The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetry of Robert Burns

Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson

Burns, Robert (1759-1796)

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III.

IV.

VOLUME IV

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS

INTERPOLATIONS

IMPROBABLES

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IV. VOLUME IV

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS

A RUINED FARMER

I

The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retirèd to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

II

The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;
But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempests blow:
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

III

There lies the dear Partner of my breast,
Her cares for a moment at rest!
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low?—
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

IV

There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

V

I once was by Fortune carest,
I once could relieve the distrest;
Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd,
My fate will scarce bestow:
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

VI

No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!
But then my wife and children dear—
O, whither would they go!
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

VII

O, whither, O, whither shall I turn,
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn?
For in this world Rest or Peace
I never more shall know:
And it's O fickle Fortune, O!

MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY

I

Altho' my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

II

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,
And winter nights were dark and rainy,
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

III

Were I a Baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me—
The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy.

THE LASS OF CESSNOCK BANKS

I

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells,
Could I describe her shape and mien!
Our lasses a' she far excels—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

II

She's sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phœbus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

III

She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

IV

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

V

Her looks are like the vernal May,
When ev'ning Phœbus shines serene,
While birds rejoice on every spray—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

VI

Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

VII

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

VIII

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

IX

Her teeth are like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

X

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen:
They tempt the taste and charm the sight—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

XI

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

XII

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean,
When Phœbus sinks behind the seas—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

XIII

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush—
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

XIV

But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching Beauty's fabled Queen:
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace—
An' chiefly in her rogueish een!

THO' FICKLE FORTUNE

I

Tho' fickle Fortune has deceived me
(She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill),
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereaved me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.

II

I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able;
But if success I must never find,
Then come, Misfortune, I bid thee welcome—
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind!

RAGING FORTUNE

I

O, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low!
O, raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low!

II

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow.

III

But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low!
But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low!

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER

I

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O.
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O,
For without an honest, manly heart no man was worth regarding, O.

II

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O:
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O.
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O—
Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

III

In many a way and vain essay I courted Fortune's favour, O:
Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each endeavour, O.
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O,
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

IV

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last with Fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O:—
The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untrièd, O,
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

V

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me, O!
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O:
For one, he said, to labour bred was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

VI

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O.
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O,
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of tomorrow, O!

VII

But, cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,
Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O,
But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

VIII

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, O:
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly, O—
But, come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

IX

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O.
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O!

O, LEAVE NOVÉLS

I

O, leave novéls, ye Mauchline belles—
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel!
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel.

II

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons
They make your youthful fancies reel!
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

III

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel!
That feeling heart but acts a part—
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

IV

The frank address, the soft caress
Are worse than poisoned darts of steel:
The frank address and politesse
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

THE MAUCHLINE LADY

I

When first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady:
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A mistress still I had ay.

II

But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,
My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.

ONE NIGHT AS I DID WANDER

One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree-root:
Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crooded o'er me,
That echoed through the trees.

THERE WAS A LAD

Chorus

Robin was a rovin boy,
Rantin, rovin, rantin, rovin,
Robin was a rovin boy,
Rantin, rovin Robin!

I

There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

II

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

III

The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' scho:—‘Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we'll ca' him Robin.

IV

‘He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',
But ay a heart aboon them a'.
He'll be a credit till us a':
We'll a' be proud o' Robin!

V

‘But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin!

VI

‘Guid faith,’ quo' scho, ‘I doubt you, stir,
Ye gar the lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur—
So blessins on thee, Robin!’

Chorus

Robin was a rovin boy,
Rantin, rovin, rantin, rovin,
Robin was a rovin boy,
Rantin, rovin Robin!

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY

I

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th'Atlantic roar?

II

O, sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

III

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true,
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

IV

O, plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand!
O, plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand!

V

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join;
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!

HER FLOWING LOCKS

I

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing.
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!

II

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew—
O, what a feast, her bonie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE

I

'Twas even: the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang,

In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
All Nature list'ning seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

II

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in Nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy.
Her look was like the Morning's eye,
Her air like Nature's vernal smile.
Perfection whisper'd, passing by:—
‘Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!’

