Poems and songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.