 | Poems: Chiefly Lyrical |  |
1
“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regard the writer's end,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due”.
POPE
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regard the writer's end,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due”.
POPE
3
SONG,
BONAPARTE'S RETURN FROM THE ISLE OF ELBA.
What! has the Tyrant left his den,
An' enter'd bonny France again,
Wi' sic a wee bit crew o' men,
To face the mighty brave o't?
“He's run the hazard of the dye,”
The last, the deadly blow to try,
Baith now maun fight, He canna fly,
Louis or Him, a grave o't.
An' enter'd bonny France again,
Wi' sic a wee bit crew o' men,
To face the mighty brave o't?
“He's run the hazard of the dye,”
The last, the deadly blow to try,
Baith now maun fight, He canna fly,
Louis or Him, a grave o't.
O! Elba's chief's a meteor star,
Cradl'd amid the din o' war,
He's often thunder'd back afar,
The battle an' the brave o't.
Mild Louis, bid your cannons roar,
In every neuk, frae shore to shore,
Else the terrific Tri-color
Mak's France again the slave o't.
Cradl'd amid the din o' war,
He's often thunder'd back afar,
The battle an' the brave o't.
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In every neuk, frae shore to shore,
Else the terrific Tri-color
Mak's France again the slave o't.
But Britain's Lion's no yet slain,
He'll yet swell high the battle strain,
An' when in wrath he shakes his main,
O! wae betide the lave o't!
O weary fa' the restless chiel,
He'd better kept in Elba's biel,
If Wellington, for Britain's weal,
Unsheaths the glitt'ring Glaive o't.
He'll yet swell high the battle strain,
An' when in wrath he shakes his main,
O! wae betide the lave o't!
O weary fa' the restless chiel,
He'd better kept in Elba's biel,
If Wellington, for Britain's weal,
Unsheaths the glitt'ring Glaive o't.
D'ye mind Vittoria's glorious sight,
Whan Marshalls, Eagles, wing'd their flight?
D'ye mind Barrossa's bluidy fight,
Whare thousands got a grave o't?
Proud Britain scorns you an' your chain,
Your highest wish you'll ne'er obtain,
Mind she is Empress of the Main,
Her Navy ploughs the wave o't.
Whan Marshalls, Eagles, wing'd their flight?
D'ye mind Barrossa's bluidy fight,
Whare thousands got a grave o't?
Proud Britain scorns you an' your chain,
Your highest wish you'll ne'er obtain,
Mind she is Empress of the Main,
Her Navy ploughs the wave o't.
You fight now for the King o' Rome!
I wish the monarch had his doom,
Or had been still upon the loom,
Few now wad got a grave o't.
Now Louis swell your noble heart,
Your wisdom yet may joy impart,
But if Napoleon gets the start,
Ye may—Whistle owre the lave o't.
I wish the monarch had his doom,
Or had been still upon the loom,
Few now wad got a grave o't.
Now Louis swell your noble heart,
Your wisdom yet may joy impart,
But if Napoleon gets the start,
Ye may—Whistle owre the lave o't.
The Author sent this Song to the Publisher, on the 17th March, 1815, a few days after the report that Bonaparte had landed in France from Elba.
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SONG,
THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.
Sing a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gie to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our Marshall's fame,
Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smil'd on Spain,
An' rais'd her stately form again,
Whan the British Lion shook his mane
On the mountains o' Vittoria.
High glory gie to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our Marshall's fame,
Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smil'd on Spain,
An' rais'd her stately form again,
Whan the British Lion shook his mane
On the mountains o' Vittoria.
Let blust'rin' Suchet crously crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back,
He left upon Vittoria;
If e'er they meet their worthy King,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scottish Piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back,
He left upon Vittoria;
If e'er they meet their worthy King,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scottish Piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.
Gie truth an' honour to the Dane,
Gie German's Monarch heart an' brain;
But aye in sic a cause as Spain,
Gie Britons a Vittoria.
The English Rose was ne'er sae red,
The Shamrock wav'd whare glory led,
And the Scottish Thistle rais'd its head,
An' smil'd upon Vittoria.
Gie German's Monarch heart an' brain;
But aye in sic a cause as Spain,
Gie Britons a Vittoria.
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The Shamrock wav'd whare glory led,
And the Scottish Thistle rais'd its head,
An' smil'd upon Vittoria.
Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought and mony fell;
But the Glasgow Heroes bure the bell
At the battle o' Vittoria.
The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa',
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.
Whare thousands fought and mony fell;
But the Glasgow Heroes bure the bell
At the battle o' Vittoria.
The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa',
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.
Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees
The Eagle Standard-bearer flees,
While the “meteor flag” floats to the breeze,
An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shewn,
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembl'd on his throne,
Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.
The Eagle Standard-bearer flees,
While the “meteor flag” floats to the breeze,
An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shewn,
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembl'd on his throne,
Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.
Peace to the spirits o' the brave,
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave,
Upon thy field, Vittoria!
There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb
Wi' roses on Vittoria.
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave,
Upon thy field, Vittoria!
There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb
Wi' roses on Vittoria.
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Ye Caledonian war-pipes play,
Barrossa heard your Highlan' lay,
An' the Gallant Scot shew'd there that day,
A prelude to Vittoria.
Shout to the Heroes—swell ilk voice,
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice,
Shout Wellington an' Lynedock, boys,
Barrossa an' Vittoria!
Barrossa heard your Highlan' lay,
An' the Gallant Scot shew'd there that day,
A prelude to Vittoria.
Shout to the Heroes—swell ilk voice,
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice,
Shout Wellington an' Lynedock, boys,
Barrossa an' Vittoria!
SONG,
CADOGAN'S LAMENT.
At the sunset of glory the ev'ning is calm,
No wild howling tempest can rave,
The winds are all hush'd, and the dew-drops are balm,
As they rest on the cheek of the brave.
No wild howling tempest can rave,
The winds are all hush'd, and the dew-drops are balm,
As they rest on the cheek of the brave.
At the war flash of battle, how gleams the red cheek,
As it brightens while freedom is nigh;
And the eye, as it closes, will high glory speak,
While Victory heaves the last sigh.
As it brightens while freedom is nigh;
And the eye, as it closes, will high glory speak,
While Victory heaves the last sigh.
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How nobly he smiles from the field of his fame,
With the death-mark engrav'd on his breast,
With a feeble huzza, he joins the acclaim,
And expires on the bed of his rest.
With the death-mark engrav'd on his breast,
With a feeble huzza, he joins the acclaim,
And expires on the bed of his rest.
Cadogan! with glory thou'lt ever be nam'd,
And the heroes of Greece and of Rome,
Will bend from their bright clouds, (those warriors fam'd,)
And exultingly rest on thy tomb.
And the heroes of Greece and of Rome,
Will bend from their bright clouds, (those warriors fam'd,)
And exultingly rest on thy tomb.
SONG,
THE ALLIES' ENTRY INTO PARIS.
O! stately now will be Moscow,
Green laurels on ilk bank may grow,
For haughty Paris is laid low,
Nae shelt'rin' bield she'll have o't.
Bourbon's gay lily fair will bloom,
The Eagle's gat a bluidy tomb,
An' whare's the stamm'ring King o' Rome,
Papa, an' a' the lave o't?
Green laurels on ilk bank may grow,
For haughty Paris is laid low,
Nae shelt'rin' bield she'll have o't.
Bourbon's gay lily fair will bloom,
The Eagle's gat a bluidy tomb,
An' whare's the stamm'ring King o' Rome,
Papa, an' a' the lave o't?
9
France may rejoice frae shore to shore,
She sees her snaw-white flag once more,
An's dash'd awa the Tri-color,
Nae mair to be the slave o't.
Huzza for Alexander now,
He's weel perform'd his fearless vow,
May laurels wave roun' Blucher's brow,
Wha'll endless glory have o't.
She sees her snaw-white flag once more,
An's dash'd awa the Tri-color,
Nae mair to be the slave o't.
Huzza for Alexander now,
He's weel perform'd his fearless vow,
May laurels wave roun' Blucher's brow,
Wha'll endless glory have o't.
Gie wreaths to them wha fame hae won,
An' the brightest twine for Erin's son,
O noble! glorious, Wellington,
A deathless name will have o't.
Spain weel may bless wi' gratefu' e'e,
The conqueror wha set her free,
An' France adore on bended knee,
Him wha ilk inch did save o't.
An' the brightest twine for Erin's son,
O noble! glorious, Wellington,
A deathless name will have o't.