III

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild;
But woman, Nature's darling child—
There all her charms she does compile!
Even there her other works are foil'd
By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

IV

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotia's plain,

Thro' weary winter's wind and rain
With joy, with rapture, I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle!

V

Then Pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine,
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine!
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And ev'ry day have joys divine
With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

THE NIGHT WAS STILL

I

The night was still, and o'er the hill
The moon shone on the castle wa',
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang
Around her on the castle wa':

II

Sae merrily they danc'd the ring
Frae eenin' till the cock did craw,
And ay the o'erword o' the spring
Was:—‘Irvine's bairns are bonie a'!’

MASONIC SONG

I

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie
To follow the noble vocation,
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honorèd station!
I've little to say, but only to pray
(As praying's the ton of your fashion).
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse
('Tis seldom her favourite passion):—

II

‘Ye Powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
Who markèd each element's border,
Who formèd this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order,
Within this dear mansion may wayward Contention
Or witherèd Envy ne'er enter!
May Secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be the centre!’

THE BONIE MOOR-HEN

Chorus

I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men!
I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men!
Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

I

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and monie a glen:
At length they discovered a bonie moor-hen.

II

Sweet-brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells!
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And O, as she wanton'd sae gay on the wing,

III

Auld Phœbus himsel', as he peep'd o'er the hill,
In spite at her plumage he tryèd his skill:
He level'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae—
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay!

IV

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.

Chorus

I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men!
I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men!
Take some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

HERE'S A BOTTLE

There's nane that's blest of human kind
But the cheerful and the gay, man.

I

Here's a bottle and an honest man!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?

II

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man!
Believe me, Happiness is shy,
And comes not ay when sought, man!

THE BONIE LASS OF ALBANIE

I

My heart is wae, and unco wae,
To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
An' the bonie lass of Albanie.

II

This noble maid's of royal blood,
That rulèd Albion's kingdoms three;
But O, alas for her bonie face!
They hae wranged the lass of Albanie.

III

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
And a town of fame, whose princely name
Should grace the lass of Albanie.

IV

But there is a youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place where she should be
We'll send him o'er to his native shore,
And bring our ain sweet Albanie!

V

Alas the day, and woe the day!
A false usurper wan the gree,
Who now commands the towers and lands,
The royal right of Albanie.

VI

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
That the time may come, with pipe and drum
We'll welcome hame fair Albanie.

AMANG THE TREES

I

Amang the trees, where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing, O.
'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys and Reels—
She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O,
When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O!

II

Their capon craws an' queer ‘ha, ha's,’
They made our lugs grow eerie, O.
The hungry bike did scrape and fyke,
Till we were wae and weary, O.
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd
A prisoner aughteen year awa,
He fir'd a Fiddler in the North,
That dang them tapsalteerie, O!

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT

I

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale,
The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
When the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flow'rs gaily springing,
Nor birds sweetly singing
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair!

II

The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are those valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, tho' I can find none!
But 'tis not my suff'rings thus wretched, forlorn—
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn!
Your faith prov'd so loyal
In hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make it no better return?

YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O' WINE

I

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.

II

The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna
Was naething to my hiney bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

III

Ye monarchs take the East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah:
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna!

IV

There I'll despise Imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,
While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take wi' Anna!

V

Awa, thou flaunting God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna!

VI

Come, in thy raven plumage, Night
(Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a'),
And bring an Angel-pen to write
My transports with my Anna!

POSTSCRIPT

I

The Kirk an' State may join, and tell
To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an' State may gae to Hell,
And I'll gae to my Anna.

II

She is the sunshine o' my e'e,
To live but her I canna:
Had I on earth but wishes three,
The first should be my Anna.

SWEET ARE THE BANKS

I

Sweet are the banks, the banks o' Doon,
The spreading flowers are fair,
And everything is blythe and glad,
But I am fu' o' care.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough!
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate,
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate!

II

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Upon its thorny tree,
But my fause luver staw my rose,
And left the thorn wi' me.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Upon a morn in June,
And sae I flourish'd on the morn,
And sae was pu'd or noon.

YE FLOWERY BANKS

I

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?

II

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough:
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true!

III

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate:
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate!

IV

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And sae did I o' mine.

