Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
230 . The Fête Champêtre
O
To do our errands there, man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen’s House
O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a sodger? Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’ The meikle Ursa-Major? Or buy a score o’lairds, man? For worth and honour pawn their word, Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, man. Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter: Annbank, wha guessed the ladies’ taste, He gies a Fête Champêtre. The gay green woods amang, man; Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers, They heard the blackbird’s sang, man: A vow, they sealed it with a kiss, Sir Politics to fetter; As their’s alone, the patent bliss, To hold a Fête Champêtre. O’er hill and dale she flew, man; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man: She summon’d every social sprite, That sports by wood or water, On th’ bonie banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Fête Champêtre. Were bound to stakes like kye, man, And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’, Clamb up the starry sky, man: Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter; The western breeze steals thro’the trees, To view this Fête Champêtre. What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony’s enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. The echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter, When angels met, at Adam’s yett, To hold their Fête Champêtre. And make his ether-stane, man! He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man: He blush’d for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi’ humble prayer to join and share This festive Fête Champêtre.