Spain weel may bless wi' gratefu' e'e,
The conqueror wha set her free,
An' France adore on bended knee,
Him wha ilk inch did save o't.
Elba's great king like some crush'd flower,
Wha ance rejoic'd in godlike power,
Kens there nae sweet but has a sour,
Scarce “Elbow-room” he'll have o't.
Bright as the glorious Orb of day,
Has been our noble Regent's sway.
Pledge then to him and Castlereagh,
Britain, an' a' the brave o't.
Wha ance rejoic'd in godlike power,
Kens there nae sweet but has a sour,
Scarce “Elbow-room” he'll have o't.
Bright as the glorious Orb of day,
Has been our noble Regent's sway.
Pledge then to him and Castlereagh,
Britain, an' a' the brave o't.
10
SONG,
CLARINDA.
Clarinda! press that cluster'd vine,
The grapes are bursting red;
And with thy snow-white hands entwine
The leaves around my head.
The grapes are bursting red;
And with thy snow-white hands entwine
The leaves around my head.
Now fill my goblet up anew,
And take a long long sip,
And I will kiss the rosy dew
From off thy coral lip.
And take a long long sip,
And I will kiss the rosy dew
From off thy coral lip.
Clarinda! that's a melting kiss,
With rich ambrosia fill'd,
'Tis sweet as Heaven's ecstatic bliss,
To taste wine so distill'd.
With rich ambrosia fill'd,
'Tis sweet as Heaven's ecstatic bliss,
To taste wine so distill'd.
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SONG,
FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.
My tortur'd bosom long shall feel
The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
Far far to foreign lands I stray,
To spend my hours in deepest wae,
Fareweel my dear, my native soil,
Fareweel the braes o' Aberfoyle.
The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
Far far to foreign lands I stray,
To spend my hours in deepest wae,
Fareweel my dear, my native soil,
Fareweel the braes o' Aberfoyle.
An' fare ye weel my winsome love,
Into whatever lands I rove,
Thou'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
The warmest tear e'er wet my eye;
An' when I'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
Ill mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
Into whatever lands I rove,
Thou'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
The warmest tear e'er wet my eye;
An' when I'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
Ill mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
When far upon the raging sea,
As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
I'll bless the music o' the gale,
An' think, while list'nin' a' the while,
I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
I'll bless the music o' the gale,
An' think, while list'nin' a' the while,
I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
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Kitty, my only love, fareweel,
What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
While straying through the Indian groves,
Weepin' our woes or early loves;
I'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle.
What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
While straying through the Indian groves,
Weepin' our woes or early loves;
I'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle.
SONG,
WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLY.
A wee bird cam to our ha' door,
He warbl'd sweet and clearly,
An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang
Was “waes me for Prince Charly.”
Oh! when I heard the bonny soun'
The tears cam happin rarely,
I took my bannet aff my head,
For weel I loed Prince Charly.
He warbl'd sweet and clearly,
An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang
Was “waes me for Prince Charly.”
Oh! when I heard the bonny soun'
The tears cam happin rarely,
I took my bannet aff my head,
For weel I loed Prince Charly.
Quoth I, “my bird, my bonny bonny bird,
Is that a sang ye borrow,
Are these some words ye've learnt by heart,
Or, a lilt o' dool an' sorrow?”
“Oh! no no no,” the wee bird sang,
“I've flown sin' mornin' early,
But sic a day o' wind and rain—
Oh waes me for Prince Charly.
Is that a sang ye borrow,
Are these some words ye've learnt by heart,
Or, a lilt o' dool an' sorrow?”
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“I've flown sin' mornin' early,
But sic a day o' wind and rain—
Oh waes me for Prince Charly.
“On hills that are, by right, his ain,
He roves a lanely stranger,
On every side he's press'd by want,
On every side is danger;
Yestreen I met him in a glen,
My heart maist burstit fairly,
For sadly chang'd indeed was he—
Oh! waes me for Prince Charly.
He roves a lanely stranger,
On every side he's press'd by want,
On every side is danger;
Yestreen I met him in a glen,
My heart maist burstit fairly,
For sadly chang'd indeed was he—
Oh! waes me for Prince Charly.
“Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd
Loud o'er the hills an' vallies,
An' whare was't that your Prince lay down
Whase hame should been a palace?
He row'd him in a Highland plaid,
Which cover'd him but sparely,
An' sleept beneath a bush o' broom—
Oh! waes me for Prince Charly.”
Loud o'er the hills an' vallies,
An' whare was't that your Prince lay down
Whase hame should been a palace?
He row'd him in a Highland plaid,
Which cover'd him but sparely,
An' sleept beneath a bush o' broom—
Oh! waes me for Prince Charly.”
But now the bird saw some red coats,
An' he sheuk his wings wi' anger,
“Oh! this is no a land for me,
I'll tarry here nae langer.”
He hover'd on the wing a while
Ere he departed fairly,
But weel I mind the fareweel strain,
Was “Waes me for Prince Charly.”
An' he sheuk his wings wi' anger,
“Oh! this is no a land for me,
I'll tarry here nae langer.”
He hover'd on the wing a while
Ere he departed fairly,
But weel I mind the fareweel strain,
Was “Waes me for Prince Charly.”
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SONG,
THE MAID O' LOCH NELL
The wintry win's howl'd roun' the towers o' Dunstaffnage,
The tempest-wing'd spirit shriek'd wildly on high,
The thunder-bolts plough'd up the heathy mount's high ridge,
And the blue forked lightning illumin'd the sky,
The storm-laden black clouds were heavily lowerin',
The sea billows heav'd up wi' mountain-like swell,
The cauld roarin' blast swept the brow o' Benfeurin,
An' kiss'd the white breast o' the Maid o' Loch Nell.
The tempest-wing'd spirit shriek'd wildly on high,
The thunder-bolts plough'd up the heathy mount's high ridge,
And the blue forked lightning illumin'd the sky,
The storm-laden black clouds were heavily lowerin',
The sea billows heav'd up wi' mountain-like swell,
The cauld roarin' blast swept the brow o' Benfeurin,
An' kiss'd the white breast o' the Maid o' Loch Nell.
She sprang in the curragh to meet her M`Donnell,
While her soul-breathing love sighs were mingled wi' fear,
For the tempest-beat billows rav'd wildly in Connell,
And the fiery-warm lightnings hiss'd awfully near.
Her long flowing hair to the rude blast was wavin',
As the labourin' curragh wave-toss'd rose an' fell,
The spray wat the wings o' the storm-lovin' raven,
An' chill'd the sweet form o' the Maid o' Loch Nell.
While her soul-breathing love sighs were mingled wi' fear,
For the tempest-beat billows rav'd wildly in Connell,
And the fiery-warm lightnings hiss'd awfully near.
Her long flowing hair to the rude blast was wavin',
As the labourin' curragh wave-toss'd rose an' fell,
The spray wat the wings o' the storm-lovin' raven,
An' chill'd the sweet form o' the Maid o' Loch Nell.
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Ah! ne'er more, sweet Maid, wilt thou meet thy M'Donnell,
No more in the strath will ye arm-in-arm rove;
For the Angel of Death's on the dark waves o' Connell,
An' waits for the mandate preparing above.
Three times a loud voice was heard sabbin' and wailin',
Aboon roarin' Connell wi' sad mournfu' swell;
An' three times a voice was heard plaintively sailin',
Wi' sighs round the mansion o' lofty Loch Nell.
No more in the strath will ye arm-in-arm rove;
For the Angel of Death's on the dark waves o' Connell,
An' waits for the mandate preparing above.
Three times a loud voice was heard sabbin' and wailin',
Aboon roarin' Connell wi' sad mournfu' swell;
An' three times a voice was heard plaintively sailin',
Wi' sighs round the mansion o' lofty Loch Nell.
Ne'er again, lovely Maid, wilt thou stray through the wild wood,
Ne'er again wilt thou rove through the sweets o' the glen,
Ne'er again wilt thou tread in the haunts o' thy childhood,
Or rouse the dun-deer frae its rock-cover'd den.
Sad, sad, will thy loss be, ill-fated M'Donnell,
No more on thy love's ruby lips wilt thou dwell;
For low in the oozy-green caverns o' Connell
Lies the pride o' thy heart, the sweet Maid o' Loch Nell.
Ne'er again wilt thou rove through the sweets o' the glen,
Ne'er again wilt thou tread in the haunts o' thy childhood,
Or rouse the dun-deer frae its rock-cover'd den.
Sad, sad, will thy loss be, ill-fated M'Donnell,
No more on thy love's ruby lips wilt thou dwell;
For low in the oozy-green caverns o' Connell
Lies the pride o' thy heart, the sweet Maid o' Loch Nell.