V

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause luver staw my rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

CALEDONIA

I

There was on a time, but old Time was then young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?).
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would.
Her heav'nly relations there fixèd her reign,
And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good.

II

A lambkin in peace but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew.
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore:—
‘Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th'encounter shall rue!’
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,
Her darling amusement the hounds and the horn.

III

Long quiet she reign'd, till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand.
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land.
Their pounces were murder, and horror their cry;
They'd conquer'd and ravag'd a world beside.
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly—
The daring invaders, they fled or they died!

IV

The Cameleon-Savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife.
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,
And robbed him at once of his hopes and his life.
The Anglian Lion, the terror of France,
Oft, prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood,
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,
He learnèd to fear in his own native wood.

V

The fell Harpy-Raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;
The wild Scandinavian Boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore;
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

VI

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run,
For brave Caledonia immortal must be,
I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:—
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll chuse;
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base,
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;
Then, ergo, she'll match them, and match them always!

YOU'RE WELCOME, WILLIE STEWART

Chorus

You're welcome, Willie Stewart!
You're welcome, Willie Stewart!
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art!

I

Come, bumpers high! express your joy!
The bowl we maun renew it—
The tappet hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart!

II

May foes be strong, and friends be slack!
Ilk action, may he rue it!
May woman on him turn her back,
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart!

Chorus

You're welcome, Willie Stewart!
You're welcome, Willie Stewart!
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art!

WHEN FIRST I SAW

Chorus

She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay,
She's aye sae blithe and cheerie,
She's aye sae bonie, blithe and gay,
O, gin I were her dearie!

I

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face,
I couldna tell what ail'd me:
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat,
My een they almost fail'd me.

She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight,
All grace does round her hover!
Ae look depriv'd me o' my heart,
And I became her lover.

II

Had I Dundas's whole estate,
Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in;
Did warlike laurels crown my brow,
Or humbler bays entwining;
I'd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet,
Could I but hope to move her,
And, prouder than a belted knight,
I'd be my Jeanie's lover.

III

But sair I fear some happier swain,
Has gain'd my Jeanie's favour.
If so, may every bliss be hers,
Though I maun never have her!
But gang she east, or gang she west,
'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,
While men have eyes, or ears, or taste,
She'll always find a lover.

Chorus

She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay,
She's aye sae blithe and cheerie,
She's aye sae bonie, blithe and gay,
O, gin I were her dearie!

BEHOLD THE HOUR

FIRST SET

I

Behold the hour, the boat, arrive!
My dearest Nancy, O, farewell!
Sever'd frae thee, can I survive,
Frae thee whom I hae lov'd sae well?

II

Endless and deep shall be my grief,
Nae ray of comfort shall I see,
But this most precious, dear belief,
That thou wilt still remember me.

III

Along the solitary shore,
Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye.

IV

‘Happy thou Indian grove,’ I'll say,
‘Where now my Nancy's path shall be!
While thro' your sweets she holds her way,
O, tell me, does she muse on me?’

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA

I

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause
And bide by the buff and the blue.

II

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Altho' that his band be sma'!
May Liberty meet wi' success,
May Prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and Tyranny tine i' the mist
And wander their way to the Devil!

III

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norlan' laddie,
That lives at the lug o' the Law!

Here's freedom to them that wad read,
Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard
But they whom the truth would indite!

IV

Here's a health to them that's awa,
An' here's to them that's awa!
Here's to Maitland and Wycombe! Let wha does na like 'em
Be built in a hole in the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,
Here's fruit that is sound at the core,
And may he that wad turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn'd to the back o' the door!

V

Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa!
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!
Here's friends on baith sides o' the Firth,
And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed,
And wha wad betray old Albion's right,
May they never eat of her bread!

AH, CHLORIS

I

Ah, Chloris, since it may not be
That thou of love wilt hear,
If from the lover thou maun flee,
Yet let the friend be dear!

II

Altho' I love my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could tell,
My passion I will ne'er declare—
I'll say, I wish thee well.

III

Tho' a' my daily care thou art,
And a' my nightly dream,
I'll hide the struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.

PRETTY PEG

I

As I gaed up by yon gate-end,
When day was waxin weary,
Wha did I meet come down the street
But pretty Peg, my dearie?

