Poems and songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and songs

By the late Richard Gall. With a memoir of the author

Gall, Richard (1776-1801)

[epigraph]

POEMS.

ARTHUR'S SEAT.

THE TINT QUEY;

ADDRESS TO HADDINGTON.

EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO ROBERT BURNS.

THE WAITS.

VERSES

HELENORE.

ELEGY ON PUDDING LIZZIE.

DUNCAN AND HELEN.

MAY;

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

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POEMS.

ARTHUR'S SEAT.

CANTO I.

O for a spark o' genial fire,
Sic as could ance a Burns inspire!
O for a Shakspeare's pencil rare,
To trace ilk glowing prospect fair!
Then might we sey in sweetest key,
To sing frae Arthur's Seat sae hie;
To sing the list o' beauties thrang,
That ne'er hae swelled the poet's sang:
To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,
Adorned wi' mony a wild-lorn flower;

Ilk burnie singing through the vale,
Whare blooming hawthorns scent the gale;
An' ilka sweet that Nature yields,
In meadow wild, or cultured fields:
Thae cultured fields, whare, towering strang,
The sturdy aik his shadows flang;
Whare lanely Druids wont to rove,
The mystic tenants o' the grove:
In cultured fields, whare, on a day
Whan gallant Jamie bare the sway,
The Forest flowers bloomed fair to see,
Wi' mony a gem to bless the e'e,
Ere Ruin's blast was heard to blaw,
That wed their bonny blooms awa.

Ah! thae befit the Minstrel's strain,
Wha pensive muses by his lane;
Sweet Nature's Bard, wha learns to sing
In happy Fancy's fairy ring,
Whan swelling thoughts, like rising day,
Burst frae his mind in tunefu' lay.

Yes, Arthur, round thy velvet chair
Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,
An' mixed wi' Nature's landscape green,
The varied warks o' Art are seen.
Here starts the splendid dome to view,
Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;
There some auld lanely pile appears,
The mould'ring wreck o' former years,
Whase tottering wa' nae mair can stand
Before fell Time's resistless hand;
Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,
That now fa's crumbling to decay,
A prey to ilka blast that blaws
An' whistles through its royal ha's—
Whare mirth ance burst wi' joyfu' sound,
An' melting music rang around,
Ah me! dull gloomy silence reigns,
The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,
An' howlets loud, at e'enin's fa',
Rejoice upon the ruined wa'!

Ah, Mary, Scotia's lovely Queen!
Whan Nature wore her mantle green,
Aft didst thou waste the bitter hours,
An' muse amidst Craigmillar's bowers;
Aft weet thy cheek wi' Sorrow's tear,
An' mourn thy hapless fate severe;
Aft weep the days of artless youth,
Sweet days of innocence an' truth,
Whan thou, in wit an' beauty sheen,
In Gallia's splendid court wert seen;
Whan ilka peerless charm o' thine
Bowed Gallia's Lords at Beauty's shrine,
An' thou aft hailed, in Pleasure's reign,
Those joys which ne'er returned again.

There was a time, whan Woman's charms
Could fire the warlike warld to arms,
An' breed sic wae to auld an' young,
As Helen wept, an' Homer sung:
But Mary, o' ilk stay bereft,
Misfortune's luckless child was left;

Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,
The bursting sigh her hale relief.—
O ye, whase brave forefathers bled,
An' aft the rage o' battle led,
Wha, rushing o'er the crimson field,
At Bannockburn made Edward yield;
Ye, wha, still led by Glory's flame,
Made terror mix wi' Scotia's name,—
Whare slept your dauntless valour keen,
Whan danger met your injured Queen?
Could neither Love nor Beauty warm,
To shield sweet Innocence frae harm?

Ill-fated Maid! hadst thou been born
In some sequestered wild, forlorn,
Whare beauty rare, unseen, might stray
An' sport upon the sunny brae,
Or learn wi' youthfu' glee to move
'Mang rural cares an' rural love:—
Sic ills around thee ne'er had hung;
Sic grief had ne'er thy bosom wrung

But, treading Life's untroubled way,
Sweet Peace had blest thy latter day.
Yet, Mary, still thy mournfu' tale
Ilk tender bosom shall bewail;
Lang, lang o'er thee shall Scotia mourn,
An' Pity's tear bedew thy urn.

Craigmillar's fa'n; an' wha can see
Auld Halyrude wi' tearless e'e?
Its polished towers neglected sair,
The haunt o' regal pomp nae mair;
Its ancient splendour fled awa,
That bleezed sae bright in ilka ha';
Whare Scotia's Kings were wont to reign,
Which Stuarts ance could ca' their ain.
(Ah, luckless race! on them nae day
E'er blinkit wi' propitious ray;
Their hindmost stoop now forced to crave
In ither lands—a wretched grave!
Ah, luckless race! for ever fa'n,
An' banished frae their native lan',

Though aft they struggled gallantlie,
The sceptred great again to be;
Though late they saw, on Preston field,
Their marshalled foes inglorious yield,
Save sic as Gard'ner, gallant, brave,
Wha scorned to flee the warrior's grave,
But nobly fought upon the lea,
An' fell near yonder hawthorn tree.)
Ah me! ance joy an' courtly grace
Near by the Thistle had a place,
An' a' our Lords at hame was dine,
An' drink wi' glee the blude-red wine;
Whan Hardyknute, wi' horn sae shrill,
Shook a' the trees o' green hill,
An' gart the witless Norse repent
His “brag o' weir” upo' the bent.
Alas! sic objects to behold,
Bring back the glorious days of old,
Whare Scotia's daring, gallant train,
That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,

For dearest Independence bled,
An' nobly filled their gory bed.
Sae o'er yon mountains, stretching lang,
Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,
Whan Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,
An' roused the warriors o' the North;
Whan Calgach urged his dauntless train,
An' Freedom rushed through ilka vein,
As close they met the haughty foe,
An' laid fu' mony a tyrant low;
As fierce they fought like freemen a',
Oh! glorious fought—yet fought to fa'!—
They fell—an' thou, sweet Liberty,
Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights didst flee,
An' fixed thy seat remote, serene,
'Mang Caledonia's mountains green.
Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smile
For ever cheer my native Isle!

END OF CANTO I.

CANTO II.

What varied scenes, what prospects dear,
In chequered landscape still appear!
What rural sweets profusely thrang
The flowery Links o' Forth alang!
O'er whase proud shivering surface blue,
Fife's woods an' spires begird the view;
Whare Ceres gilds the fertile plain,
An' richly waves the yellow grain,
An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers
Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers:
Nor distant far, upon the ear
The popling Leven wimples clear,
Whase ruined pile an' glassy lake
Shall live in sang for Mary's sake:

An' sweetly blooms ilk native charm
That Bruce's youthful breast could warm,
Whase manly thoughts were wont to burn,
Whare Gairney pours his silent urn.

Return, fond Muse, frae haunts sae fair;
To Lothian's shore return ance mair;
An' let thy lyre be sweetly strung,
For peerless Esk remains unsung.
Romantic stream! what sweets combine
To deck ilk bank an' bower o' thine!
For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' rays,
Glows saft o'er a' thy woody braes,
Whare mony a native wild-flower's seen,
'Mang birks, an' briers, an' ivy green,
An' a' the woodland chorists sing,
Or gleesome flit on wanton wing,
Save whare the lintie mournfully
Sabs sair aneath the rowan tree,
To see her nest an' young anes a'
By thoughtless reaver borne awa.

Return, return the mourner's care,
An' ease the bosom o' despair,
Nor cleed your little heart in steel,
For Nature bade the lintie feel.
Go mark the maid whase gentle breast
Spreads for the tunefu' thrang a feast,
Weel pleased to tak her sweet reward
Frae ilka little sylvan bard.