Loch Nell, the seat of General Campbell, is a beautiful romantic spot in the West Highlands. Dunstaffnage, the ancient residence of the Kings of Scotland, is a little below Loch Nell, and the rapid river Connell runs between them. Benfeurin is a very high hill to the North-East of Loch Nell.
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SONG,
KILMARNOCK GLEAMS WI' CANDLE LIGHT
Kilmarnock gleams wi' candle light,
The beam is wild an' high,
I see the glare reflected bright,
Upon the stormy sky.
The dance is in yon lighted ha',
An' bonny Mary's there,
But poortith keeps me far awa',
An' sinks me in despair.
The beam is wild an' high,
I see the glare reflected bright,
Upon the stormy sky.
The dance is in yon lighted ha',
An' bonny Mary's there,
But poortith keeps me far awa',
An' sinks me in despair.
Oh! gracefully she'll thread the dance,
As light as light can be.
An' mony a ane will rue the glance
That dwalls in Mary's e'e;
The thrillin' glances, well I ween,
Wad the cauldest bosom move,
For ne'er, I'm sure, a maiden's een,
E'er beem'd sae fu' o' love.
As light as light can be.
An' mony a ane will rue the glance
That dwalls in Mary's e'e;
The thrillin' glances, well I ween,
Wad the cauldest bosom move,
For ne'er, I'm sure, a maiden's een,
E'er beem'd sae fu' o' love.
Were I a youth o' high degree,
I'd on sweet Mary ca',
An watch the lightnin's o' her e'e,
As she tript through the ha',
An' may be ae love-beamin' glance
Wad kindly on me rest,
And may be, careless o' the dance,
A sigh wad heave her breast.
I'd on sweet Mary ca',
An watch the lightnin's o' her e'e,
As she tript through the ha',
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Wad kindly on me rest,
And may be, careless o' the dance,
A sigh wad heave her breast.
But that is a delusive dream,
Tho' aft to mortals given,
An' gay the treacherous visions seem
That deck the lover's heaven,
Kilmarnock gleams wi' candle light,
An the voice o' joy is there,
But here I'll wail the lee lang night,
In the wildness o' despair.
Tho' aft to mortals given,
An' gay the treacherous visions seem
That deck the lover's heaven,
Kilmarnock gleams wi' candle light,
An the voice o' joy is there,
But here I'll wail the lee lang night,
In the wildness o' despair.
SONG,
KATE M`FARLANE.
Sweet is the blink o' simmer's morn,
When zephyr wantons o'er the lee,
An' on its bonny wings are borne
The breathings o' the scented pea.
O! fair is morning's rosy smile,
Whan greeting spring, (the world's darlin',)
Sweet is the breeze on Aberfoyle,
But sweeter far is Kate M`Farlane.
When zephyr wantons o'er the lee,
An' on its bonny wings are borne
The breathings o' the scented pea.
O! fair is morning's rosy smile,
Whan greeting spring, (the world's darlin',)
Sweet is the breeze on Aberfoyle,
But sweeter far is Kate M`Farlane.
18
Had I the richest diadem
That ever blest a monarch's e'e,
What wad avail the glitterin' gem,
If Katharine wadna share't wi' me?
Had I the globe within my grasp,
Could I reign there without my darlin'?
I'd spurn the throne, could I but clasp
To my lone heart sweet Kate M`Farlane.
That ever blest a monarch's e'e,
What wad avail the glitterin' gem,
If Katharine wadna share't wi' me?
Had I the globe within my grasp,
Could I reign there without my darlin'?
I'd spurn the throne, could I but clasp
To my lone heart sweet Kate M`Farlane.
Could I but win her spotless heart,
An' catch the love-glance o' her e'e,
What rapt'rous joy wad it impart!
This earth wad be a heaven to me.
Go Fortune, deal your treach'rous smile,
Gie wealth to him wha is your darlin';
Leave me the flower o' Aberfoyle,
My bonny lass, sweet Kate M`Farlane.
An' catch the love-glance o' her e'e,
What rapt'rous joy wad it impart!
This earth wad be a heaven to me.
Go Fortune, deal your treach'rous smile,
Gie wealth to him wha is your darlin';
Leave me the flower o' Aberfoyle,
My bonny lass, sweet Kate M`Farlane.
SONG,
FAREWEEL TO JESSIE.
Fareweel! fareweel the lover's smile,
You've left a faithfu' heart, Jessie.
And shame upon the cruel wile,
That tauld that we should part, Jessie.
I carena for the dreary wae,
That fa's into my share, Jessie,
But oh! I mourn that wiles sae low
Dwells in a form sae fair, Jessie.
You've left a faithfu' heart, Jessie.
And shame upon the cruel wile,
That tauld that we should part, Jessie.
19
That fa's into my share, Jessie,
But oh! I mourn that wiles sae low
Dwells in a form sae fair, Jessie.
Yet may be, in the midnight hour,
When dreams will haunt thy pillow, Jessie,
Regret and grief will shew their power,
When I'm far on the billow, Jessie;
And oft I'll view that signal star,
That lighted me to thee, Jessie,
And when I rove in lands afar,
I'll hail't wi' wat'ry e'e, Jessie.
When dreams will haunt thy pillow, Jessie,
Regret and grief will shew their power,
When I'm far on the billow, Jessie;
And oft I'll view that signal star,
That lighted me to thee, Jessie,
And when I rove in lands afar,
I'll hail't wi' wat'ry e'e, Jessie.
My life was like the flower that blows
Sweet in an April morn, Jessie,
But thou hast dash'd awa the rose,
Left naething but the thorn, Jessie;
I found thee like a lily fair,
For me 'tis still the same, Jessie,
But falsehood's mildew nipt it sair,
An' bow'd its slender stem, Jessie.
Sweet in an April morn, Jessie,
But thou hast dash'd awa the rose,
Left naething but the thorn, Jessie;
I found thee like a lily fair,
For me 'tis still the same, Jessie,
But falsehood's mildew nipt it sair,
An' bow'd its slender stem, Jessie.
20
ODE
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF ROBERT BURNS.
JAN. 1815.
Come my sweet harp, come murmur on,
Sing of my home in glorious glee;
A fairer land than Caledon,
Ne'er started from a stormy sea,
And fling thy numbers bold and free,
To Him whose notes roll'd sweet along,
For dear as life, as Heaven, will be
The land of freedom and of song.
Sing of my home in glorious glee;
A fairer land than Caledon,
Ne'er started from a stormy sea,
And fling thy numbers bold and free,
To Him whose notes roll'd sweet along,
For dear as life, as Heaven, will be
The land of freedom and of song.
Let Haffiz live in Persian strains,
Let Italy her Tasso claim,
Let Homer charm the Grecian plains,
His country's boast, his country's shame,
Let Milton raise fair England's name,
And genius consecrate their urns,
But where's the Bard can cloud the fame
Of Scotland's pride, her darling Burns?
Let Italy her Tasso claim,
Let Homer charm the Grecian plains,
His country's boast, his country's shame,
Let Milton raise fair England's name,
And genius consecrate their urns,
But where's the Bard can cloud the fame
Of Scotland's pride, her darling Burns?
21
Ye masters of the ancient school,
Ye moderns wooing genius mild,
Know that a Bard's not form'd by rule,
Bright-polish'd till the fabric's spoil'd.
O! give me nature's artless child,
Who spurns all gaudy tinsel glare,
Like Him who sung his “wood-notes wild”
Upon the bonny banks of Ayr.
Ye moderns wooing genius mild,
Know that a Bard's not form'd by rule,
Bright-polish'd till the fabric's spoil'd.
O! give me nature's artless child,
Who spurns all gaudy tinsel glare,
Like Him who sung his “wood-notes wild”
Upon the bonny banks of Ayr.
“O! thou pale Orb,” thou'st seen him stray,
By Nith's sweet winding lovely stream,
Giving bright fancy all its play,
Whilst gazing on thy wandering beam,
Thou'st mark'd with sweet diffusing gleam,
Him mourning by Lincluden towers,
“How life and love were all a dream”,
And he confess'd their bitter powers.
By Nith's sweet winding lovely stream,
Giving bright fancy all its play,
Whilst gazing on thy wandering beam,
Thou'st mark'd with sweet diffusing gleam,
Him mourning by Lincluden towers,
“How life and love were all a dream”,
And he confess'd their bitter powers.