II

Her air so sweet, her shape complete,
Wi' nae proportion wanting—
The Queen of Love could never move
Wi' motion mair enchanting!

III

With linkèd hands we took the sands
Down by yon winding river;
And O! that hour, and shady bow'r,
Can I forget it? Never!

MEG O' THE MILL

SECOND SET

I

O, ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten?
She's gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller!

II

The miller was strappin, the miller was ruddy,
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady.
The laird was a widdifu', bleerit knurl—
She's left the guid fellow, and taen the churl!

III

The miller, he hecht her a heart leal and loving.
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving:
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear, chainèd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonie side saddle!

IV

O, wae on the siller—it is sae prevailing!
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parl,
But gie me my love and a fig for the warl!

PHILLIS THE FAIR

I

While larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air,
Viewing the breathing Spring,
Forth I did fare.
Gay, the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high;
‘Such thy bloom,’ did I cry—
‘Phillis the fair!’

II

In each bird's careless song,
Glad, I did share;
While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there.

Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
‘Such thy bloom,’ did I say—
‘Phillis the fair!’

III

Down in a shady walk
Doves cooing were;
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare.
So kind may Fortune be!
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair!

O SAW YE MY DEAR, MY PHILLY

I

O, saw ye my Dear, my Philly?
O, saw ye my Dear, my Philly?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

II

What says she my Dear, my Philly?
What says she my Dear, my Philly?
She lets thee to wit she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.

III

O, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly!
O, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

'TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE E'E

I

'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin:
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoin.
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stoun glance o' kindness!

II

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But tho' fell Fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

III

Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest,
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter!

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER

I

Why, why tell thy lover
Bliss he never must enjoy?
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes the lie?

II

O, why, while Fancy, raptur'd, slumbers,
‘Chloris, Chloris,’ all the theme,
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?

THE PRIMROSE

I

Dost ask me, why I send thee here
The firstling of the infant year:
This lovely native of the vale,
That hangs so pensive and so pale?

II

Look on its bending stalk, so weak,
That, each way yielding, doth not break,
And see how aptly it reveals
The doubts and fears a lover feels.

III

Look on its leaves of yellow hue
Bepearl'd thus with morning dew,
And these will whisper in thine ears:—
‘The sweets of loves are wash'd with tears.’

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

I

O, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.

II

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch of the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

INTERPOLATIONS

YOUR FRIENDSHIP

I

Your friendship much can make me blest—
O, why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the only, one request
You know I will deny?

II

Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought,
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.

FOR THEE IS LAUGHING NATURE

For thee is laughing Nature gay,
For thee she pours the vernal day:
For me in vain is Nature drest,
While Joy's a stranger to my breast.

NO COLD APPROACH

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
Just what would make suspicion start,
No pause the dire extremes between:
He made me blest—and broke my heart.

ALTHO' HE HAS LEFT ME

Altho' he has left me for greed o' the siller,
I dinna envý him the gains he can win:
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him.

LET LOOVE SPARKLE

Let loove sparkle in her e'e,
Let her lo'e nae man but me:
That's the tocher guid I prize,
There the luver's treasure lies.

AS DOWN THE BURN

As down the burn they took their way,
And thro' the flowery dale;
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And love was ay the tale,
With:—‘Mary, when shall we return,
Sic pleasure to renew?’
Quoth Mary:—‘Love, I like the burn,
And ay shall follow you.’

IMPROBABLES

ON ROUGH ROADS

I'm now arriv'd—thanks to the Gods!—
Through pathways rough and muddy:
A certain sign that makin' roads
Is no this people's study.
Yet, though I'm no wi' scripture cramm'd,
I'm sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damn'd,
Unless they mend their ways.

ELEGY ON STELLA

I

Strait is the spot, and green the sod,
From whence my sorrows flow;
And soundly sleeps the ever dear
Inhabitant below.

II

Pardon my transport, gentle shade,
While o'er the turf I bow!
Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd,
And solitary now!

III

Not one poor stone to tell thy name
Or make thy virtues known!
But what avails to thee—to me—
The sculpture of a stone?

IV

I'll sit me down upon this turf,
And wipe away this tear.
The chill blast passes swiftly by,
And flits around thy bier.

