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!