The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water

     To the noble Duke of Athole.

     My lord, I know your noble ear
     Woe ne’er assails in vain;
     Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
     Your humble slave complain,
     How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams,
     In flaming summer-pride,
     Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
     And drink my crystal tide.^1

     The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts,
     That thro’ my waters play,
     If, in their random, wanton spouts,
     They near the margin stray;

     [Footnote 1:  Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque
     and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of
     trees and shrubs.—­R.B.]

     If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
     I’m scorching up so shallow,
     They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
     In gasping death to wallow.

     Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,
     As poet Burns came by. 
     That, to a bard, I should be seen
     Wi’ half my channel dry;
     A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
     Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me;
     But had I in my glory been,
     He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.

     Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,
     In twisting strength I rin;
     There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
     Wild-roaring o’er a linn: 
     Enjoying each large spring and well,
     As Nature gave them me,
     I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,
     Worth gaun a mile to see.

     Would then my noble master please
     To grant my highest wishes,
     He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
     And bonie spreading bushes. 
     Delighted doubly then, my lord,
     You’ll wander on my banks,
     And listen mony a grateful bird
     Return you tuneful thanks.

     The sober lav’rock, warbling wild,
     Shall to the skies aspire;
     The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child,
     Shall sweetly join the choir;
     The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
     The mavis mild and mellow;
     The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
     In all her locks of yellow.

     This, too, a covert shall ensure,
     To shield them from the storm;
     And coward maukin sleep secure,
     Low in her grassy form: 
     Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
     To weave his crown of flow’rs;
     Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat,
     From prone-descending show’rs.

     And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,
     Shall meet the loving pair,
     Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
     As empty idle care;
     The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms,
     The hour of heav’n to grace;
     And birks extend their fragrant arms
     To screen the dear embrace.