V

Dark is the dwelling of the dead,
And sad their house of rest:
Low lies the head by Death's cold arm
In awful fold embraced.

VI

I saw the grim Avenger stand
Incessant by thy side;
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath
Thy lingering frame destroy'd.

VII

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
And wither'd was thy bloom,
Till the slow poison brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.

VIII

Thus wasted are the ranks of men—
Youth, health, and beauty fall!
The ruthless ruin spreads around,
And overwhelms us all.

IX

Behold where, round thy narrow house,
The graves unnumber'd lie!
The multitude, that sleep below,
Existed but to die.

X

Some with the tottering steps of Age
Trod down the darksome way;
And some in Youth's lamented prime,
Like thee, were torn away.

XI

Yet these, however hard their fate,
Their native earth receives:
Amid their weeping friends they died,
And fill their fathers' graves.

XII

From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart,
Was taught by Heaven to glow,
Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke
Surpris'd, and laid thee low.

XIII

At the last limits of our Isle,
Wash'd by the western wave,
Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful Bard
Sits lonely on thy grave!

XIV

Pensive he eyes, before him spread,
The deep, outstretch'd and vast.
His mourning notes are borne away
Along the rapid blast.

XV

And while, amid the silent dead,
Thy hapless fate he mourns,
His own long sorrows freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns.

XVI

Like thee, cut off in early youth
And flower of beauty's pride,
His friend, his first and only joy,
His much-lov'd Stella died.

XVII

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate
Resistless bears along,
And the same rapid tide shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.

XVIII

The tear of pity, which he shed,
He asks not to receive:
Let but his poor remains be laid
Obscurely in the grave!

XIX

His grief-worn heart with truest joy
Shall meet the welcome shock;
His airy harp shall lie unstrung
And silent on the rock.

XX

O my dear maid, my Stella, when
Shall this sick period close,
And lead the solitary Bard
To his belov'd repose?

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY

I

Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers!
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd
'Mid a' thy favours!

II

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang
To death or marriage,
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

III

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschýlus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives
Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame!

IV

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches!
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters!
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

V

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace,
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share
A rival place?

VI

Yes! there is ane—a Scottish callan!
There's ane! Come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever!
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever.

VII

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines
In thy sweet Caledonian lines!
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell:

VIII

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonie lasses bleach their claes,

Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

IX

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel':
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell,
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF DRUMLANRIG WOODS

I

As on the banks of winding Nith
Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonie holms and haughs,
Where linties sang, and lammies play'd,
I sat me down upon a craig,
And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When from the eddying deep below
Up rose the Genius of the Stream.

II

Dark like the frowning rock his brow,
And troubled like his wintry wave,
And deep as sughs the boding wind
Amang his caves the sigh he gave.
‘And come ye here, my son,’ he cried,
‘To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

III

‘There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;

IV

‘When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peaceful rose its ingle reek,
That, slowly curling, clamb the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld,
Its leafy bield for ever gane,
And scarce a stinted birk is left
To shiver in the blast its lane.’

V

‘Alas!’ quoth I, ‘what ruefu' chance
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky bosom bare?
Has stripp'd the cleeding aff your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,
That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs?
Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?’

VI

‘Nae eastlin blast,’ the Sprite replied—
‘It blaws na here sae fierce and fell,
And on my dry and halesome banks
Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
Man! cruel man!’ the Genius sigh'd,
As through the cliffs he sank him down:
‘The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,
That reptile wears a Ducal crown.’

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER

I

I married with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November:
She made me weary of my life
By one unruly member.

Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended,
But to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended!

II

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together.
At length from me her course she steer'd
And gone I know not whither.
Would I could guess, I do profess:
I speak, and do not flatter,
Of all the women in the world,
I never would come at her!

III

Her body is bestowèd well—
A handsome grave does hide her.
But sure her soul is not in Hell—
The Deil would ne'er abide her!
I rather think she is aloft
And imitating thunder,
For why?—Methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder!

WHY SHOULD WE IDLY WASTE OUR PRIME

I

Why should we idly waste our prime
Repeating our oppressions?
Come rouse to arms! 'Tis now the time
To punish past transgressions.
'Tis said that Kings can do no wrong—
Their murderous deeds deny it,
And, since from us their power is sprung,
We have a right to try it.
Now each true patriot's song shall be:—
‘Welcome Death or Libertie!’