Yet oft in merriment and glee,
He “set the table in a roar,”
Wild as the wildest could he be,
And ablest wits confess'd his power;
Yet all at once could he restore
The woe-tear to the eye again,
Bid mirth's mad witchery charm no more,
And call to life sad sorrow's train.
He “set the table in a roar,”
Wild as the wildest could he be,
And ablest wits confess'd his power;
Yet all at once could he restore
The woe-tear to the eye again,
Bid mirth's mad witchery charm no more,
And call to life sad sorrow's train.
Coila! thy vales are silent now,
He's gone who all thy beauties drew,
Go bind on thy majestic brow,
The weeping Rosemary and Rue;
And let the sorrow-shading Yew,
Hang o'er the grave where nature mourns,
And weep sweet Coila, for I trow
You lost your brightest gem in Burns.
He's gone who all thy beauties drew,
Go bind on thy majestic brow,
The weeping Rosemary and Rue;
22
Hang o'er the grave where nature mourns,
And weep sweet Coila, for I trow
You lost your brightest gem in Burns.
“While ruin's ploughshare drives elate,”
White men their fellow-mortals spurn,
And weeping pleasure's transient date,
Exclaims that “Man was made to mourn.”
Or if from every rapture torn,
We sadly wail a darling maid,
We'll know his wae who call'd forlorn
On “Mary's dear departed shade.”
White men their fellow-mortals spurn,
And weeping pleasure's transient date,
Exclaims that “Man was made to mourn.”
Or if from every rapture torn,
We sadly wail a darling maid,
We'll know his wae who call'd forlorn
On “Mary's dear departed shade.”
Or when our fathers' deeds he grac'd,
Raising their deathless fame on high,
Bade us while every wae he trac'd,
Wail Scotland's fallen majesty,
Or brought the tear-drop in our eye,
When resting on her lowly tomb,
And bade us heave the unconscious sigh,
When mourning hapless Mary's doom.
Raising their deathless fame on high,
Bade us while every wae he trac'd,
Wail Scotland's fallen majesty,
Or brought the tear-drop in our eye,
When resting on her lowly tomb,
And bade us heave the unconscious sigh,
When mourning hapless Mary's doom.
Whether he struck the notes of woe,
Or bade them with wild joy expand,
In pleasure's tide, or sorrow's flow,
His lyre was sweet, majestic, grand,
He touch'd it with a master's hand,
Its heavenly tone will never die,
And many, many a distant land
Was charmed with his minstrelsy.
Or bade them with wild joy expand,
In pleasure's tide, or sorrow's flow,
His lyre was sweet, majestic, grand,
He touch'd it with a master's hand,
Its heavenly tone will never die,
And many, many a distant land
Was charmed with his minstrelsy.
23
We'll lay the lyre upon his urn,
And while the moon-beams deck the plain,
Mayhap his spirit may return,
And sweep the trembling chords again,
And we may hear the fairy strain,
Float on the night-breeze down the dell—
Delusion all, it is in vain—
And now sweet Bard, again farewell.
And while the moon-beams deck the plain,
Mayhap his spirit may return,
And sweep the trembling chords again,
And we may hear the fairy strain,
Float on the night-breeze down the dell—
Delusion all, it is in vain—
And now sweet Bard, again farewell.
MONODY
ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD FRIEND.
O! plant the Rosemary and Rue,
And let the mournful Cypress wave,
And ev'ry beauteous flow'ret strew,
Upon his lowly honour'd grave.
May never howling tempest rave
O'er him who was so leal and true;
And let his dwelling be, I crave,
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
And let the mournful Cypress wave,
And ev'ry beauteous flow'ret strew,
Upon his lowly honour'd grave.
May never howling tempest rave
O'er him who was so leal and true;
And let his dwelling be, I crave,
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
Beats here a breast where dwells no sigh,
Is there an eye where swells no tear;
Is there a thought that doth not fly
To rest upon his humble bier?
The sympathetic glow is here,
Where once his swift-wing'd wit-flash flew,
But his low cell will soon appear
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
Is there an eye where swells no tear;
Is there a thought that doth not fly
To rest upon his humble bier?
24
Where once his swift-wing'd wit-flash flew,
But his low cell will soon appear
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
And if his spirit hov'ring round,
Floats o'er this band he lov'd so well,
Mayhap this tribute may be found,
To sooth him where his fathers dwell.
His praise no earthly tongue can tell,
May it be sweet as falling dew,
And aërial spirits warbling swell
This theme around the lonely Yew.
Floats o'er this band he lov'd so well,
Mayhap this tribute may be found,
To sooth him where his fathers dwell.
His praise no earthly tongue can tell,
May it be sweet as falling dew,
And aërial spirits warbling swell
This theme around the lonely Yew.
Glory to thee, thou jovial soul,
O may'st thou rest in heavenly bowers;
And if one thought upon the Coul
Should enter on thy endless hours,
O! think we strew thy grave with flowers,
Each Spring, its beauty to renew;
And when the wintry tempest lowers.
We'll screen from harm the lonely Yew.
O may'st thou rest in heavenly bowers;
And if one thought upon the Coul
Should enter on thy endless hours,
O! think we strew thy grave with flowers,
Each Spring, its beauty to renew;
And when the wintry tempest lowers.
We'll screen from harm the lonely Yew.
Then plant the Rosemary and Rue,
And let the mournful Cypress wave,
And every beauteous flow'ret strew,
Upon his lowly honour'd grave.
May never howling tempest rave
O'er him who was so leal and true;
And let his dwelling be, I crave,
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
And let the mournful Cypress wave,
And every beauteous flow'ret strew,
Upon his lowly honour'd grave.
May never howling tempest rave
O'er him who was so leal and true;
And let his dwelling be, I crave,
O'ershadow'd by the lonely Yew.
25
MONODY
ON THE DEATH OF PROFESSOR RICHARDSON.
Is there an eye that weeps departed worth,
And pays not here the tribute of a tear?
Is there a heart that gave warm feelings birth,
That will not sigh upon a good man's bier?
And pays not here the tribute of a tear?
Is there a heart that gave warm feelings birth,
That will not sigh upon a good man's bier?
And is there one in academic bowers,
Where classic rev'ries on his steps attend,
Who pauseth not recalling happy hours,
And mourns his master, guardian and friend!
Where classic rev'ries on his steps attend,
Who pauseth not recalling happy hours,
And mourns his master, guardian and friend!
O! there is none—for, Richardson, in thee
The friends of literature found ample store,
And thou disseminated far and free,
The hidden treasures of the ancient lore.
The friends of literature found ample store,
And thou disseminated far and free,
The hidden treasures of the ancient lore.
But what is Learning? 'tis indeed a gem,
The rays of which some glory may impart,
Thou hadst what often flies the diadem,
An upright spirit and an honest heart.
The rays of which some glory may impart,
Thou hadst what often flies the diadem,
An upright spirit and an honest heart.
26
When proud men leave this transient world of woe,
On gay mausoleum their wealth is spent,
If they're permitted, let their spirits go
And float with joy around their monument.
On gay mausoleum their wealth is spent,
If they're permitted, let their spirits go
And float with joy around their monument.
My Richardson, that claimed not thy care,
Thy ample riches to the poor were given,
And if thy gen'rous spirit hovereth there,
Thou'lt find the poor man's heart thy all—thy heaven.
Thy ample riches to the poor were given,
And if thy gen'rous spirit hovereth there,
Thou'lt find the poor man's heart thy all—thy heaven.
Farewell! sweet spirit; ages may pass by,
Ere haughty schoolmen thy example take,
Oft will I say, while tear-drops dim my eye,
Thou didst love goodness for sweet virtue's sake.
Ere haughty schoolmen thy example take,
Oft will I say, while tear-drops dim my eye,
Thou didst love goodness for sweet virtue's sake.
BRITISH GLORY.
Where'er the thunder of Britannia's hurl'd,
Where'er in hostile lands appear our brave,
Where'er our meteor standard is unfurl'd,
We are resistless as the mountain wave,
Where'er the “Caledonian war pipes” rave,
Where'er old England steps the well-fought field,
Where'er proud Erin wields the bloody glave,
Strong, strong indeed must be that powerful shield,
That is stretch'd forth, and can or dare to save.
Where'er in hostile lands appear our brave,
Where'er our meteor standard is unfurl'd,
We are resistless as the mountain wave,
Where'er the “Caledonian war pipes” rave,
Where'er old England steps the well-fought field,
Where'er proud Erin wields the bloody glave,
Strong, strong indeed must be that powerful shield,
That is stretch'd forth, and can or dare to save.
27
Ambitious France sunk back in wild dismay,
And Spain confess'd our peerless arms afar,
When Nelson's lightnings swept Aboukir's bay,
Or flash'd their splendours upon Trafalgar;
And now in later times the blaze of war
Thro' Europe spread its flame from shore to shore;
Then Britain like a glorious meteor star,
Shot from her clouds and struck the Tri-color!
And Spain confess'd our peerless arms afar,
When Nelson's lightnings swept Aboukir's bay,
Or flash'd their splendours upon Trafalgar;
And now in later times the blaze of war
Thro' Europe spread its flame from shore to shore;
Then Britain like a glorious meteor star,
Shot from her clouds and struck the Tri-color!
But Europe now in softest peace reposes,
Thanks to the heroes of the Emerald Isle,
And Beauty from her bed of roses,
Rewards her warriors with a grateful smile:
But ah! where transatlantic waters boil,
A gallant few still urge the vengeful blow,
Who ne'er have rested from their warlike toil
Since Spain was enter'd by her restless foe.
Thanks to the heroes of the Emerald Isle,
And Beauty from her bed of roses,
Rewards her warriors with a grateful smile:
But ah! where transatlantic waters boil,
A gallant few still urge the vengeful blow,
Who ne'er have rested from their warlike toil
Since Spain was enter'd by her restless foe.
And you brave Ross, whose laurels nobly won,
Bloom'd sweetly forth upon Maida's plain,
Whose tow'ring crest in day of battle shone,
Gath'ring fresh honour in each new campaign,
And in the well fought fields of lovely Spain,
Still was you in the same bright glorious path;
And now across the dark Atlantic main
You shew'd proud Britain in her day of wrath.
Bloom'd sweetly forth upon Maida's plain,
Whose tow'ring crest in day of battle shone,
Gath'ring fresh honour in each new campaign,
And in the well fought fields of lovely Spain,
Still was you in the same bright glorious path;
And now across the dark Atlantic main
You shew'd proud Britain in her day of wrath.
Can rude disdain, or can a single boast,
Escape the poor American again,
When his all-powerful and embattled host
Were crush'd by such a handful of our men,
“To beard the Lion in his very den,”
And send wild havoc and destruction there,
Was sure a bold undaunted plan; but then
Britons will do what few, few others dare.
Escape the poor American again,
When his all-powerful and embattled host
Were crush'd by such a handful of our men,
28
And send wild havoc and destruction there,
Was sure a bold undaunted plan; but then
Britons will do what few, few others dare.
Well may the wand'rer of the desert scowl,
And deem Town warrior but an empty name,
Lean on his bow in agony of soul,
And view the ruins with the glow of shame;
Yet oft he'll say, “white men are men of fame,
Blest be the warriors 'cross the mighty lake!”
His noblest passion ever is the same,
To love a warrior for his valour's sake.
And deem Town warrior but an empty name,
Lean on his bow in agony of soul,
And view the ruins with the glow of shame;
Yet oft he'll say, “white men are men of fame,
Blest be the warriors 'cross the mighty lake!”
His noblest passion ever is the same,
To love a warrior for his valour's sake.
Oh! how I love to see my country shine
In all that truest patriots commend;
I would not for Potosi's richest mine
Behold the least ray of her glory end.
This is my maxim (and I will contend
It is a right one, to my latest hour),
To punish insult, or to shield a friend,
Is sure the noblest attribute of power.
In all that truest patriots commend;
I would not for Potosi's richest mine
Behold the least ray of her glory end.
This is my maxim (and I will contend
It is a right one, to my latest hour),
To punish insult, or to shield a friend,
Is sure the noblest attribute of power.
To you brave Ross, who's won immortal fame,
I dedicate this wild and hurried lay;
Would it were bright, and tow'ring as the flame
That blaz'd around thee on the glorious day.
Then o'er the trembling chords my hand would stray,
And your high praise would thro' each land be rung;
But fame like yours, which now will last for aye,
Need not be blazon'd by a mortal tongue.
I dedicate this wild and hurried lay;
Would it were bright, and tow'ring as the flame
That blaz'd around thee on the glorious day.
Then o'er the trembling chords my hand would stray,
And your high praise would thro' each land be rung;
But fame like yours, which now will last for aye,
Need not be blazon'd by a mortal tongue.
29
ODE
TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR-GENERAL ROSS,
Who was killed on the 12th Sept. 1814, near Baltimore.
Is there who lost a youthful friend,
That did not mourn his early doom,
Sigh for his fate, and weeping bend
O'er his lone tomb?
That did not mourn his early doom,
Sigh for his fate, and weeping bend
O'er his lone tomb?
But oh! that mem'ry's doubly dear,
Around whose tomb the laurels wave,
Say, is there one who doth not here
Weep for the brave?
Around whose tomb the laurels wave,
Say, is there one who doth not here
Weep for the brave?
To those who lie on glory's bed,
Oh! let the plaintive dirge go round,
The spirits of the mighty dead
Will bless the sound.
Oh! let the plaintive dirge go round,
The spirits of the mighty dead
Will bless the sound.
To Ross raise high the mournful swell,
His Roman death was nobly calm;
Like his who gloriously fell
At Abraham.
His Roman death was nobly calm;
Like his who gloriously fell
At Abraham.
30
The desert chief with bow unstrung,
Will lean where rests the chief of fame,
And while his soul with woe is wrung,
Will bless his name.
Will lean where rests the chief of fame,
And while his soul with woe is wrung,
Will bless his name.
And straying far thro' desert wild,
His boundless woods will sound his praise,
And even the little Indian child
His fame will raise.
His boundless woods will sound his praise,
And even the little Indian child
His fame will raise.
Far on Kentucky's boundless waste,
Or Susquehanna's dreary plain,
Where Niagara sweeps in haste
To join the main:
Or Susquehanna's dreary plain,
Where Niagara sweeps in haste
To join the main:
There where the tomahawk of war,
Is wielded in the warrior's hand,
Brave Ross's name in wilds afar,
Will cheer the band.
Is wielded in the warrior's hand,
Brave Ross's name in wilds afar,
Will cheer the band.
Peace to the mansion of his rest,
Let brilliant glories fade there never.
But with eternal honours drest,
Blossom for ever.
Let brilliant glories fade there never.
But with eternal honours drest,
Blossom for ever.
31
ADDRESS
RECITED AT THE NINETEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE GLASGOW UNION COUL CLUB.
Son of the tuneful voice—sweet in Coulhall,
A wake the spirit of thy melody,
Take down yon harp that hangs upon the wall,
And fling thy grand commanding notes on high.
O! tell to us in sounds that ne'er will die,
The joys, the pleasures of our little band,
O! blend it sweet with music's witchery;
And as thou hast our monarch's soft command,
Tell how King Coila rul'd sweet Ayr's bewitching land.
A wake the spirit of thy melody,
Take down yon harp that hangs upon the wall,
And fling thy grand commanding notes on high.
O! tell to us in sounds that ne'er will die,
The joys, the pleasures of our little band,
O! blend it sweet with music's witchery;
And as thou hast our monarch's soft command,
Tell how King Coila rul'd sweet Ayr's bewitching land.
The son of song obey'd—the harp he took,
And gracefully his manly fingers play'd;
Piercing and wild was his seraphic look,
As o'er the chords the wandering pitch notes stray'd,
And many a pause and many a start he made.
Sometimes false music made her discord roll,
Till all at once each truant chord obey'd,
And kindling up the lightning of his soul,
He sung the brilliant glories of the good King Coul.
And gracefully his manly fingers play'd;
Piercing and wild was his seraphic look,
As o'er the chords the wandering pitch notes stray'd,
And many a pause and many a start he made.
Sometimes false music made her discord roll,
Till all at once each truant chord obey'd,
And kindling up the lightning of his soul,
He sung the brilliant glories of the good King Coul.
32
Peace to the Race of Coila! though of yore
He oft with death travers'd the well-fought field;
As through the Saxon's broken ranks he bore
Old Caledonia's red and batter'd shield,
For never, never was he known to yield—
Dear to his soul was battle's raging glow,
Sharp was the faulchion he was wont to wield,
And oft in justice to the invading foe
He portion'd them the land—mayhap six feet or so.
He oft with death travers'd the well-fought field;
As through the Saxon's broken ranks he bore
Old Caledonia's red and batter'd shield,
For never, never was he known to yield—
Dear to his soul was battle's raging glow,
Sharp was the faulchion he was wont to wield,
And oft in justice to the invading foe
He portion'd them the land—mayhap six feet or so.
Fierce were his looks of battle—but in peace,
His eyes beam'd mildly like the morning star.
At home all love, he bade true joy increase,
Dove-like with friends, but lion-like in war;
His fame for courtesy was spread afar,
From burning Indies to the frozen pole,
And rosy Phœbus in his golden car,
Where'er the heavenly charioteer might roll,
Ay heard the glorious praises of our good King Coul.
His eyes beam'd mildly like the morning star.
At home all love, he bade true joy increase,
Dove-like with friends, but lion-like in war;
His fame for courtesy was spread afar,
From burning Indies to the frozen pole,
And rosy Phœbus in his golden car,
Where'er the heavenly charioteer might roll,
Ay heard the glorious praises of our good King Coul.
War long had ceas'd on Coila's bonny bound,
When by his majesty's benign command,
He caus'd be fram'd a table large and round,
And at it plac'd a blythe and jovial band;
All knights they were, prov'd by their master's hand.
None had their 'scutchions either marr'd or riv'n,
They were the happiest fellows in the land,
Nay, were an oath requir'd, it should be given,
They were the jolliest mortals 'neath the roof of heaven.
When by his majesty's benign command,
He caus'd be fram'd a table large and round,
And at it plac'd a blythe and jovial band;
All knights they were, prov'd by their master's hand.
None had their 'scutchions either marr'd or riv'n,
They were the happiest fellows in the land,
Nay, were an oath requir'd, it should be given,
They were the jolliest mortals 'neath the roof of heaven.
33
But life is like the purple setting ray,
That trembles on the bosom of the stream,
Or like the op'ning of a splendid day,
That quick dispels a horror-breathing dream,
Who can for ay on life's wild ocean swim?
The lamp of life, O! soon, too soon expires;
And kings themselves, I'm sure, can never deem,
Their lamp will blaze up with eternal fires,
So worthy old King Coul was gather'd to his sires.
That trembles on the bosom of the stream,
Or like the op'ning of a splendid day,
That quick dispels a horror-breathing dream,
Who can for ay on life's wild ocean swim?
The lamp of life, O! soon, too soon expires;
And kings themselves, I'm sure, can never deem,
Their lamp will blaze up with eternal fires,
So worthy old King Coul was gather'd to his sires.
But not before a charter he prepar'd,
And caus'd it 'mong his records be enroll'd,
And as he for the same had great regard,
'Twas writ in letters of the virgin gold.
'Mong other things, this princely charter told,
That the high order of the noble Coul,
Should once a week a splendid chapter hold,
Swayed by a King, a jovial merry soul,
One like himself, who lov'd his friend, his lass, and bowl.
And caus'd it 'mong his records be enroll'd,
And as he for the same had great regard,
'Twas writ in letters of the virgin gold.
'Mong other things, this princely charter told,
That the high order of the noble Coul,
Should once a week a splendid chapter hold,
Swayed by a King, a jovial merry soul,
One like himself, who lov'd his friend, his lass, and bowl.
This noble order thro' a lapse of years,
Has now descended to the present day,
And it as fresh and lovely now appears,
As if its founder was but hours away.
Come then my brothers, let's be blythe and gay,
Remember that the moments swiftly roll,
We'll trill, Sir Knights! some sprightly roundelay;
—But hush! send round in silence now the bowl,
Drain it to our great Founder, worthy old King Coul.
Has now descended to the present day,
And it as fresh and lovely now appears,
As if its founder was but hours away.
Come then my brothers, let's be blythe and gay,
Remember that the moments swiftly roll,
We'll trill, Sir Knights! some sprightly roundelay;
—But hush! send round in silence now the bowl,
Drain it to our great Founder, worthy old King Coul.
34
The voice now ceas'd, high in the lofty hall,
The son of song hung up his harp again,
And oft I saw it vibrate on the wall,
As if it wish'd to echo o'er the strain;
And oft I saw its master's eyes remain
Fixt full upon it, and his features wore
A look as if he seem'd to say “'tis all in vain,”
I cannot woo thee as I did of yore,
My hand is feeble now, and I will sing no more.
The son of song hung up his harp again,
And oft I saw it vibrate on the wall,
As if it wish'd to echo o'er the strain;
And oft I saw its master's eyes remain
Fixt full upon it, and his features wore
A look as if he seem'd to say “'tis all in vain,”
I cannot woo thee as I did of yore,
My hand is feeble now, and I will sing no more.
THE PEACE WITH AMERICA!
Well! all is over now—and heavenly peace
Rears her white flag, and trims her beacon light.
Sweet is it when the stormy trumpets cease—
But who should conquer when the British fight?
I own this peace gives me no great delight;
I wish our Union-standard still unfurl'd,
To tell the Yankies in our day of might,
That Britain is the Empress of the world.
Rears her white flag, and trims her beacon light.
Sweet is it when the stormy trumpets cease—
But who should conquer when the British fight?
I own this peace gives me no great delight;
I wish our Union-standard still unfurl'd,
To tell the Yankies in our day of might,
That Britain is the Empress of the world.
Not that our flag has got a single stain—
'Twas not in valour that the Yankies shone,
'Twas when superior numbers trode the plain
We bow'd—but 'twas to multitudes alone.
And is there in America but one,
Who has not heard with wonder and with awe,
The daring acts by British valour done,
When shielding justice and protecting law?
'Twas not in valour that the Yankies shone,
'Twas when superior numbers trode the plain
We bow'd—but 'twas to multitudes alone.
35
Who has not heard with wonder and with awe,
The daring acts by British valour done,
When shielding justice and protecting law?
Say, can the transatlantic vaunters boast
A Ross, a Packenham, or men as brave?
They to their weeping country now are lost,
But dropt they not into a glorious grave?
A Broke, a Hope upon the stormy wave
Laid their striped Flag upon the bloody deck,
And when our Lion wild began to rave,
He left their boasting, like their ships, a—wreck.
A Ross, a Packenham, or men as brave?
They to their weeping country now are lost,
But dropt they not into a glorious grave?
A Broke, a Hope upon the stormy wave
Laid their striped Flag upon the bloody deck,
And when our Lion wild began to rave,
He left their boasting, like their ships, a—wreck.
Yet after all, I'm glad the conflict's done.
Britons should aye have pity on a foe.
America's mad race was nearly run.
A little more!—mayhap too gasps or so!
For deadly was the pending blow,
She saw death coming in a thousand forms,
And where's the foe on earth but would stoop low
When Britain's wrapt in whirlwinds and in storms.
Britons should aye have pity on a foe.
America's mad race was nearly run.
A little more!—mayhap too gasps or so!
For deadly was the pending blow,
She saw death coming in a thousand forms,
And where's the foe on earth but would stoop low
When Britain's wrapt in whirlwinds and in storms.
Land of my fathers! I rejoice in thee,
Thou art a bulwark, and a rock alone,
A diamond glittering in thy native sea!
A fairer isle the sun ne'er look'd upon.
Thou art a jewel in the world's wide zone,
Where honour, worth, and valour binds thee fast,
I will adore thee when long years have gone,
Yes! I will love thee e'en when life itself is past.
Thou art a bulwark, and a rock alone,
A diamond glittering in thy native sea!
A fairer isle the sun ne'er look'd upon.
Thou art a jewel in the world's wide zone,
Where honour, worth, and valour binds thee fast,
I will adore thee when long years have gone,
Yes! I will love thee e'en when life itself is past.
36
SONG,
TO KATY.
Tho' yon fareweel may be the last,
Whan I took leave o' thee, Katy;
I'll mind you when lang years hae past—
Will you remember me, Katy?
Whan tost upon the ragin' main,
As loud the wild storms blow, Katy;
O! wha will cheer the trying scene,
Whan thou art far awa, Katy?
Whan I took leave o' thee, Katy;
I'll mind you when lang years hae past—
Will you remember me, Katy?
Whan tost upon the ragin' main,
As loud the wild storms blow, Katy;
O! wha will cheer the trying scene,
Whan thou art far awa, Katy?
I wish we twa had never met—
My heart ne'er had been sair, Katy;
I ne'er will that sad thought forget,
“We'll may be meet nae mair, Katy.”
My widow'd heart is lanely now,
Tho' ance frae sorrow free, Katy—
But it will keep its warmest vow,
Ne'er to love ane but thee, Katy.
My heart ne'er had been sair, Katy;
I ne'er will that sad thought forget,
“We'll may be meet nae mair, Katy.”
My widow'd heart is lanely now,
Tho' ance frae sorrow free, Katy—
But it will keep its warmest vow,
Ne'er to love ane but thee, Katy.
O! ance I form'd the fond, fond thought,
That we wad liv'd in bliss, Katy,
An' met the joy we sweetly sought,
An' no a fate like this, Katy.
We then had pass'd our hours wi' glee,
Nae sorrow dar'd attend, Katy,
Thou'd been my life—my a' to me,
My sweetheart and my friend, Katy!
That we wad liv'd in bliss, Katy,
An' met the joy we sweetly sought,
An' no a fate like this, Katy.
37
Nae sorrow dar'd attend, Katy,
Thou'd been my life—my a' to me,
My sweetheart and my friend, Katy!
Whan stretch'd upon a friendless bed,
Pain writhes this frame o' mine, Katy;
I'll sigh—I canna lay my head
On ony breast but thine, Katy.
I'll suffer sairly love's keen powers,
An' mourn the joy that's gane, Katy;
For nane can cheer my lanely hours,
But you, and you alane, Katy.
Pain writhes this frame o' mine, Katy;
I'll sigh—I canna lay my head
On ony breast but thine, Katy.
I'll suffer sairly love's keen powers,
An' mourn the joy that's gane, Katy;
For nane can cheer my lanely hours,
But you, and you alane, Katy.
I've travers'd mony a distant clime,
And happy did I feel, Katy;
But oh! it is a trying time,
When lovers bid fareweel, Katy.
But aye this hope will warm my heart,
That you will aye be true Katy;
We'll may be meet nae mair to part—
But 'tis a lang adieu, Katy!
And happy did I feel, Katy;
But oh! it is a trying time,
When lovers bid fareweel, Katy.
But aye this hope will warm my heart,
That you will aye be true Katy;
We'll may be meet nae mair to part—
But 'tis a lang adieu, Katy!
38
SONG,
BANKS OF CLYDE.
The moon shines lovely from on high,
No black'ning clouds roll cross the sky,
The westlin wind the heat allays,
And sweet in cooling zephyrs plays;
While here I mourn my wayward fate,
Opprest with griefs and troubles great,
Soon, soon to cross the ocean wide,
Far from the bonny banks of Clyde.
No black'ning clouds roll cross the sky,
The westlin wind the heat allays,
And sweet in cooling zephyrs plays;
While here I mourn my wayward fate,
Opprest with griefs and troubles great,
Soon, soon to cross the ocean wide,
Far from the bonny banks of Clyde.
And must I cross the roaring main,
Only in search of worldly gain,
Ev'n though I fortune's favour find,
Can that restore my peace of mind;
Can riches smooth my journey here,
When all is gone that makes life dear?
That life must be a dreary void,
When I am from the banks of Clyde.
Only in search of worldly gain,
Ev'n though I fortune's favour find,
Can that restore my peace of mind;
Can riches smooth my journey here,
When all is gone that makes life dear?
That life must be a dreary void,
When I am from the banks of Clyde.
Farewell, farewell the maid I love,
No more along these banks we'll rove,
If choice was mine—my will my own,
I'd stay for thee, and thee alone.
Say, what is wealth? 'tis dross to me,
For I am rich possest of thee.
I go, but distance can't divide,
My soul from thee and banks of Clyde.
No more along these banks we'll rove,
If choice was mine—my will my own,
I'd stay for thee, and thee alone.
39
For I am rich possest of thee.
I go, but distance can't divide,
My soul from thee and banks of Clyde.
SONG,
WHAT IS LOVE?
Love is like a pleasant dream,
That gives a tender sweet delight,
Or like a radiant bright moon beam
Let in upon a dreary night.
That gives a tender sweet delight,
Or like a radiant bright moon beam
Let in upon a dreary night.
'Tis like a dream—joy you possess,
Delights are hov'ring round your bed;
But when you clasp the promis'd bliss,
You wake, and the delusion's fled.
Delights are hov'ring round your bed;
But when you clasp the promis'd bliss,
You wake, and the delusion's fled.
'Tis like the moon on a dark night,
Pouring through broken clouds her ray—
The clouds soon close upon the light,
And the silver beam flies far away.
Pouring through broken clouds her ray—
The clouds soon close upon the light,
And the silver beam flies far away.
40
SONG,
MARIA.
Maria fill the goblet up,
I love the rosy wine,
And well I love to take the cup
From such a hand as thine.
I love the rosy wine,
And well I love to take the cup
From such a hand as thine.
The sparkling beverage mantling high,
Ambrosial sweets bespeak,
Its brightness is Maria's eye,
Its colour is her cheek.
Ambrosial sweets bespeak,
Its brightness is Maria's eye,
Its colour is her cheek.
Raise higher yet that arm of snow,
The wine is ruby bright,
Its tints assume a deeper glow,
When near an arm so white.
The wine is ruby bright,
Its tints assume a deeper glow,
When near an arm so white.
Fill'd up again, 'tis nectar-fraught,
And take it now from me,
For I have taken many a draught
Of love as deep from thee.
And take it now from me,
For I have taken many a draught
Of love as deep from thee.
41
SONG,
I THOUGHT OF THEM ALL WITH A SIGH.
As I lay on my bed in the dead hour of night,
When sleep from my pillow had taken her flight,
I thought on the days of my youth with delight,
But the joy was soon dash'd with a sigh;
For the gold colour'd clouds did not always adorn,
The face of the sky in youth's wild chequer'd morn,
My journey was planted with many a thorn,
Which remembrance recall'd with a sigh.
When sleep from my pillow had taken her flight,
I thought on the days of my youth with delight,
But the joy was soon dash'd with a sigh;
For the gold colour'd clouds did not always adorn,
The face of the sky in youth's wild chequer'd morn,
My journey was planted with many a thorn,
Which remembrance recall'd with a sigh.
I mus'd on those fields where each mild summer eve,
I wander'd the bright web of fancy to weave,
Unknown to my breast was the sad sorrow heave,
I now thought of those times with a sigh.
The thread of existence was then spun so fine,
I remember I fancied my lot was divine,
For the heartfelt endearments of friendship were mine,
And I thought of them all with a sigh.
I wander'd the bright web of fancy to weave,
Unknown to my breast was the sad sorrow heave,
I now thought of those times with a sigh.
The thread of existence was then spun so fine,
I remember I fancied my lot was divine,
For the heartfelt endearments of friendship were mine,
And I thought of them all with a sigh.
But now my young friends are nearly all gone,
They lie 'neath the turf or the broad letter'd stone,
In the cold narrow house, unknowing, unknown,
And a tear-drop was mix'd with a sigh.
I mus'd on that unequal, scene-shifting road,
That leads to the dark, to the dreary abode,
'Twas the very same path that my Mary had trod,
And I thought on the grave with a sigh.
They lie 'neath the turf or the broad letter'd stone,
In the cold narrow house, unknowing, unknown,
And a tear-drop was mix'd with a sigh.
42
That leads to the dark, to the dreary abode,
'Twas the very same path that my Mary had trod,
And I thought on the grave with a sigh.
SONG,
LULLABY.
In its little cradle sleeping,
Sick and faint the babe doth lie,
While its mother vigils keeping,
Sings the plaintive lullaby.
Lullaby, &c.
Sick and faint the babe doth lie,
While its mother vigils keeping,
Sings the plaintive lullaby.
Lullaby, &c.
Sweet and tranquil be thy slumber,
“Father's glory, mother's joy,”
I will all thy startings number,
And calm thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
“Father's glory, mother's joy,”
I will all thy startings number,
And calm thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
I will watch each altering feature,
I'll be ever, ever nigh,
Dry thy tears (thou witching creature),
And hush thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
I'll be ever, ever nigh,
Dry thy tears (thou witching creature),
And hush thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
43
Infant! thou'rt my dearest treasure,
I will still thy little cry,
Night and day I'll watch with pleasure,
Soothing thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
I will still thy little cry,
Night and day I'll watch with pleasure,
Soothing thee with lullaby,
Lullaby, &c.
Oh! if death should nip my blossom,
Then I'd lay me down and die,
Lock'd for ever to my bosom,
Winds would whisper lullaby,
Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
Winds would whisper lullaby.
Then I'd lay me down and die,
Lock'd for ever to my bosom,
Winds would whisper lullaby,
Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
Winds would whisper lullaby.
SONG,
MILBURN.
O! dear to my soul is the calm hour o' gloamin,
As it ushers in slowly a mild July eve,
How sweet is it then thro' Milburn to be roamin',
And the heart-sick'ning scenes o' gay folly to leave.
The sun as he dwells in the blue fields of heaven,
Sees gardens and wilds as beneath him they turn,
But he views not a spot where such beauties are given,
Or so lavishly spread as on bonny Milburn.
As it ushers in slowly a mild July eve,
How sweet is it then thro' Milburn to be roamin',
And the heart-sick'ning scenes o' gay folly to leave.
The sun as he dwells in the blue fields of heaven,
Sees gardens and wilds as beneath him they turn,
But he views not a spot where such beauties are given,
Or so lavishly spread as on bonny Milburn.
44
I've rov'd there with rapture in days o' my childhood,
For the morning o' life was unclouded and fair,
As happy and blythe as the birds o' the wild-wood,
A stranger to sorrow, a stranger to care.
These bright scenes are fled, they are vanish'd for ever,
The days o' langsyne an' their pleasures I mourn,
They have pass'd as a dream, an' I fear I shall never
Rove again sae light-hearted thro' bonny Milburn.
For the morning o' life was unclouded and fair,
As happy and blythe as the birds o' the wild-wood,
A stranger to sorrow, a stranger to care.
These bright scenes are fled, they are vanish'd for ever,
The days o' langsyne an' their pleasures I mourn,
They have pass'd as a dream, an' I fear I shall never
Rove again sae light-hearted thro' bonny Milburn.
I hate the rich splendour o' summer sun's flauntin',
Milburn is too gaudy beneath the bright beam,
But the gloamin' hour's lovely beside the fir plantin',
When treading the banks o' the limpid Milstream.
While the mavis is singing his evening ditty,
And the rich swelling echoes the wild notes return
Who would not exchange the rude noise o' the city,
For the soul-soothing pleasures o' bonny Milburn.
Milburn is too gaudy beneath the bright beam,
But the gloamin' hour's lovely beside the fir plantin',
When treading the banks o' the limpid Milstream.
While the mavis is singing his evening ditty,
And the rich swelling echoes the wild notes return
Who would not exchange the rude noise o' the city,
For the soul-soothing pleasures o' bonny Milburn.
When the shadow of death before mine eyes gathers,
And I had one wish on this side o' the grave,
If my breath was resign'd in the land of my fathers,
To rest in Milburn is the boon I would crave.
In the midst o' the Isle, where the blackbird reposes,
By a willow o'erhung would appear my lone urn,
And I know who would deck it with garlands o' roses,
Each Spring when the flow'rets bloom'd gay in Milburn.
And I had one wish on this side o' the grave,
If my breath was resign'd in the land of my fathers,
To rest in Milburn is the boon I would crave.
In the midst o' the Isle, where the blackbird reposes,
By a willow o'erhung would appear my lone urn,
And I know who would deck it with garlands o' roses,
Each Spring when the flow'rets bloom'd gay in Milburn.
45
SONG,
HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.
How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,
When my love's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine,
Three years hae come an' gane sin' first he said to me,
That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live and die;
The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild and drear,
An' every hour that passeth by, I water wi' a tear.
When my love's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine,
Three years hae come an' gane sin' first he said to me,
That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live and die;
The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild and drear,
An' every hour that passeth by, I water wi' a tear.
I kiss my bonny baby, I clasp it to my breast,
Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace its father hath me prest!
And whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies upon my knee,
The crystal draps out owre my cheeks will fa' frae ilka e'e,
O! mony a mony a burning tear upon its face will fa',
For oh! it's like my bonny love, an' he is far awa.
Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace its father hath me prest!
And whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies upon my knee,
The crystal draps out owre my cheeks will fa' frae ilka e'e,
O! mony a mony a burning tear upon its face will fa',
For oh! it's like my bonny love, an' he is far awa.
46
Whan the spring-time had gane by and the rose began to blaw,
An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonny shaw,
'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart,
An' mony a tear it cost my love, ere he could frae me part,
But tho' he's in a foreign land, far far across the sea,
I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.
An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonny shaw,
'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart,
An' mony a tear it cost my love, ere he could frae me part,
But tho' he's in a foreign land, far far across the sea,
I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.
Ye wastlin win's upon the main, blaw wi' a steady breeze,
And waft my Jamie hame again across the roarin' seas,
O! when he clasps me in his arms, in a' his manly pride,
I'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the world beside.
Then blow a steady gale ye win's, waft him across the sea,
And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn and me.
And waft my Jamie hame again across the roarin' seas,
O! when he clasps me in his arms, in a' his manly pride,
I'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the world beside.
Then blow a steady gale ye win's, waft him across the sea,
And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn and me.
47
SONG,
BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
Blink over the burn to me,
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I'll gang alang wi' thee;
Though father and mither forbade it,
Forbidden I wadna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An I'll gang alang wi' thee.
Blink over the burn to me,
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I'll gang alang wi' thee;
Though father and mither forbade it,
Forbidden I wadna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An I'll gang alang wi' thee.
The cheek o' my love's like the rose-bud,
Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,
Her hair's o' the loveliet auburn,
Her ee's o' the bonniest blue.
Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,
Disclosing a pearly row:
Her high-swelling, love heaving bosom,
Is white as the mountain snow.
Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,
Her hair's o' the loveliet auburn,
Her ee's o' the bonniest blue.
Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,
Disclosing a pearly row:
Her high-swelling, love heaving bosom,
Is white as the mountain snow.
49
But it is na her beauty that hauds me,
A glitt'rin' chain winna lang bind;
'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,
An' the graces adornin' her mind.
She's dear to my soul as the sun-beam
Is dear to the summer's morn,
An' she says tho' her father forbade it,
She'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.
A glitt'rin' chain winna lang bind;
'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,
An' the graces adornin' her mind.
She's dear to my soul as the sun-beam
Is dear to the summer's morn,
An' she says tho' her father forbade it,
She'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.
Her father's a canker'd auld carle,
He swears he will ne'er gie consent;
Such carles should never get daughters,
Unless they can mak them content.
But she says tho' her father forbade it,
Forbidden she winna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I'll gang alang wi' thee.
He swears he will ne'er gie consent;
Such carles should never get daughters,
Unless they can mak them content.
But she says tho' her father forbade it,
Forbidden she winna be;
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
An' I'll gang alang wi' thee.
ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
USURPING THE THRONE OF FRANCE.
Britain! raise high thy beacon-light once more,
And shew thy brightness in the night of war.
Haste, dash away the haughty Tri-color,
And spread abroad the union flag afar.
It is to nations a bright signal star,
A native diamond, an unrivall'd gem;
And tell me where's the mortal hand that dare
Pluck from thy brow, thy spotless diadem?
And shew thy brightness in the night of war.
Haste, dash away the haughty Tri-color,
And spread abroad the union flag afar.
It is to nations a bright signal star,
A native diamond, an unrivall'd gem;
And tell me where's the mortal hand that dare
Pluck from thy brow, thy spotless diadem?
Where are the heroes who in battle shone?
Say, do their faulchions sleep upon their side,
Thou art not shaded, noble Wellington,
Britannia's boast, the Emerald Island's pride?
And where are those who spread their fame far wide,
Great Alexander, Blucher, and the rest,
Say, do their spirits in this world abide,
Or dwell they in Elysium with the blest?
Say, do their faulchions sleep upon their side,
Thou art not shaded, noble Wellington,
Britannia's boast, the Emerald Island's pride?
And where are those who spread their fame far wide,
Great Alexander, Blucher, and the rest,
Say, do their spirits in this world abide,
Or dwell they in Elysium with the blest?
Napoleon! tremble, for the stormy wave
Of wrath is foaming wild above thy head,
They will not rest half-way, the mighty brave,
But rush resistless till thy power is fled.
The British heroes who to glory led,
Unconquer'd warriors to the fields of Spain,
Will yet traverse high honour's bloody bed,
And hurl Britannia's thunders once again.
Of wrath is foaming wild above thy head,
They will not rest half-way, the mighty brave,
But rush resistless till thy power is fled.
52
Unconquer'd warriors to the fields of Spain,
Will yet traverse high honour's bloody bed,
And hurl Britannia's thunders once again.
Napoleon! yes, the cup of wrath is full,
I see the wild course of thy race complete,
And thou, who many a mighty state did rule,
Will soon be trampl'd 'neath our Lion's feet.
Revenge I know to gen'rous minds not sweet,
But when a tyrant from his seat is hurl'd,
Then will each gen'rous heart with pleasure beat,
To know one scourge is wither'd in the world.
I see the wild course of thy race complete,
And thou, who many a mighty state did rule,
Will soon be trampl'd 'neath our Lion's feet.
Revenge I know to gen'rous minds not sweet,
But when a tyrant from his seat is hurl'd,
Then will each gen'rous heart with pleasure beat,
To know one scourge is wither'd in the world.
April 20, 1815.
FINIS
| Poems: Chiefly Lyrical | |