
But Harmony is now no more,
And Music dead.
Sae bonnily she wont to sing,
And sleely wake the sleeping string,
Their sang to lead,
Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring;
But now she’s dead.
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;
Let weeping streams and Naiads drain
Their fountain head;
Let echo swell the dolefu’ strain,
Since Music’s dead.
The grey-hair’d Winter’s fogs awa’,
Naebody then is heard to blaw,
Near hill or mead,
On chaunter or on aiten straw,
Since Music’s dead.
Will lilt at bleaching of their claes;
Nae herds on Yarrow’s bonny braes,
Or banks of Tweed,
Delight to chant their hameil lays,
Since Music’s dead.
Whan weary owsen hameward come;
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,
And pibrachs skreed;
We never hear its warlike hum,
For Music’s dead.
The man in music maist expert,
Wha cou’d sweet melody impart,
And tune the reed,
Wi’ sic a slee and pawky art;
But now he’s dead.
Ilk bonny lassie make great mane;
Since he’s awa’, I trow there’s nane
Can fill his stead;
The blythest sangster on the plain!
Alake, he’s dead!
And crabbit queer variety
Of sounds fresh sprung frae Italy,
A bastard breed!
Unlike that saft-tongu’d melody
Which now lies dead.
Can linties chirming frae the spray,
Or todling burns that smoothly play
O’er gowden bed,
Compare wi’ Birks of Indermay?
But now they’re dead.
To bang the pith of Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi’ joint accord,
To battle speed,
And fight till Music be restor’d,
Which now lies dead?