How fresh an' fair, o' varied hue,
Ilk tufted haunt o' sweet Buccleuch!
What bliss ilk green retreat to hail,
Whare Melville Castle cheers the vale,
An' Mavisbank, sae rural, gay,
Looks bonny down the woodland brae!
But doubly fair ilk darling scene
That screens the bowers o' Hawthorndean,
Whare Nature's wild-lorn charms combined
To wake the pensive Poet's mind,
While waving woods in Phœbus' beam
O'ershadowed half the babbling stream;

Whare Drummond fled the thoughtless gay,
To pour his sweet Petrarchian lay,
Whase polished reed sae saftly rang,
As gart the mavis tyne her sang.
Thrice happy bard! thy honoured name
Adorns the book o' deathless Fame,
An' Time in vain shall sey his rage
To blot it frae the gilded page.

What saftening thoughts resistless start,
An' pour their influence o'er the heart;
What mingling scenes around appear,
To musing Meditation dear,
Whan, wae, we tent fair Grandeur's fa',
By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'!
O what is pomp? an' what is power?
The silly phantoms of an hour!
Sac loudly ance, frae Roslin's brow,
The martial trump o' grandeur blew,
While steel-clad vassals wont to wait
Their chieftain at the portalled gate;

An' maidens fair, in vestments gay,
Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.
But now, ah me! how changed the scene!
Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;
Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,
A guiding star in dead o' night;
Nor voice is heard, save tinkling rill,
That echoes frae the distant hill.

Romantic Esk! what sweets combine
To deck ilk bank an' bower of thine!
What chequered scenes their beauties shaw,
An' blossom wild around Newha',
Seen peeping through the tufted trees,
O'er bushy glens an' green-swaird lees;
Whare Forbes ance, secluded sage,
Enraptured read the classic page,
An' Learning held her dear levee,
An' Friendship sat wi' social glee;
Whare Ramsay, set on sunny hill,
Blew Scotia's reed wi' tunefu' skill,

While Peggy, blythe an' sweet, was seen
Wi' Patie on the flowery green,
While Roger sighed frae e'en to morn,
Whan Jenny feigned a cauldrife scorn,
An' Symon wi' the eldrin folks
Wad snuff, an' crack his couthie jokes:
O Ramsay! wha wi' native glee
Could picture rural life like thee?

Sic Allan nobly dared, erewhile
The Hogarth o' his native isle,
Whase master-touch could eithly trace
The nicest tints o' Nature's face;
But now he's gane, an' we maun mourn,
Though richest laurels busk his urn.
An', Runciman! thy hapless fate
The Muse deplores wi' deep regret;
Thou, wha could tent each passion's flow,
An' bid the breathing canvass glow;
Whase pencil Fame enraptured saw
At wark sublime in Ossian's Ha';

'Mang woods, an' lawns, an' gardens gay,
Whare Clerk an' Worth were wont to stray;
Whare friendless Genius aft has gane,
An' never poured her plaint in vain.

Now tent the Pentlands, westlins seen,
O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;
Whare, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes
Rin bleating round the sunny knowes,
An' mony a little siller rill
Steals gurgling down its mossy hill;
An' vernal green is ilka tree
On bonny braes o' Woodhouselee,
Whare Tytler hailed his pleasures new,
An' gave the wreath to merit due,
While dear he lo'ed the artless sang,
An' hill an' dale wi' music rang.

Delightfu' task! to bring to view,
An' gie the wreath to merit due;
Yet, ah! how mony a genius born
Is left unfriended an' forlorn!

Nae joyfu' cheer, nae happy hame,
Nor aught to boast o', but—a name!
An' sic the ills Macdonald saw,
Whan cares an' poortith wrought his fa'!
An' sic the fate—oh, doubly hard!—
Befel Edina's favourite Bard;
He, ance the jocund, blythe, an' gay,
In hamely sang an' roundelay,
Till cauld neglect begude his care,
An' drave his mind to wild despair.
Sweet be the flowers that o'er them wave!
Green grow the grass on ilka grave!
An' saftly blossom ilka flower
That skirts the wa's o' yonder tower,
Whare Genius aft is seen to weep
Her Hume for ever laid asleep;
Whase manly saul burst forth in flame,
Whan England was the glorious theme;
Wha penned the chaste but nervous page,
An' died, the Livy o' his age.

An' whare is he, perfection's child,
O' sweetest look an' temper mild,
Wha made the tender bosom glow
Wi' Mary's wrangs an' Mary's wo?
He's gane—ah, never to return!—
Nae mair the sparkling lamp will burn,
The lamp whase ever-faithfu' light
Made mirkest ages burn sae bright.
Sunk wi' the mouldering nameless dead,
What marble tells his narrow bed!

END OF CANTO II.

CANTO III.

Edina! aft thy wa's hae rung
The hamely sangs thy Minstrels sung,
An' now the Poet warms, to pay
To thee his tributary lay;
Fu' happy, could he ance but rear
Ae verse that's wordy o' thy care.

O leeze me on thy bonny Dames,
A spotless list o' dearest names,
Whase peerless charms, ance on a day,
First gart me tune the rustic lay;
Lang kent for wit an' beauty rare,
As famed Circassia's daughters fair.
Sweet Maids! whan simmer decks the green,
Leave ye the dinsome busy scene,

An' to the sylvan Meadows stray,
As e'enin skirts the lee-lang day;
Or trace the vale romantic, sweet,
Whare Health an' her St Bernard meet:
There let your charms blink bonnilie,
Love's fire-flaughts darting frae ilk e'e.
Sae R---l trips wi' modest mien,
An' steals the Minstrel's heart, I ween;
For aft she wraps his saul in fire,
An' gars him strike the Doric lyre.

Nor are thy Sons less dear to Fame,
Or far afield, or here at hame;
Alike their glory's kent afar,
Or in the senate or in war.
O may they never bare the steel,
Save for their King an' Country's weal!
An' then may success crown the brave,
An' victory in their banners wave,
Till peace entwine, wi' bonny hue,
Laurel an' olive round their brow!

Now some are seen in bourachs gay,
On Bruntsfield Links to spend the day,
An' stretching o'er the greensward lee,
Strike aff the ba' frae tappit tee;
While ithers, decked in tartan sheen,
To martial music beat the green,
An' gar the feathered arrows flee,
Weel skilled in noble archerie;
Right keen to ape the feats o' auld,
Whilk ance engaged the great an' bauld,
What time (as minstrel stories tell)
A Percy bled, a Douglas fell.
Sic halesome sports can vigour yield,
Whan cheerfu' age frequents the field,
An' nerve the young baith stout an' strang,
The future frosts o' eild to bang.

But wae's my heart wi' dool an' care!
Cecilia's voice is heard nae mair!
Nae mair her tunefu' melody,
Saft as the glance o' beauty's e'e.

Whan our King Jamie bare the sway,
Aft wad he chant the lightsome lay
In notes he weel could ca' his ain,
Sweet as Corelli's saftest strain:
But now sic sounds we dinna hear,
As ance wi' rapture filled the ear.
Nae Oswald wakes the saftest tune,
To melt the saul ere haflins done;
Nae Kellie now, the fair amang,
Enraptured sweeps the strings alang.
Alake! they're gane—they're fled awa,
But lang the Muse shall mourn their fa'.

Fie, Scotia, fie! shall it be said
That you forsook the darling Maid?
Shall Music be by you exiled,
Again to haunt the woodlands wild?

“Na, whisht!” I hear some Genius say;
“Cease, Minstrel, cease your mournfu' lay!
“Let a' sic dowie notes abee,
“For better days shall Scotia see.

“The heart o' feeling maun forbear
“The cheek to water wi' a tear,
“An' Pity's pulse forget to play,
“Ere Scottish Music die away.”

Wha's she, wi' pensive step an' slaw,
That seems to mourn near Thespis' Ha'?
Alake! 'tis Taste, sweet, modest, mild,
Now ruefu' turned, dejected, wild,
To think a seat she dares na claim,
Whare ance she sat wi' meikle fame;
Whare matchless Yates, ance on a time,
Could raise the mind to thoughts sublime.
Ye happy few, wha love to stray
In Wisdom's flower-enamelled way,
O bid the Maiden cease to mourn,
An' let her wonted smile return;
Nor to the scene the plaudit gie,
That tires the heart to please the e'e:
Then Siddons, wi' majestic mien,
Ance mair may grace the tragic scene;

Then Satchell may her powers exert,
Whase simple sweetness wins the heart;
An' Kemble, still to Nature true,
May haud her mirror up to view.

