Behold the hour.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection to an Irish air called "Oran gaoil." The subject of the song was Clarinda, who contemplated going to the West Indies.]
Behold the hour, the boat arrive;
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!
Sever'd from thee, can I survive?
But fate has will'd, and we must part,
I'll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail:
"E'en here I took my last farewell,
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."
Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say.
Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While through thy sweets she loves to stray,
Oh, tell me, does she muse on me?