II

Proud Priests and Bishops we'll translate
And canonize as Martyrs;
The guillotine on Peers shall wait;
And Knights shall hang in garters.
Those Despots long have trode us down,
And Judges are their engines:
Such wretched minions of a Crown
Demand the people's vengeance!
To-day 'tis theirs. To-morrow we
Shall don the Cap of Libertie!

III

The Golden Age we'll then revive:
Each man will be a brother;
In harmony we all shall live,
And share the earth together;
In Virtue train'd, enlighten'd Youth
Will love each fellow-creature;
And future years shall prove the truth
That Man is good by nature:
Then let us toast with three times three
The reign of Peace and Libertie!

THE TREE OF LIBERTY

I

Heard ye o' the Tree o' France,
And wat ye what's the name o't?
Around it a' the patriots dance—
Weel Europe kens the fame o't!
It stands where ance the Bastile stood—
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

II

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man:
It raises man aboon the brute,
It mak's him ken himsel', man!
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

III

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth:
To comfort us 'twas sent, man,
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak' us a' content, man!
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Mak's high and low guid friends, man,
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.

IV

My blessings ay attend the chiel,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o' the Deil,
Frae 'yont the western waves, man!
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,
And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

V

But vicious folk ay hate to see
The works o' Virtue thrive, man:
The courtly vermin's bann'd the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man!
King Louis thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma', man;
For this the watchman crack'd his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.

VI

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak' a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime—
I wat they pledg'd their faith, man!
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.

VII

Fair Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man.
She sang a sang o' Liberty,
Which pleas'd them ane and a', man.
By her inspir'd, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man.
The hirelings ran—her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.

VIII

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar, and her pine, man!
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man!
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

IX

Without this tree alake this life
Is but a vale o' woe, man,
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man;
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man,
And a' the comfort we 're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

X

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,
The warld would live in peace, man.
The sword would help to mak' a plough,
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man.

XI

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man!
I'd gie the shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste the fruit o't here, man!
Syne let us pray, Auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and herald the day
That gives us libertý, man.

TO A KISS

I

Humid seal of soft affections,
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss!

II

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste confession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!

III

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
Ling'ring lips—no more must join!
Words can never speak affection,
Thrilling and sincere as thine!

DELIA

AN ODE

I

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose:
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

II

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear:
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

III

The flower-enamoured busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip:

IV

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
For O! my soul is parch'd with love!

TO THE OWL

I

Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r?

II

Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendless Melancholy bids thee mourn?

III

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to th'unheeding gloom,
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home,

IV

Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song.
Sing on, sad mourner! To the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

V

Is Beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to Pity's call?

VI

Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,
That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there?
That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat,
That Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair!

VII

Nor that the treble songsters of the day,
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee!
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie!

VIII

From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the gray walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods:

IX

There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,
Than ever lover to the nightingale,
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale!

THE VOWELS

A TALE

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd,
The noisy domicile of pedant pride;
Where Ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And Cruelty directs the thickening blows!
Upon a time, Sir A B C the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling Vowels to account.

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; a piteous case,
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale, he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.

The cobwebb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I disdain'd reply:
The Pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe:
Th'Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art.
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering, U
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The Pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

I

Now health forsakes that angel face.
Nae mair my dearie smiles.
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
And a' my hopes beguiles.

II

The cruel Powers reject the prayer
I hourly mak' for thee:
Ye Heavens! how great is my despair!
How can I see him die!

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD

I

O, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever!
For ever?—O no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever!

II

Though cold be the clay, where thou pillow'st thy head
In the dark, silent mansions of sorrow,
The spring shall return to thy low, narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

III

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,
When thou shrank frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.

IV

O, still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother,
When the tear-trickle bright, when the short stifled breath
Told how dear ye were ay to each other.

V

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm thee:
Where the songs of the Good, where the hymns of the Blest
Through an endless existence shall charm thee!

VI

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

ADDENDUM TO MALLY'S MEEK

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes tumbling down her swan-white neck,
And her twa eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck!