Poems and songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.