University of Virginia Library

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!

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!

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.