Burns as a 
Lover of B : rds. 
(242) THE BIRD WORLD. 
Afton Water. 
Thou Stock-Dove whose echo resounds 
thro’ the glen, 
Ye wild whistling Blackbird in yon thorny 
den, 
Thou green-crested Lapwing, thy scream¬ 
ing forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering 
fair. 
To the Owl. 
Sad bird of night, what sorrows call 
thee forth 
To vent thy plaints thus in the mid¬ 
night hour; 
Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
Threatening to nip the verdure of thy 
bower ? 
Is it, sad Owl! that autumn strips the 
shade, 
And leaves thee here, unsheltered and 
forlorn, 
Or fear that winter will thy nest invade, 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee 
mourn ? 
Shut out, lone bird, from all the 
feather’d train, 
To tell thy sorrows to th’ unheeding 
gloom ; 
No friend to pity when thou dost com¬ 
plain, 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes 
along. 
Is beauty less when down the glowing 
cheeks, 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrow 
fall; 
Less kind the heart when anguish bids 
it break, 
Less happy he who lists to pity’s call ? 
Ah, no, sad Owl; nor is thy voice less 
sweet, 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief 
is there; 
That spring’s gay notes, unskill’d thou 
can’st repeat, 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom 
repair. 
Nor that the treble songsters of the day 
Are quite estranged, sad bird of 
night, from thee; 
Nor that the Thrush deserts the evening 
spray 
When darkness calls th'ee from thy 
reverie. 
From some old tower thy melancholy 
doom, 
While the gray walls, and desirt 
solitudes, 
Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding 
woods. 
There hooting, I will list more pleased 
to thee, 
Than ever lover to the Nightingale; 
Or drooping wretch, oppress’d with 
misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 
Address to the Woodlark. 
Oh stay, sweet warbling Woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray; 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 
Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art; 
For surely that wa’d touch her heart, 
Wha’ kills me wi’ disdaining. 
Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind; 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join’d, 
Sic notes o’ woe could wauker. 
Thou tells o’ never ending care; 
O’ speechless grief, and dark despair, 
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair, 
Or my poor heart is broken. 
Up in the Morning Early. 
The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A’ day they fare but sparely; 
And bang’s the night frae e’e’n to morn— 
I’m sure its winter fairly. 
