Well tried through many a varying year, 5 See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection’s eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; 10 Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed 15 The power of art without the show. In Misery’s darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. 20 No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, 25 Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. The busy day--the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 30 His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, 35 And freed his soul the nearest way. _Samuel Johnson._ CLXV _HIGHLAND MARY._ Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5 And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 10 As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life 15 Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi’ mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu’ tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; 20 But, oh! fell Deaths untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 30 But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary. _Robert Burns_ CLXVI