Edina! may'st thou never tine
The name o' worth, which now is thine.
Lang may thy Sons the wreath retain,
The wreath which merit maks their ain;
O, lang may sweetest sense adorn
Thy Daughters, fair as simmer morn.
Yes, yes—in Fancy's fairy dream
Thy future state begins to gleam:
Whare gowans smile to sunny skies,
I see the splendid fabric rise,
Whase stately columns, towering high,
Wi' ancient Rome or Greece may vie:
I see the proud majestic Clyde
Around thee lave the silver tide:
I see the bark thy turrets hail,
An' gowden Commerce fill the sail.

Yes, thou shalt shine in verdant bays,
Whan he, the wight wha sings thy praise,
Shall mingle wi' the nameless dead,
Nae lettered stane at his grave head;
Nae brither Bard to sing his name,
Or tell his hankering after Fame.

THE TINT QUEY;

OR, THRAWART MAGGY.

Aft trifles big mishanters bring,
Frae whilk a hunder mae may spring;
An' some, wha thrawart tempers hae,
Aft stand unkent in their ain way:
But aye, to guard against a coup,
Fouk should look weel afore they loup.

'Twas wearing gey an' late at e'en,
Whan younkers leave the daffin green,
Poor Sandie, frae his doughty wark,
Came hame a' jaupit i' the dark,

A lang auld timmer stool drew near
The new peat ingle, glancin clear,
Which sent its reek, in columns black,
Out through an opening i' the thack,
An' gat his wark-looms a' in tune,
To ca' some tackets in his shoon,
Though wi' a lang day's wark sair dung,
He was as stiff's a reisted rung.
His Meg set by her spinnin-wheel,
(Whilk helps the heavy time to steal
Awa,) an' sturdily did hook
The parritch-kettle on the crook,
An' frae the willow buist did scatter
A tate o' meal upo' the water,
Nae doubt for fear it should beguile
Her whan it minted first to boil.

This done, she clauchtit down wi' speed
The bowet aff the box-bed head,
An' frae a boal ye eith might see
Her tak a spunk to light it wi';

For ye maun ken, that just e'en now
'Twas time to gang an' milk the cow.

But here, or we gae farer ben,
Ablins it's fitting to let ken
To them wha reads, that this same Lucky
Was e'en a dour an' thrawart bucky,
Which shawed she was o' bool-horned breed,
Whane'er she took it in her head.
Aye whan he ga'e advice, but swither,
Ye're sure that she wad tak anither;
Na, but a joke, she's aft been seen
To clap her neives afore his een,
While he, poor sumph! boot silence keep,
An' durst na for his lugs play cheep.
Then wi' her hands her tongue kept steeks:
In short now, Marget—wore the breeks.
Compared wi' her in ony way,
He was as contrair's night's frae day;
An honest-hearted simple chiel,
Wha lo'ed to see ilk body weel.

But hear what I am gaun to tell,
An' in th' affair judge for yoursel.

Meg loot but little time expire,
Afore she reached the theeked byre;
But, wow! sad cheat! whan near she drew,
As white's her mutch her haffets grew,
An' legs did shake, as soon's she saw
The door wide stannin to the wa'.
Wi' heart high jumpin to her mou',
She cried, “Preserve us! whare's the cow?”
An' stood an' gloured about fu' keen,
But deil a cow was to be seen:
Then wi' the bowet hame she ran,
To tell the tidings to her man.
“O Sandie, haste, fling by your shoon,”
Quo' she, “an' see what's to be done;
“For some ane's been sae unco glaikit
“As gang an' leave the door unsneckit,
“An' Hornie, being left her lane,
“'S win out, nor ken I whare she's gane.”

“Aweel,” quo' he, “sae ye may crack o't,
“See what a bonny hand ye'll mak o't!”
“I'll mak o't!—What the sorrow way?
“D'ye think that I can watch her aye?
“That is a bonny speech indeed
“To come frae your unwordy head.
“Ye poor, unthinking, senseless sow,
“Get up, an' let us seek the cow.”
Quo' he, right bauld, “Deil's i' the jade!
“I dare say ye are gaun clean mad,
“To think, at sic an elritch time
“O' night, whan we see ne'er a styme,
“That we, like gowks, should gang awa,
“An' ken na what may us befa'.
“What though (nae seeing whare we're gaun)
“In some wild frightfu' place we lan',
“Whare wily bogles, dancing reels,
“May hing us a' up by the heels;
“Or devilish Spunkie, watching, lead
“Us in some pool out-owre the head:

“An', Marget, faith I really doubt,
“Although we e'en should find her out,
“Gif she wi' mae be in a park,
“Ye winna ken her i' the dark.
“But gin ye'll only be sae wise
“As just for ance tak my advice,
“Bide still till light o' day appear,
“An' then we'll find the road mair clear.”

Whane'er this speech came frae his pow,
Meg's passion like a rock took low:
“Whisht! haud your clep, an' speak nae langer,
“Ye neer-do-weel, to raise my anger!
“A pity, faith, but I wad bow
“To tak advice frae sic as you!
“Wae worth ye, sir! it sets ye ill
“To talk to me in sic a style,
“Considering what a life I've led,
“To keep your geits an' you weel clad;
“Or seldom wad ye hae a shift
“Or dud to keep ye frae the drift.”

“For gudesake, Marget,” cries he, “cease,
“An' let us ance again hae peace;
“For whan your tongue but breaks its girth,
“This house is just a hell on yirth:
“But gin ye'll try to keep it still,
“I'll cheerfu' do whate'er ye will.”
For now he saw't vain to contend
An' waste his wind to little end;
An' therefore bade her just sit down
Till he wad fetch some neighbours roun',
Wha wad their best assistance gie
In seeking for the bawsand quey.

Wi' that he did na langer wait,
But set aff, speaking a' the gate;
An' scarce had been awa a crack,
Ere he returned, an' at his back
Came marching in young Robin Gool,
Wi' Habby Graeme the haflins fool,
Auld Symon Glaikie, Geordy Grith,
An' staumrel Willy Gray the smith,

Provided a' wi' thumping cuds,
In case o' need, to gie some thuds.

Wi' ae consent they leave the house,
An' rattle o'er the craft fu' crouse,
Sometimes alang the ditches scouring,
Sometimes out-through the hedges glouring;
While Marget loud an' aft did rair,
“My lady Hornie!” here an' there.
Lang, lang they gaed 'mang hows an' braes,
Through elritch roads an' crooked ways,
An' were beginning to despair
O' seeing Hornie ony mair,
Whan, wearing near an auld windmill,
Just on a sudden Will stood still;
“Whisht! whisht!” quo' he, an' did allege
He heard a boo ahint a hedge,
Whilk Meg birsed through wi' speed, tho' thorny,
To see gif it was really Hornie;
An' though 'twas mirk, she could espy
The park contained some scores o' kye;

On which the men fouk a' gaed in,
To see if they could Hornie fin',
But lippent maist to Marget's skill,
As first an' last she'd ta'en her will;
An' she had said, nae lang before,
She'd ken her quey 'mang fifty score,
E'en though it was as dark as pit,
Whan ane can hardly steer their fit.
As gude's her word, she cried fu' fain,
That she had lighted on her ain,
Whilk nae doubt had, by light o' day,
Within the hedging made its way.
At this blythe news they ga'e a shout,
Wi' perfect joy, an' brought her out;
An' lest she should again escape,
Out-owre her horns they coost a rape:
Syne Gool fu' canny, by the same
Road that they gaed, straught led her hame;
An' a' the lave, to cracking gi'en,
Thought that they had right lucky been;—

Save luckless Will, wha, in his haste,
Splashed in a ditch up to the waist;
An' whan pu'd out by them aboon,
His feet came up, an' left his shoon;
Which gart him, a' the weary road,
Gae trudging wi' his cloots unshod.
An' Marget here began to taunt,
An' jeer poor Sandie for his want
O' sense; an' maist wi' blythness sang,
Because her deeds proved he was wrang.
But wait a wee: or a' be done,
Ye'll ablins hear her change her tune.

Wi' great ado, through dubs an' mire,
The troop fu' joyfu' reached the byre,
Whare hung o'er rungs ilk wearied wight,
Till Marget gaed an' fush a light.
Then hunkering down upo' her knees,
Poor Hornie o' her milk to ease,
She ga'e a screigh, wi' stannin hairs—
“The Lord keep's a' frae witches' snares!

“As clear to me as shining pewther,
“They've whuppet aff poor Hornie's uther.”
“G*d's presence guide's!” ilk chield did roar,
An' a' made clean heels to the door.
Lang Habby Graeme, wi' downright hurry,
Played clyp out-owre an auld wheelbarrow;
An' held it as a sterling fact,
Some bogle rampaged at his back.
Meg, rinning like a flea in blanket,
Her coats upon a lang nail hanket,
That gart her coup the creels, an' squeel—
“Ah, sirs! I'm grippet by a deil!”
An' as she cross the threshold lay,
Wae's me! she near hand swarf'd away.
Poor Will the smith, wi' half-cauld blood,
But shoon or bannet, roaring stood;
An' some, to get themsels weel hidden,
Were maistly smothered i' the midden.

Thus matters in confusion reigned,
Till time near half an hour had gained,

Whan they again began to gather
A little spunk, an' creep thegither:
Syne near the haystack, but dissension,
They gaed to haud a stout convention.
But just whan Hab began descanting,
Will cried that Symon was awanting,
An' ilk ane ferlied nae a wee,
What luckless gate the chield could be.
Then Gool proposed, that they should gae
An' seek him out without delay:
Sae out they bourach'd in a thrang,
But fand they had na far to gang;
For frae the byre a tether-length,
The callan tint a' maughts an' strength.
There, to their great surprise and wonder,
They fand him lying as flat's a flounder,
Upon his wame; nor wad he steer,
But lay an' panted sair wi' fear,
Just like a hare that's lang been hunted
By bloody hounds an' sportsmen mounted.

Will took him rashly by the arm,
An' bade him rise, nor fear ought harm;
But Symon, wha ne'er turned to see him,
Now really thought the deil was wi' him,
An', gasping, rair'd wi' a' his might,
“O, murder! O, I'm fell'd outright!”
Till Sandie took him by the hand,
An' then his wide mistake he fand.
Syne a' again, a wee piece back,
Retired to argue near the stack,
Whare the hale tot, for fear o' skaith,
Were fley'd to speak aboon their breath.
But Sandie, wha right eithly saw
This night's wark in Meg's crap wad craw,
Thus to her spake: “Ye stupid ass,
“I tald ye what wad come to pass;
“But na! ye're aye sae self-conceited,
“A gude advice ye scorn an' hate it,
“Till ance ye find it is o'er late,
“An' then, forsooth, ye're glad to hae't.”

Will Gray, wi' faltering voice, spak neist:
“I think we'd best send for the priest,
“Wha'll gar the witches cour their head,
“An', come what will, he'll nae be fley'd.”
Now ilka birkie gied his notion,
An' sealed it wi' some queer-like motion;
But a' agreed, at length an' lang,
The byre to enter in a bang;
An' for that purpose, linked steeve,
They held by ane anither's neive:
Then a' at ance (it is nae jest)
Moved slawly forat in a breast:
But, vow! what was their hale surprise,
Whan Habby Graeme, astonished, cries:
“My gudesake, sirs, may I be shot
“Gif it be ought but a brown—stot!
“That frae the grass park we hae brought;
“Sae a' our wark has gane for nought!”

ADDRESS TO HADDINGTON.

Ye gowany braes, ye meadows green,
Ye dear retreats o' Simmer sheen,
Ye heights whare busy Labour's seen,
An' rural glee,
Mark ye the stranger's thoughtfu mien,
An' ruefu' e'e?

Alas! there was a time, I trow,
Ye scenes, whan he was kent to you;
Whan his young heart ilk pleasure knew
O' life's gay morn,
Pure as the blobs o' siller dew
Upo' the thorn.

Departed days! Youth's joyfu' reign!
O, will ye never come again?
Ah! fled is ilka happy scene
Youth ran to meet,
Except whan Fancy warms the strain,
Delusion sweet!

Yet let me pensive musing stray
By sunny bank an' flowery brae,
While former joys, now fled away,
My bosom warm,
An' dear remembered scenes display
Ilk wonted charm.

How bonny spreads the Haugh sae green,
Near yonder haly ruins seen!
The Briery Bauk how sweet at e'en,
Wi' music's sound,
Whare weel the wandering e'e may glean
Ilk landscape round!

An' peeping frae yon broomy height,
The Yellow Craigs break on the sight,
Whare aft the youngsters tak their flight,
Wi' hearts fu' gay;
Ah me! the lintie's joy to blight
For mony a day.

There ithers round the greenwood ply,
An' fearless, 'midst their thoughtless joy,
The Kay-Heughs climb, wild, rugged, high,
Wi' hoary side,
While rooks an' cushats dinsome cry,
Baith far an' wide.

But let me breathe my heart's warm flame
Aneath yon auld tree's aged frame,
Whare Friendship past may justly claim
A silent tear,
To trace ilk rudely-sculptured name
O' comrades dear.

How scattered now!—ah! wae is me!
They steer their course on Life's dark sea;
Some scud awa wi' lightsome glee
An' easy sail;
Some aft the rudest shock maun dree
O' Ruin's gale.

O Life! in thy wee fond career,
What shifting lights an' shades appear!
Now Hope's bright beam will twinkle clear,
An' promise fair;
Now lours the gloom, sae dark an' drear,
O' deep Despair!

An' such, ye scenes to Nature true,
The chequered features seen in you;
Here shadows dark, ilk glen, an' how,
An' laigh-land, fill;
There sunny beams wi' light bestrew
Field, wood, an' hill.

Sweet Tyne! while thus thy streamlet plays,
An' sparkles bright in siller rays,
How bonny are thy banks an' braes
Through Simmer's prime!
They claim the musing Minstrel's lays
An' thoughts sublime.

Yes, down thy banks, ance on a day,
Aft Saltoun's sons wad musing stray,
Whan Freedom fanned the kindling ray
O' patriot fire;
An' eke the Muses wont to play
Their gleesome lyre.

For here, the dewy leas amang,
The Bard wad breathe his heaven-taught sang;
An' here, frae 'midst the rural thrang,
A Douglas rose,
Whan “woods and wilds,” green-waving, rang
Wi' Randolph's woes.

Wake Nature's lyre, sweet, wild, an' chaste!
O wake the strain that lulls to rest!
Thy notes may charm my throbbing breast,
By anguish torn,
While I the joys an' pleasures past
Can only mourn.

EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO ROBERT BURNS.

Hail, Robin, blest wi' ilka gift
To spread your fame aneath the lift!
Lang may your Lassie keep in tift
To rant an' sing,
An' mak thy bonny ballads swift
O'er Scotia ring.

Whan Fergusson (whase blythsome horn
Beguiled the waes he lang had borne)
Frae Caledonia's arms was torn,
In youthfu' pride,
Unsparing Death deep fixed his thorn
In Scotia's side.

For, wi' the youth, oh, sad to tell!
Her wonted glee an' spirit fell;
In ilka howm an' flowery dell
Mirth fled awa;
Her pipe hung silent as the shell
In Fingal's ha'.

Yet though baith cauld an' laigh he's laid,
Blest ever be his gentle shade!
Since Taste a lightsome charm has spread
O'er ilka measure,
By auld an' young he'll aye be read
Wi' waefu' pleasure.

But whan dowf Scotia sighed in pain
For Robin's fate—for Robin gane—
Apollo fired a hamely swain
Wi' mirth an' glee,
An' Burns revived the joyfu' strain,
In tunefu' key.

The Scotian Muse, nae langer seen
Wi' bluthered cheeks an' watery een,
Wad lead you through the woodlands green,
Frae out the thrang,
Wi' her upo' the knowe to lean,
An' souf a sang.

