Song Of Death.

Air - "Oran an Aoig."


Scene - A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:


I.

    Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
        Now gay with the bright setting sun;
    Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties
        Our race of existence is run!

II.

    Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe!
        Go frighten the coward and slave;
    Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
        No terrors hast thou to the brave!

III.

    Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
        Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;
    Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark!
        He falls in the blaze of his fame!

IV.

    In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
        Our king and our country to save,
    While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
        Oh! who would not die with the brave!

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

Merry Hae I Been Teethin' A Heckle.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

On A Friend.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Chloris.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Raving Winds Around Her Blowing.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Macpherson's Farewell.

Tune - "M'Pherson's Rant."


I.

    Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
        The wretch's destinie!
    Macpherson's time will not be long
        On yonder gallows-tree.
                Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
                    Sae dauntingly gaed he;
                He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round,
                    Below the gallows-tree.

II.

    Oh, what is death but parting breath?
        On many a bloody plain
    I've dar'd his face, and in this place
        I scorn him yet again!

III.

    Untie these bands from off my hands,
        And bring to me my sword;
    And there's no a man in all Scotland,
        But I'll brave him at a word.

IV.

    ...

Robert Burns

On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, Late Lord President Of The Court Of Session.

    Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
    Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
    Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
    The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
    Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
    The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

    Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
    Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
    Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
    Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
    Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
    Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

    O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
    A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
    Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
    Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd ...

Robert Burns

Fighting Mac" A Life Tragedy

A pistol-shot rings round and round the world:
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.
A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death - could not face shame.

Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
"O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace."

*    *    *    *    *

The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen,
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o'er page of legenda...

Robert William Service

The Gloomy Night.

Tune - "Roslin Castle."


I.

    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 scatter'd coveys meet secure;
    While here I wander, prest with care,
    Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

II.

    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 bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.

    'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
    'Tis n...

Robert Burns

The Battle.

    Heavy and solemn,
    A cloudy column,
    Through the green plain they marching came!
Measure less spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
The looks are bent on the shaking ground,
And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the major along the front
        "Halt!"
And fettered they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt!

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing,
"See you the foeman's banners waving?"
"We see the foeman's banners waving!"
"God be with ye children and wife!"
Hark to the music the trump and the fife,
How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the strife!
Thrilling the...

Friedrich Schiller

The Chevalier's Lament.

Tune - "Captain O'Kean."

I.

    The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
        The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
    The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning,
        And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
    But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
        While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
    No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
        Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

II.

    The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,
        A king and a father to place on his throne?
    His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
        Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none;
    But 'tis not ...

Robert Burns