The Last Poet of Ayr

The Last Poet of Ayr

Waters of Irvine and Annock, flow with my tears,

West to the Firth of Clyde and Arran:

Soon, soon, Ayr will be mute and barren.

Flow, waters, flow, like the passing of long, lost years.

Gilliland! Singer of moors and the pensive glen,

The muses fade on your final breath,

Love resigns your harp to tender Death,

And my heart weighs heavy, beyond all earthly ken.

Your soul in silence moves on the high bonny braes,

As cloud-shadows cross the Lowland plains;

Sweet falls your music, like summer rains,

As if to quell my grief no happiness allays.

Great Bard, who tuned my green lyre, my mentor, my guide,

Soft be your sleep on Galloway’s breast,

In your fathers’ plaid, take now your rest,

Your Lallan lays, in Time’s embrace, shall yet abide.

Waters of Irvine and Annock, flow with my tears,

West to the Firth of Clyde and Arran:

Soon, soon, Ayr will be mute and barren.

Flow, waters, flow, like the passing of long, lost years.

© Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All rights reserved.