Fast spreading like a bleezing flame,
The haughs an' vallies rang your fame;
O'er glens an' braes its echoes came,
Baith far an' near:
You justly gained a deathless name,
Beyond compeer.

Your sangs are sought by grit an' sma',
Frae cotter's hut to lordly ha';
The Doric pipe sae saft you blaw,
Wi' breath an' skill,
As gars auld Scotia crousely craw
On ilka hill.

Fu' aft on bonny simmer days,
Whan Flora wears her gaudy claise,
I dander to the gowany braes,
Or lanely glens,
To con thy saftly-melting lays,
Or pawky strains.

O how delightfu' then to lie,
Nor tent the hour that's stealing by,
Till aft you gar me heave a sigh
'Twixt joy an' grief,
Till ance anither tune you try,
That brings relief!

Baith fools an' knaves you crousely bang,
An' wightly wag the skelping whang,
In words sae pithy, sharp, an' strang,
An' nicely jointed;—
Lord pity him wha tholes the stang,
Sae glegly pointed!

Though little worth your pains I gie,
It's nae for want o' will in me;
Yet could I think my sangs to thee
Wad pleasure bring,
Gosh, man! I'd gladly sit the lee-
Lang day, an' sing.

Now, wale o' hearty cocks, I feel
I e'en, though laith, maun say, Fareweel;
For Time, in spite o' ane, will steal
An' slip awa:
Meanwhile, that I'm your servant leal,
I'm blythe to shaw.

THE WAITS.

Aft whan the Waits were playing by,
I've marked their viol wi' a sigh;
Sad as the sounds that never die,
O' partings sweet;
Dear as a mither's lullaby,
Whan babies greet.
Silver Gun.

Wha's this, wi' voice o' music sweet,
Sae early wakes the weary wight?
O weel ken I them by their souch,
The wandering Minstrels o' the night:
O weel ken I their bonny lilts,
Their sweetest notes o' melody;
Fu' aft they've thrilled out-through my saul,
An' gart the tear fill ilka e'e.

O sweetest Minstrels! weet your pipe,
A sad an' waefu' note to blaw;
Syne souf the “Braes o' Yarrow green,”
Or, “A' the Flowers are wed awa!”
For O they're sweet—as Memory sweet,
Whan on the happy past we feast;
Saft as the deep an' melting sigh,
That aften steals frae Pity's breast.

O sweetest Minstrels! weet your pipe,
A tender note o' love to blaw;
Syne souf the “Broom o' Cowdenknowes,”
Or “Roslin Castle's ruined wa'.”
They bring to mind the happy hours
Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear.—
Ah! now ye touch the very note
That gars me sigh, an' drap a tear.

Your fremit lilts I downa bide,
They never yield a charm for me;

Unlike our ain, by Nature made,
Unlike the saft delight they gie.
For weel I ween they warm the breast,
Though sair oppressed wi' poortith cauld;
An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer,
He tines the thought that he is auld.

O sweetest Minstrels! halt a wee:
Anither lilt afore ye gang,
An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e,
Enraptured wi' your bonny sang.
[OMITTED]
They're gane!—The morn begins to dawn;
They're weary paidlin through the weet:
They're gane—but on my ravished ear
The dying sounds yet thrill fu' sweet.

VERSES

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF “WILL AND JEAN.”

“The daisy-flower may blaw unseen
“On mountain-tap, in valley green;
“The rose alane, in native sheen,
“Its head may raise;
“Nae musing Poet now, I ween,
“To sing their praise.

“Nae pensive Minstrel Wight we see
“Gang sauntering o'er the claver lea,
“The fireflauchts darting frae his e'e,
“The wilds amang,
“Wha native freaks, wi' native glee,
“Sae sweetly sang.

“His was the gift, wi' magic power,
“To catch the thought in happy hour;
“To busk his verse wi' ilka flower
“O' Fancy sweet,
“An' paint the birk or broomwood bower
“Whare lovers meet.

“But now he fills his silent ha';
“My sweetest Minstrel's fled awa!
“Yet shall his weel-won laurels blaw
“Through future days,
“Till weary Time in flinders a'
“The warld lays.”

Such was the dowie plaint o' wae
That Scotia made, by bank an' brae,
Whan Burns—poor Burns!—was ta'en away,
An' laid at rest.
Green grow the grass, light lie the clay,
Upon his breast!

But now she draps the waefu' tale,
An' notes o' transport load the gale:
Nae langer down the silent vale
She lanely mourns;
An' to her cheek, ance lily pale,
The rose returns.

The streaks o' joy glent in her face,
Thy steps, Macneill, sweet Bard! to trace;
To mark wi' Nature's artless grace
Thy blossoms blaw;
Happy to see thee fill the place
O' him awa.

How sairly does her bosom beat
At poor Misfortune's wretched state,
While tracing Will through poortith great,
An' prospects drear;
An' at his Jeanie's hapless fate
She draps a tear.

Then mark, sweet Minstrel o' the day,
Thy Scotia's sons an' maidens gay,
Her deep wild glens, her mountains gray,
Wi' misty head,
An' eke her ilka sunny brae,
Wi' flowers o'erspread:

What time alane thou may'st retire,
May these thy fairy thoughts inspire,
An' set thy manly saul on fire,
In Scotia's praise,
An' mak thee strike thy native lyre
To saftest lays!

To wake the pangs Despair maun dree,
Whan wandering houseless o'er the lee;
To strike the strings o' Sympathy,
Whan griefs combine;
To start the tear in Pity's e'e,
The task be thine!

VERSES

WRITTEN ON VISITING THE HOUSE IN WHICH THE CELEBRATED ROBERT BURNS WAS BORN, AND THE SURROUNDING SCENERY, IN AUTUMN 1799.

O but it makes my heart fu' sair,
The lowly blast-worn bower to see,
Whare infant Genius wont to smile,
Whare brightened first the Poet's e'e!

Burns, heavenly Bard! 'twas here thy mind
Traced ilka object wildly grand;
Here first thou caught dame Nature's fire,
An' snatched the pencil from her hand.

Bleak Autumn now reigns o'er these scenes,
The yellow leaves fa' aff the tree;
But never shall the laurel fade,
That Scotia's Muse has twined for thee.

O Doon! aft wad he tent thy stream,
Whan roaming near thy flowery thorn,
An' sweetly sing “departed joys,
“Departed, never to return!”

An' near thy bonny crystal wave,
Reft o' its rose we find the brier,
Beneath whase shade he wont to lean,
An' press the cheek o' Jeanie dear.

O'er yonder heights, in simmer tide,
His canty whistle aften rang;
An' this the bank, an' this the brae,
That echoed back the Ploughman's sang.

But whare is now his wonted glee,
That sic enchanting pleasure gave?
Ah me! cauld lies the Poet's head;
The wintry blast howls o'er his grave!

To ither lands the Poet's gane,
Frae which the traveller ne'er returns;
While Nature lilts a waefu' sang,
An' o'er her Shakspeare Scotia mourns.

HELENORE.

A FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF THE OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD.

[OMITTED]

An' wiel they baitht her bluidy face,
An' syne her bosom bare;
But O, her saft an' bonie skin
Bespak sum lady faire.

Her blinkand e'e was schut in dethe,
(Quhilk anes was fu' o' glie,)
An' clay-cauld war her rosie lips,
(Quhilk spak sae tenderlie.)

An' mony ane cam thair, I trow,
Quha did the tithings heir;
An' ay as they luiket on her bonie face,
Wi' sorro drapt a teir.

[OMITTED]

“O Heavin! it brekes my very hairt,
“A face sae sweit to see!
“But sure, sith nane a meith doth kna,
“O' fremit bluid she be.”

Sir Kenneth, knycht o' meikle fame,
Luikt owre his castle wa';
An' downe anethe the hingand heugh
The gathert thrang he sa:

An' lang he ferliet at the sicht,
An' sair he raxit his ein;
Syne hastenit fra his castle hie,
An' to the howe bedein.

“Quhat meins this thrang? Quhat meins this mane
“Amang baith yung an' ald?”
Syne he luikit at the deid lady,
Lay on the yird sa cald.

