A Vision by Robert Burns
AS
I
stood
by
yon
roofless
tower,
Where
the
wa'flower
scents
the
dewy
air,
Where
the
howlet
mourns
in
her
ivy
bower,
And
tells
the
midnight
moon
her
care.
The
winds
were
laid,
the
air
was
still,
The
stars
they
shot
alang
the
sky;
The
fox
was
howling
on
the
hill,
And
the
distant
echoing
glens
reply.
The
stream,
adown
its
hazelly
path,
Was
rushing
by
the
ruin'd
wa's,
Hasting
to
join
the
sweeping
Nith,
Whase
distant
roaring
swells
and
fa's.
The
cauld
blae
North
was
streaming
forth
Her
lights,
wi'
hissing,
eerie
din;
Athwart
the
lift
they
start
and
shift,
Like
Fortune's
favors,
tint
as
win.
By
heedless
chance
I
turn'd
mine
eyes,
And,
by
the
moonbeam,
shook
to
see
A
stern
and
stalwart
ghaist
arise,
Attir'd
as
Minstrels
wont
to
be.
Had
I
a
statue
been
o'
stane,
His
daring
look
had
daunted
me;
And
on
his
bonnet
grav'd
was
plain,
The
sacred
posy—"LIBERTIE!"
And
frae
his
harp
sic
strains
did
flow,
Might
rous'd
the
slumb'ring
Dead
to
hear;
But
oh,
it
was
a
tale
of
woe,
As
ever
met
a
Briton's
ear!
He
sang
wi'
joy
his
former
day,
He,
weeping,
wailed
his
latter
times;
But
what
he
said—it
was
nae
play,
I
winna
venture't
in
my
rhymes.
