The Brigs Of Ayr（2 / 9）
o' coming winter's biting, frosty breath;
the bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,
seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
the death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
the thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
the wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
the feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(what warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,
and execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,
nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
except perhaps the robin's whistling glee,
proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
the hoary morns precede the sunny days,
mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
while thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.
'twas in that season, when a simple bard,
unknown and poor—simplicity's reward!—
ae night, within the ancient brugh of ayr,
by whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,
he left his bed, and took his wayward route,
and down by simpson's wheel'd the left about:
(whether impell'd by all-directing fate,
to witness what i after shall narrate;
or whether, rapt in meditation high,
he wander'd out, he knew not where or why:)
the drowsy dungeon-clock had number'd two, ↑返回顶部↑
the bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,
seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
the death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
the thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
the wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
the feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(what warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,
and execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,
nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
except perhaps the robin's whistling glee,
proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
the hoary morns precede the sunny days,
mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
while thick the gosamour waves wanton in the rays.
'twas in that season, when a simple bard,
unknown and poor—simplicity's reward!—
ae night, within the ancient brugh of ayr,
by whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,
he left his bed, and took his wayward route,
and down by simpson's wheel'd the left about:
(whether impell'd by all-directing fate,
to witness what i after shall narrate;
or whether, rapt in meditation high,
he wander'd out, he knew not where or why:)
the drowsy dungeon-clock had number'd two, ↑返回顶部↑