The warrior schuke—O sair he schuke!—
Furth sprang the glitterand teir:
“O Chryste! O Chryste! it is Helenore!
“It is my dochter deir!”

[OMITTED]

ELEGY ON PUDDING LIZZIE.

She's gane! she's gane!—O'er true the tale!
She's left us a' to sab an' wail!
Auld Clatterbanes has hit the nail
Upo' the head;
Deil o' his carcase mak a flail,
Sin' Lizzie's dead!

O Death! O Death! thou'rt void o' feeling!
For wi' thy deadly whittle stealing
Through gentle hald, or hamely sheeling,
Wi' divet rigging,
Thou send'st the best o' bodies, reeling,
To their cauld bigging.

Hadst thou but claughted wi' thy claw
A Lord, a Duke, or baith the twa,
The skaith, I trow, had been but sma',
Ane might forgie ye;
But Lizzie thus to steal awa,
O wae be t'ye!

Auld Reekie's callants, mourn wi' me;
Your waes, alake! are sair to dree:
O mourn the days—the days o' glee,
Now fled awa!
I see the tear in mony an e'e,
Fu' sadly fa'.

O, mony a time, ance on a day,
In cheery bangs we've ta'en our way,
Ilk birkie keenly bent on play,
Wi' hearts fu' light,
An' for a wee set Care astray,
Far out o' sight.

An' whan we reached her little dwalling,
Whare tuilzied birds wi' bluidy talon,
How kind she met us at the hallan,
Led to the ha',
“Gude-e'en! gude-e'en!” aye loudly bawling,
An' becking law.

Syne what a fyke, an' what a fraising!
“The puddings, bairns, are just in season—
“They're newly made—the kettle's bizzing—
“Sae dinna fret;
“Mair sappy anes ne'er crossed your wizen,
“Although I say't.”

Saul! how it sharpened, ilka ane,
Whan wi' them she came todlin ben,
A' piping like a roasted hen,
(Braw healthy eating!)
Wi' timmer pins at ilka end,
To haud the meat in.

An' then she had the knack sae weel,
To gust the gab o' ony chiel
Wi' spiceries brought through danger's fiel',
Frae India's coast,
An' ingans, mixt wi' gude ait-meal,
Auld Scotia's boast.

Thus seated round her canty ingle,
O how the knives an' forks wad ringle,
An' cutty-spoons 'mang puddings mingle,
Hoved up sae waly;
An caps an' trenchers in a jingle
A' scarted brawly.

Did ony relish cauler water?
Na, faith, it was na in our nature:
We boot to hae a wee drap creature,
Gude Papish Whisky;
It beits new life in ilka feature,
An' keeps ane brisk aye.

Whan she begoud to crack her creed,
I've seen our chafts maist like to screed;
In short, at times a single thread
Might e'en hae tied us;
An', vow! how crouse she cocked her head,
Whan set beside us!

The mair the pith o' barley shone,
The mair was heard Mirth's social tone;
An' sang, an' joke, an' toast, gaed roun',
Wi' glee imprinted,
While busy Time still jogged on,
Unmarked, untented;

Till Night, her sable mantle dreeping,
Brought Luna o'er St Anthon's peeping,
An' dowie ghaists, frae kirk-yards creeping,
Began to wander,
Whan we, frae Lizzie's kindly keeping,
Wad hamewards dander.

Oh, wae's my heart! now, whan she's gane,
How sad an' altered is the strain!
To pudding-feasts, an' rants fu' fain,
Nae mair we'll pap in;
Our wames e'en to our rigging-bane
Like skate-fish clapping.

But whisht! for mair I canna speak—
The tears come rapping down my cheek,
To mark her grave, sae cauld an' bleak,
The green grass growing;
But L---d keep her frae Hornie's creek,
Black, sooty, lowing!

Then O fareweel to feasting rare,
An' scrieving cracks that drave aff care!
Fareweel to ranting late an' ear',
Sae blythe an' frisky!
An' eke, fareweel, for ever mair,
To Papish Whisky!

DUNCAN AND HELEN.

PART I.

Where Albyn's misty hills appear
To reach the azure lea,
Near by a burnie rinning clear,
An' sparkling i' the e'e,

Auld Malcolm's hamely dwelling raise,
By Nature's hand designed,
Whare he had spent his better days
Wi' Marion ever kind.

Full saxty years, wi' eident pace,
Had crossed his frosty pow,
An' marked the furrow in his face,
An' quenched Youth's maddening low.

Ah! now, whan 'twas his fa' to feel
Time's sair regardless blast,
He ilka day, wi' placid smile,
Could think upon the past.

Though far frae Grandeur's gowden ray
Their little cot did stand,
Here Innocence was wont to stray
Wi' Beauty, hand in hand.

A daughter fair, o' make divine,
Adorned their rural hame;
Mair fair than Bard could e'er define,
An' Helen was her name.

Her cheeks the rose spread blushing o'er,
Selvaged wi' sweetly pale,
As pure as is the modest flower
That decks the lowly vale.

Like starnies clear in frosty night,
Sae blinked ilka e'e,
Whare Love aft danced, a' fair bedight,
Wi' saul-inspiring glee.

Her father e'ed her beauties rare
Like opening flower unfald;
She was her mother's eident care,
An' comfort now, whan auld.

Nor did her beauty sprout alane,
Untented an' unseen;
The shepherd lads were wooing fain,
Baith far an' near, I ween.

But lang ere now, a neighbour's son,
Wha lived a little by,
Fair Helen's tender heart had won,
E'en to the auld fouk's joy.

A faithfu' heart, an honest mind,
Young Duncan aye possest;
His look was o' the manliest kind,
Outstripping a' the rest.

Thir twa had shot up on the green,
An' lang ilk ither knew;
Leal love in youth had hefted been,
An' strengthened as they grew.

Wi' joy they looked to the day
That wadna keep them twain;
An' man an' wife, they hecht to hae
A haddin o' their ain.

But ah! at bonny morning dawn,
We aft bloom green to see,
Yet ere the sun at e'en is fa'n,
Are like a blasted tree.

Like Death's dread trumpet frae afar,
'Mang Scotia's glens exiled,
The loud and dismal voice o' war
Is heard, wi' echoes wild.

To yonder dreary desert waste,
Washed by the raging main,
A youthfu' Prince, wi' grief down prest,
Came o'er to seek his ain.

Ilk Chieftain strack his bossy shield,
That rang o'er hill an' glen;
The Clans rushed to the bloody field,
Like lions frae their den.

To join his Chieftain, Duncan baul'
Forsook his love an' hame;
For Duncan had o'er proud a saul
To brook a coward's name.

But, wae's me! wha can tearless tell
The horrid deeds o' death,
The dolefu' havoc that befell
On black Culloden's heath?

See Scotia's sons, in fierce array,
The bloody battle wage,
By furious passions led astray,
An' cursed party rage!

See here, in awfu' cloudy mood,
The son an' father stand!
See there the gash, still gushing blood,
Made by a brither's hand!

How mony a goodly youth lay cauld,
Pale on the muirland bare,
Ere lang to fill a mooly hald,
An' rest for evermair!

Yet still the master o' the day
Pretends his Country's weal,
An' mony a fa'n but manly fae
Bedims the murdering steel.

The widow's greet, the baby's cry,
He winna lout to hear;
To sooth his rage in vain they try,
Tears only whet his spear.

But turn we frae the cheerless view,
An' frae the ruefu' plain,
An' see whare peerless Helen now
Bewails her Duncan slain.

A rebel wight, wi' visage dour,
Wha scoured the hills alang,
In passing Helen's peacefu' bower,
The waefu' tidings brang.

“Lang, lang,” quo' he, “wi' boiling blood,
“Wi' deadly strength he strade;
“At Charlie's side he bravely stood,
“Till Death his vengeance staid.”

Sic dolefu' news, as ye may trow,
Her very heart-strings rent;
To lily white her rose cheek grew,
Nor glimpse o' comfort kent.

She shunn'd the bonny singing burn,
She shunn'd the flowery brae;
Sic weel-kent scenes aye made her mourn,
An' eiked to her wae.

