137. Song—Farewell to the Banks of Ayr by Robert Burns
THE GLOOMY night is gath’ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatt’red coveys meet secure; While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn By early Winter’s ravage torn; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.
’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those: The bursting tears my heart declare— Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!