On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child Robert Burns

Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chil, on thy lovely form:
And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.


May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw.

May He, the friend o' Woe and Want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair in the summer morn,
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

[Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil
spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than
the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise
to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with
bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is
much more hazard in turning back.—R.B.]