Evan Banks.
[This beautiful song, from being found in Burns's handivriting, was published as his in Johnson's Museum, but was afterwards discovered to be the composition of Helen Maria Williams, the authoress of "Letters written from France," and the translator of Humboldt's Personal Narrative. Miss Williams was a native of the north of England, where she was born in 1762. She died at Paris in 1827. The locality celebrated in the song,
"Where Evan mingles with the Clyde,"
is one of very great beauty. It lies in the middle ward of Lanarkshire, near the town of Hamilton. Here, and for several miles above its confluence with the Clyde, the Evon or Avon flows between "lofty banks," overhung with "lavish woods." We cannot say whether the poetess had any connection in life with this scene, or merely admired it as a casual visitor. Sir Walter Scott says that the song was written "at the request of Dr. Wood," meaning, we suppose, Dr. Alexander Wood, whose memory is still cherished in Edinburgh for his benevolence and eccentricities.]
Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires:
To Evan banks with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.
Oh! banks to me for ever dear!
Oh! stream whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.
And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast!
Who, trembling, heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye.
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline?
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde?
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to mem'ry brings
All that on Evan's border springs!
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight;
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.