Her father kind an' mither dear,
Wad gaze on her unseen,
An' dight the saft paternal tear
That trembled in their een.

Nae mair around the ingle rang
The tales o' former years;
Nae langer Malcolm, gleesome, sang
The deeds o' his forbears.

[OMITTED]

MAY;

OR, AN ADDRESS TO THE SWALLOW. 1795.

Come, bonny birdie, come awa,
An' big your housie on my wa',
There safe your covey lay;
The drift an' snawy wreaths are gane,
The surly blasts o' hail an' rain
Gie place to blooming May.

Fu' lang an' bitter was the storm
That did baith hill an' dale deform,
But now a' Nature's gay;
The meadows an' the plains revive,
The ploughmen see their labour thrive,
Aneath the smiles o' May.

But ablins ye may chance to hear,
Whan scudding through the viewless air,
The cannon's roundelay;
For still in pomp terrific reigns
The God o' War, in crimson stains
To bluther cheerfu' May.

Peace, wi' the olive in her neb,
Flees far ayont yon gowany glebe,
An' hands us in dismay;
While blood an' carnage, dire alarms,
An' a' the horrid din of arms,
Salute the dewy May.

But thou, sweet bird o' passage, can
In this, advantage take o' man,
An' make a shorter stay.
The twa three months o' simmer gane,
Ye scour out-owre the hill an' plain,
To seek anither May.

The Muse wad here a lesson learn,
An', by your flitting, sae discern
Her ain uncertain stay:
A bird o' passage now she sings;
To-morrow, on seraphic wings,
She seeks celestial May.

Come then, sweet birdie, come awa,
Big your wee housie on my wa';
There safe your covey lay:
An' while ye twitter on my roof,
Let dool an' care gae by my houff,
An' ilka hour be May.

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

Sweet are the strains o' Scotia's aiten reed!
O sweet to me the bonny sounding sang,
That rows sae saft in our auld hamely leid,
To which baith pith an' melody belang!
Wi' this our Allan's canty whistle rang
Its bonny notes o'er sunny bank an' brae,
Whare Nature's wild-flowers in profusion hang,
An' Patie wi' his hirsle aft did stray,
An' his dear blinking Peg, sad source o'Bauldy's wae.

O let me wander by the singin' burn,
Or careless rest aneath some eldrin tree,
An' study Nature in her ilka turn,
While a' her hidden treasures feast mine e'e,

An' eke the mind maun satisfaction pree;—
There listen to the lav'rock's cheery strain,
That skims an' flaffers o'er the gowany lea,
A fit example to the shepherd swain,
Wha, wi' contentment blest, right seenil suffers pain.

'Twas thus I listened to th' enchanting lay
O' Nature's Minstrel, Burns, o' deathless name,
Whase heavenly notes first to my heart made way,
An' in my very saul raised up a flame,
That made me eident thirst for neighb'ring fame:
But, ah! I little deemed the day sae nigh,
Wad light the Minstrel to his cauldrife hame,
An' Scotia doom o'er Scotia's urn to sigh,
Whase native fire, I ween, shall never, never die.

Yet why that tear? Why heaves my bosom sae?
Why do my heart-strings tremble ane an' a'?
Has Scotia now nae youth to sooth her wae,
An' sing her praises here an' far awa?

At siccan deeds her bairns were never slaw.
Yes, Scotia, cease to mourn the Minstrel dead;
O cease to lat the tear o' sorrow fa':
Anither Burns kythes on the landwart mead;
For B---r now wi' glee takes up the aiten reed.

'Tis thou, my friend, canst catch fair Nature's smile—
She bids thee pour the simple artless strain;
Auld Scotia listens wistfully the while,
An' nails her days o' happiness again,
Whan she nae mair negleckit shall remain.
Thus may'st thou still attune thy native lyre,
An' a' the sweets o' rural life maintain;
Breathe notes that make the honest saul aspire
To truly manly deeds, an' wake the patriot fire.

RECITATION

ON CELEBRATING NEW YEAR'S DAY IN A CERTAIN BACCHANALIAN CLUB.

'Twas in a walk, ae frosty night,
The lift was blue, the starns were bright,
An' strong the moon's reflected light
Gleamed on the Forth;
Faint waving streamers played in sight,
Far i' the north.

I dandared up the C--- hill,
I gazed around, an' thought my fill,
An' much I mused on good an' ill,
In this mixed plan,
Whare a' seemed right an' happy still,
Compared wi' Man.

I thought how Pride an' Vice obscene
Deform the lovely moral scene;
The endless storms that rage within,
Debarring rest;
An' Self binds in eternal chain
The human breast.

A' things conform to Nature's law,
The winds, the storms, the frost, the snaw;
But Man, the head, the chief o' a',
Their beauty stains,
Till Death the rebel hauls awa
To future scenes.

My bosom heaved a boding sigh,
An' turning round, I chanced to spy
Pale Melancholy stalking by,
Wi' solemn pace;
Deep thought was marked in her eye,
An' louring face.

“Anither year is gane!” she said,
“But what improvement have ye made
“In mind, in morals, or in trade,
“In this your prime?
“I fear ye're but a thoughtless blade
“Yet, a' this time.”

She bade me ponder o'er the past,
On loss o' months in number vast,
An' count an' reckon, ere my last
Approach too near:
“The fatal hour is coming fast,
“Perhaps this year!”

My saul remained deep struck wi' awe,
While slow an' sour she stalked awa;
Till soon a sprightly Wanton, braw,
(Mirth was her name,)
Cried, laughing, “Dinna mind it a',
“I'll bear the blame.

“Stap down to Ned's, fill up a glass,
“An' blythly toast some bonny lass;
“Thus catch the moments as they pass
“On silent wing:
“Hech, lad! ye'll try to get some brass,
“An' learn to sing.

“Take my respects, wi' health an' greeting,
“To a' the members o' the meeting;
“May they an' you ne'er miss a weeting
“On New Year's Day.
“Sin' life an' a' its scenes are fleeting,
“Live while ye may.”

[OMITTED]

SONNET. ADVERSITY.

When shall my lingering sorrows have an end!
Alas! I'm doomed to be the child of wo!
I still must bear each agonizing throe,
Whose pointed pangs my feeble heart-strings rend.
Each little scene I thought so sweet and fair,
(Ah! thought so once, but in a better day!)
No more with wanton pleasure I'll survey:
For now, even now, I'm silvered o'er with care,
Ere yet my sun hails its meridian light,
That marks life's noontide, as it ceaseless turns;
My throbbing bosom, agitated, burns,
In hopes 'twill quickly set in endless night.
Then may kind Heaven in mercy close my woes,
And lay my wearied body to repose!

SONNET. TO MINLA.

How delightful to wander the grove,
Or the howm whare the burn steals alang,
An' list to the lintie's saft sang,
The sweet little minstrel of love!
See the wild flowers bedecking the braes,
Whare they blaw—but aft blaw there unseen;
While the bee, that's to industry gi'en,
To its hame wi' their sweets laden gaes.
Such, Minla, thou first of the fair,
Were the sweets that afforded delight,
An' taught me, frae morning to night,
To study auld Nature wi' care.
Yes, such were the sweets cheered me ance on a day,
Till thy beauties appeared—then they a' fled away.

SONNET. TO FORTUNE.

How many, Fortune, worship at thy shrine,
With wo-worn cheek, and modest, humble prayer,
Yet oft, alas! are cheerless left to pine,
And waste their weary moments in despair!
I too have wooed thee many a bitter day,
Since first I struggled in Misfortune's stream;
Have sung thy praises in the wild-taught lay,
The little offspring of Hope's favoured beam;
Yet still I'm poor, as those who claim thy aid:
Of golden riches I can boast no store;
Yes—but thou gavest me Laura, sweetest Maid!
I thank thee, Fortune—for I ask no more.
My Laura's smile can chase Misfortune's frown,
And sorrows past in sweet oblivion drown.

PROLOGUE

TO THE SCOTS PASTORAL COMEDY OF “JAMIE AND BESS,”

[_]

AS SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, 27TH AUGUST 1796.

Shame fa' me, but I'm blythe to see appear
Sic routh o' Reekie's lads an' lasses here,
Whan o' your presence sair we stand in need,
To lend a lift to your ain country leid;
That dauted leid, whilk Fame can weel attest,
Suits honest Scotia's aefauld bairns the best.

But, sad mishanter! now thae days are gane,
Whan Scotian callants kent nae leid but ane;
Whan her bauld sons (aye to their mither dear)
Wad never lout newfangled clack to hear:
Then could her sangsters loud their steven raise,
An' tune their aiten reeds to sound her praise.

O 'twas for Scotia blythe an' canty days,
Whan Allan lilted on her gowany braes;
DearBard, whase fame has spread 'mang auld an' young,
Wha lo'ed his country while her praise he sung.
In hamely verse weel did it set the carle
To tell the ups an' downs into the warl':
Not only a' our actions gleg he'd tent,
But e'en our very thoughts he pat in prent.
Gin ony gowk sit dull an' dowf at hame,
He canna say that Ramsay is to blame;
Na, na!
Round ilka chimley-lug whare younkers thrive,
His pawky jokes keep mirth an' glee alive:

Syne he to safter strains his pipe could move,
As witness Pate an' Peggy's rural love.
If ever worth unfeigned regard could raise,
Thae twa are surely wordy o' our praise.
Unkent to guile, but to ilk ither dear,
Nae tinsel'd show their hefted love could steer;
Aft did their cracks beit Love's keen bleezing low,
Upon the gowany braes o' Habbie's How,
Whare “bonny Meg” sang sweet aneath the thorn,
While youthfu' Patie tuned his “stock an' horn;”
Whare ablins daffin wi' a heart fu' glad,
The shepherd rowed her in his haslock plaid;
Or stownlins kissed the blushing lassie's mou',
An' cheek-for-chow tauld o'er their love sae true,
While Innocence her mantle o'er them threw.

Sic tales as thae frae honest Ramsay came,
The lasting basis o' his future fame.
Sure, whan he died (Praise keep his saul aye safe!)
The Scottish Muse was e'en but poorly aff;

For 'twas her wish, that quickly should be seen
Anither Pate an' Peg to grace the green.
But, waesucks! fient a bard that she could ask
W[illeg.]tak upon him sic a kittle task;
Alleging Allan had the flow'rets a'
Frae Nature pu'd to grace his lovely twa,
An' nane remained to busk a pair sae braw.

At length an' lang, in tartan dress arrayed,
The Muse, right dowie, to our author gaed;
For though she heretofore had luckless been,
She hoped in him to find a feckfu' frien'.
Her tale she tauld, an' syne made her request;
Sweet were her looks, though e'en but hamely drest.
Say, ye wha guide us wi' propitious hand,
Wha could refuse the lassie's fair demand?
A dowfart might—but Andry, ever leal,
In Scotia's cause had aye a heart to feel.
At ance he wi' the Muse's wish complied,
For her dear sake, whate'er might him betide;

Resolved, wi' Ramsay for his pattern, soon,
That he wad “spoil a horn, or mak a spoon.”

This night their daddie, wi' submission due,
Will show his lad an' lassie baith to you;
For now, as patrons wha show friendship rare,
He trusts his little offspring to your care.
O guide them weel! (they're in their teens just now)
An' they may soon to fame unspotted grow.
Then, then will Andry blythely dance an' sing,
An' ca't the brawest feather in his wing.

To you, ye blooming Fair, sae sweet an' gay,
Like scented flowers in bonny month o' May,
Ye little witches, wha sae eithly can
Keep up an' cheer the very saul o' Man—
To you the Poet now submits his fate,
An' for your verdict will submissive wait;
Convinced, that if he gain your kind applause,
The Lads will follow, an' support his cause:
For true's the tale, whare lasses sweet are seen,
There will the callants thrang around bedeen.

O then support him wi' approving smile,
An' wi' your beams reward the Muse's toil:
If ye are pleased, he'll court nae Critic's grace,
But snap his fingers in his girning face.

An' now ae favour mair;—O be sae kind
As grant indulgence to our Youths behind;
For though we'll strive to gain your approbation,
We'll ablins fa' short o' your expectation.
But, sirs, I'll haud my tongue, nor langer stay:
Ye're the best judges; I've nae mair to say.

FAREWELL ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MR GRANT, AT HIS BENEFIT, THEATRE-ROYAL, 1ST OCTOBER 1796.

Wow! wha wad think, that shaws his noddle here,
That surly tyke, ca'd Winter, were sae near?
For up an' down, where'er I cast my een,
As 'twere in spring, sweet new-blawn flowers are seen.
But wherefore ferlie, whan I ken this night,
'Tis Reekie's Lasses that attract my sight?
An' sure the sweetest roses ever blew
Wad tine their beauties whan compared wi' you.
They, for a wee, their gaudy garb assume;
But ye're aye bonny, in perpetual bloom.
To menseless fallows, wha wad daring gang,
An' mint to do sic smiling dawties wrang,

May nipping poortith never mercy shaw,
But gie them cauld an' hungry wames to claw:
Nay, may their wizens ne'er find whauky's fissle,
But turn as geyzend as a bawbee whistle.
Yet dinna think I mean, by what I say,
That ony siccan gowks hae come this way;
Na, troth, that verdict maunna here be passed;
Auld Reekie's sons are o' a different cast.
O Scotia, Scotia, ye may crousely crack,
Whan ye've sic sonsy callants at your back,
Wha'll stand your friends against your bauldest faes,
As Bruce an' Wallace did in former days.
Ye too can lout (your faes will e'en confess,)
To lift a chiel that's coupit by distress.

Hech, sirs! whan sic great patrons deign to aid
Me wi' their pithy lifts, sae friendly made,
Your kindness sae o'ercomes me ilka way,
I'm scant o' words for what I fain wad say:
But sure my havins wad be unco sma',
To let sic fair occasion slip awa,

100

An' never mint my gratefu' thanks to make,
An' set the best foot foremost for your sake.
To thank you for your couthy care an' pains,
Fu' weel, ye ken, I'd reason mair than ance;
My best deservings were but little feck,
Nor could I e'er sic patronage expect:
An' in return, sin' I've nae mair to gie,
Accept my kindest wishes, frank an' free.
May Peace an' Plenty on ye constant flow,
An' a' that's sweet an' dainty round ye row;
May ye ne'er want a fouth o' clink to jingle,
An' laughing bairnies round ilk canty ingle;
An' Madam Fortune, ilka day an' hour,
On you her best, her choicest blessings pour.

For me, poor chiel! I've kent her mony a day,
An' stachered lang aneath her lades o' wae;
For by the quean (what mortal, sirs, could bide it?)
I've been like ony foot-ba' sair misguided.
She'd glunch at me—I'd laugh at her again,
In hopes she'd frae her thrawart gates refrain;

101

But wae's my heart that siccan days I see!
The cummer's fairly got the heels o' me:
For now I'm doomed, nor can the trick be shunned,
(Deil tak her wiles!) to leave my auld calf-ground;
To leave Auld Reekie, whare, I weel can say,
I've spent fu' mony a blythe an' cheery day.
Gang whare I will, for siller or for fame,
Whan gane frae Reekie, sure I've left my hame;
Whilk aft will make me say, whan I'm awa,
“O Reekie! Reekie! thou'rt the best of a'!”
—An' sooner evergreens shall lose their hue,
An' sturdy aiks like souple willows bow;
Sooner shall Arthur's Seat nae mair be seen,
An' E'nbrough Castle flit to Heriot's Green,
Than I, however high or laigh I be,
Forget the kindness that ye've shewn to me:
An' though I'm forced to bid Fareweel in pain,
The chace may turn, an' we may meet again.

102

LINES

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS IN AN INN, WHERE THE NAMES OF A GREAT MANY LADIES WERE INSCRIBED.

This list o' mony beauties rare,
My Lassie's name might grace it;
But in the view o' ilka fool
I canna think to place it.
The stranger's curious ee may glour,
Yet shanna here perceive it;
For in my heart's far neuk 'tis hid,
Whare Love fu' deep did grave it.

END OF THE POEMS.